The Politics of Art & Authenticity

One day I was playing handball at the park with my friend. While we were playing, he asked me what I wanted to do with my life and what I planned to major in since I was applying to colleges at the moment. I told him I did not have an idea as to what I really wanted to do, so he asked me what I liked to do and what I found interesting. After a few minutes of thinking, I realized I love math. Regardless of how difficult it may seem to others, I love how structured it was and how everything had to be done a certain way in order to find the answer to something. I also told him that the one thing that I looked for when deciding what I wanted to do in college was something stable and that will always have a job available no matter how bad the job market may be. He then told me that I might really enjoy accounting. At first I looked at him, but then after a while I realized I actually might enjoy accounting. Even though people say it’s boring and the only thing good about accounting is the stability, but I enjoy the idea of having my own little cubicle and just sitting by a computer and just doing audits and bookkeeping things. That is when I realized that I wanted to pursue a career in business and major in accounting.

Everyone needs a place of escape, and mine was LA – my parents’ hometown and a magical place for my sisters and I growing up. It was the land of eating out for every meal, the land of staying up late watching TV, and the land of calling dibs on tarnished costume jewelry. In between running through the sprinklers and making our uncle play “Maple Leaf Rag”on the piano, we’d gather as many oranges as we could from under the trees in my grandparents backyard, and our Grandma would peel and juice them for us until we tired of the citrusy taste.

Afterwards, on the flight back to New York – the land of homework, rules, and routine, we’d take comfort knowing that LA was still out there. That my grandparents’ had the old photos and the warm Dr. Pepper ready for our next visit.

As my sisters and I grew older, and started making our own plans and schedules, family vacations became a luxury. LA – a symbol for the fun and freedom of our youth – was usually just a daydream. Yet every time we did manage to return there, we were able to peel back the burden of adult responsibility for long enough to taste our past innocence.

My Grandma died over two years ago, and my Grandpa has a fulltime caregiver now. I’ve been overhearing plans to sell their old house when the time comes. To sell a piece of my childhood to a stranger, who’ll no doubt criticize it and try to make improvements. When that happens I’ll have no reason to come to LA anymore. It’ll be all New York, all the time. My life, unpeeled. I guess that’s what they call growing up.

He gave me a glass piano in a box full of anguish. Its simple and angled clarity came tainted with the intentions of inciting undeserved guilt. It’s a shame, really. How could something so…pretty, so quaint, remind me of everything that I’ve been trying to forget. You see, this glass piano’s a gift. He remembered how I cautiously walked through Gun Hill Road and practiced my scales next to the heavily calloused hands of my piano teacher. He recalled how both sets of my grandparents had pianos at their houses and how they sometimes served as an extra laundry table, buffet table, frame holder. He remembered how I’ve owned a cheap, bulky, silver Yamaha keyboard since I was ten. And so he buys a little glass piano, shipped all the way from Hong Kong. Belated Happy Birthday from a thoughtful friend. But, it wasn’t as simple as that. He was never as simple as that. The piano was sent to make a point. How he’s always the one to be considerate, kind, generous. How he’s the one to always sacrifice and do things for others. How I’ve been the selfish one for not being enough of a friend yet here he is sending me a little glass piano shipped all the way from Hong Kong. You know, I wish his intentions were as pure as this glass. But, life’s not always clear, this little piano tells me. And it’s a part of growing up to realize that. And it’s a part of growing up to do what’s right for one’s self even if it means to distance from others. So to you, this may be just a little glass piano, but for me, it’s the reassurance that I’ve done what was right. At the moment when I first realized that, I felt like myself.

     Nothing was working. My wrist hurt. The maple walnut was too hard to scoop. My elbow was sticky from scraping the bottom of the empty cans. Oh, the toils of working at an ice cream shop. And a busy one at that. It was very busy. The eight tables were all filled as was the counter. I was in the worst position of all. I was the guy they all wanted their ice cream from. Sure two other guys were working that night, but it felt like they were all only trying to order from me. I was the guy. The guy who wasn’t giving them their frickin’ ice cream fast enough. And I wasn’t. I didn’t have the speed or the nerve for them. I went into panic mode, shoveling sprinkles everywhere but on top of sundaes, blindly scooping things, ruining countless orders, making my service even slower. The shreechs of ill mannered children harmonized with the constant drilling of customers’ chatter, crescendoing into a sound that was worse than nails on a chalkboard. My co-worker yelled at me, “Stop fucking sucking!” A little while later, and a corny primetime television montague of everyone moving really fast, and me standing still, later, it ended. The night was over.
     Later that night in the safety of my bedroom, away from all the people, I kept replaying my shift in my head. And I kept getting stuck on what my co-worker, Tom Pardue said, “Stop fucking sucking…” It’s a really simple phrase, and maybe it was because he put it so bluntly, or because he said it in a high stress situation, but that night was like a brain fog had lifted. Yea, I should stop sucking. I needed to change the oil in my car, read that book for school. I needed to hold myself accountable for things. This wasn’t about anyone else, like fessing up to an “I broke the vase” kind of thing, but for me to know if I was sucking at life or not. And it felt great. I went into work with a different kind of confidence and relaxed mentality that made me smile wryly when the masses came back the next night. I was ready for it. I was ready to try not to suck.

The Ice Cream Shop

I don’t think I can play this record anymore… Whoops.

My love affair with Barbra Joan Streisand began a few years ago, and I’m proud to report that we’re still going strong.

I only felt that I would strive to become an actor about a year before meeting Barbra, and I was still very hesitant about it all.

“I’m not good enough.”
“I don’t have enough talent.”
“I can’t dance. At all.”
“I can’t sing.”
“A tree can act better than me.”

It was the worst of times. It was the worst of times. Funny enough, I still have those same thoughts. But, luckily, they’re not as debilitating, and it’s all because of her.

My aunt’s friend is some kind of hoarder, and he has millions of old records and brik-a-brak, and he gave this to me as a Christmas present because he knew I was obsessed with Barbra.  The timing couldn’t be more perfect.

I was in the middle of rehearsals for our annual drama show: Waiting For Lefty. Everything was amazing, but then disaster struck….

I couldn’t figure out my character.
He was so complex, so different, and I was lost. I couldn’t understand who this character was, or how I was supposed to become him. My drama teacher was getting visibly irritated by my follies, and I boxed myself into this mindset where I thought I’d never crack this character. It was the end of the road for me. I simply wasn’t good enough for this. Never would be.

I had come close to giving up on my Broadway dreams before, but this time I was ready to give up for good. I’d go back to “wanting to be a lawyer, or whatever.” I stopped listen to music altogether, because most of what I listened too was show tunes, or Liza, or Barbra. Then this record came into my life, and I was tempted to listen to it as some sort of dramatic farewell. But, like Cher’s Farewell Tour(s), by the time I finished listening to it, I knew I couldn’t give up. Here was this young, ambitious, loud-mouthed Brooklynite who was told over and over again that she’d never make it. She was too quirky, too ugly, or didn’t have enough talent to make it. And so, we arrive at the cliché part of the story.

I knew if Barbra could make it, then I couldn’t let her down. I put the record on my desk and made it a habit to listen to it whenever I felt like I wasn’t good enough. So when I’m out there on Broadway… waiting tables to pay the bills because I don’t have any auditions, it’ll all be because of Barbra. And I’m fine with that.

After two hours of questions and techniques, going through every single move, every single form, every single block punch and kick, I had finally achieved one of my biggest goals in life. I was finally a black belt. But this wasn’t the end of my journey. As my sensei was handing me my certificate she said that, “becoming a black belt isn’t the end of a martial artist’s career, it’s only the beginning. “ After six years of training I was only beginning my journey in martial arts. At that moment I became a white belt all over again. At that moment I restarted my journey. As my sensei whipped the freshly sewn black belt across my waist I couldn’t feel the pain, only the happiness of knowing I persevered. As the second lash burnt across my chest I could only look into the crowd of students and parents watching and see new faces, faces that I didn’t grow up training with. The final thump of the belt on top of my head resonated through the dojo. This was the mark of a black belt. This was the mark of a martial artist. Hard work, perseverance, the ability to do anything you put your mind to, lessons you see in movies and books, I learned from kicking and punching. Now as a second-degree black belt and instructor I hope to pass on these lessons to my own students and I hope I can inspire just one kid the same way my martial arts family inspired me.

– Konstantin Dukhovnyy ^{2nd Dan}

It was a cold and gloomy Friday night, and my way of life was about to dramatically change. I was leaving Las Vegas and moving to Queens.  I was given one suitcase and a carry-on bag to put all of my things in. I knew I could only fit my clothes in the suitcase and my laptop in the carry-on bag. After saying goodbye to the things I couldn’t pack, I slowly unhooked my clothes from their hangers and neatly folded them on my spacious bed. Once all of my clothes laid neatly folded on my bed, I gently placed them inside of my suitcase. By the time I was done, my suitcase was bulging from the sides, and my favorite outfit was the only thing left on my bed. I tried cramming it in, but it would not fit.

I became sadder, realizing I was not going to be able to bring all of my clothes with me. I glanced around my room frantically searching for a solution. Then I saw this Macys bag lying at the bottom of my closet. I was thankful I didn’t throw it away and relieved that I could bring all of my clothes with me! I carried the Macys bag like it was own my baby through the airport. Once I got on the plane and quickly found my seat, I wrapped myself snuggly around my Macys bag and gently fell asleep. My Macys bag kept me toasty during the long, cold flight. My Macys bag was my safety blanket and my hero for the day! The outfit I have on right now is the outfit that I had in my Macys bag.

Last year a couple of friends and I engaged in a project to restore an abandoned basement underneath our synagogue. It was quite an interesting endeavor considering that none of us had any experience in construction. We could barely unscrew the back of a remote let alone finish a basement.  Regardless we took on the project with the help of our Rabbi, an amateur contractor. There is one day in particular I will never forget, sheet rock day.

    One morning four of us waited anxiously for the sheet rock to arrive. None of us weighed more than one hundred fifty pounds and we were certainly not accustomed to getting our hands dirty. I even decided to wear loafers that day. The truck arrived carrying twelve sets of sheet rock weighing roughly one hundred pounds. Two of us climbed up and tried to slide the sheet rock off the truck. It would not budge. The floor was covered in sand and it was almost impossible to get any traction. The sand caused a lot of embarrassing falls. One hour later, our hands were covered with blisters and our clothes turned white.

We tried to angle the pieces of sheet rock through the door unsuccessfully. We sat around in despair trying to find a solution. We decided to call the rabbi and in five minutes he was standing by the front door box cutter in hand. It was exactly what we needed.  We cut the sheet rock into halves and carried it down the steps. For the next hour we worked like mad men. Not one word was said to each other as we worked.  Fortunately, we were able to get all the pieces inside just before the rain came down.

Although the entire process of building the basement was tough it has been the most rewarding feeling in the world to walk downstairs and say that I helped build it. I learned many important lessons on “sheet rock day” that will serve me throughout life. It taught me to always be prepared, to plan in advance, to stick with it no matter how tough it gets and above all never to wear your favorite loafers to a construction site.