As a teenager and a son of three, Richard Tortorice excelled in the sports world.  Touchdowns, home runs, and goals filled my father’s life since the early age of six, when he picked up his first ball.  When I asked my Uncle Joe about my father as a teen he replied, “He was always referred to as the athletic one.  Winning was part of his life.  It was one thing he truly knew how to do.”  I always knew my father was athletic in every sport imaginable, but to hear the respect in my uncle’s voice was a truly amazing occurrence.  Ever since I can remember, my Uncle Joe and my father would always compete at things.  Now this may seem like the typical cliché brotherly competition, but this wasn’t the case.  The two grown men would compete in things from who could hit the furthest baseball or who could get to grandma’s house the fastest.  Being the best came natural to my father.  Another aspect of my father that everyone respects is the fact that he never let his ego get the better of him.  Even if he was the best at every aspect of life, my father remained humble and modest.  This is a truly difficult feat.

When digging up information about my father, I traveled to his hometown of Knickerbocker Village.  Most people don’t know where this is, but it is a typical Italian neighborhood near Mulberry Street.  When I arrived at my father’s old stomping grounds, I recognized a few friendly faces, one in particular.  This person was my family’s close friend Patrick.  I began with the basic questions, asking various about his childhood. Patrick couldn’t help but mention my father’s athleticism.  “Man, could your father play.”  Quotes like this bombarded me for hours as I interviewed different sources for information about my father.  I eventually came across one of my uncles who still lived in this quiet Italian neighborhood.  As soon as I mentioned my father’s name, I was in the middle of a story.  “I remember one time, Richie played an entire game of baseball without shoes.”  I couldn’t help but laugh at my uncle’s comment, picturing my father as a teenager running the bases shoeless.  When my Uncle Paul saw my laughter he said, “Don’t you ever wonder why your dad was called ‘Shoeless Richie’?”  My jaw hung unhinged for several seconds.  I never knew about this unique nickname my father had acquired as a young athlete.  Money was never abundant seeing as my father was  one of three boys, son of Italian immigrants, fresh off the boat.  “We couldn’t always afford shoes,” said my uncle “but your dad was never afraid to take on a challenge.”  Stories like this could go on forever, but it was something else that made my father the great man he is today.

Money was a hard thing to come by during my father’s childhood.  At the young age of fourteen, my father decided that it was his responsibility to help with the family income.  Being the oldest son, he knew sports could wait.  His family was in trouble and he took it upon himself to provide financial aid.  When I asked my grandmother about this she stated, “Your grandfather and I never asked him to help with the money.  That’s just the kind of boy he was, always caring for family.”  My father never really mentioned when he first started work, but I knew it was at this young, delicate age of fourteen.  He first started at odd jobs, working at the corner deli for three dollars an hour.  He knew that he wouldn’t rake in the big bucks, but whatever he made would help the family.

When he turned eighteen he acquired the job he still holds to this day: fish salesman at Caleb Haley.  This was no easy, glamorous job.  It consisted of heavy lifting and long work hours in inclement weather conditions.  He persisted through these horrific conditions over thirty-three years and can still sell a piece of fish to a restaurant at the age of fifty-one.  Many of his friends and co-workers left their positions at the Fulton Fish Market due to the unfavorable effects on the body, but not my dad.  When I journeyed to the fish market to ask people about his working skills, I learned he received a nickname from his younger colleagues.  I wasn’t surprised in the least bit to find out it was “Old Man Superman.”  Now, you may be thinking he was given this name because he looks twenty years older than his actual age.  This surely isn’t the case.  My father doesn’t have a grey hair on full head of hair, a gene I look forward to inheriting.  The name was given to him because he always got the job done.  Whether it was stacking twelve boxes of fish on top of one another or making a lucrative deal to the hottest restaurant in town, Richie Tortorice did it all.  His experience and expertise at this vocation was obvious. This eventually led him to become co-owner of Caleb Haley.

At the end of every night, as I lie in bed and try to sleep, I would hear the alarm clock in my father’s bedroom sound.  Grumbling and trying to wake himself from his deep sleep, my father walks past my bedroom and dresses for work.  After brewing his cup of coffee, he is out the door by 1:00am.  When I was 8 years old, I would scurry out of bed to get one last glimpse of my hero, my father, departing for work.  At around this age was when I began to notice the physical toll it was taking on my father’s body, especially his hands.  He would come home almost every day with his hands full of sores and cuts from the cold weather, but he would never complain.  I would always ask, “Daddy, why did you stay with the fish market so long?”  I’ll never forget the night he sat me down and explained to me his reasoning for putting up with the cold, bitter weather.  “It may not be the most glamorous job in the world but it pays well and it gives me time to spend with you guys [my family].”  Most people don’t know that my father’s work hours for the past thirty-three years have been from one at night to eleven the next morning.  He worked nights in order to have time to coach little league, see my sister’s ballet performances, and eat dinner with his family every night.  When he explained this reasoning to me, all I hope was that I became half the man he is when I grow up.

Like his childhood, he put his certain things on hold and never lost perspective on the most important thing in life: family.  If there is one thing I learned from my father it is that family is the most important thing in life.  “Never forget, family comes first,” he would preach to my sister and me every so often.  Providing a roof over his family’s head, loving his wife and his children was what this man did for a living.  Selling fish at the Fulton Fish Market for the past three decades was merely a hobby.  A man who is “admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.”  When all my friends would talk about Superman and Batman as their heroes, I would talk about my hero, my father.

Some people call it a game, others say it’s a pastime; but to me, baseball is life.  The smell of a new wooden bat, fresh cut grass, and perfectly raked dirt is all I need to be happy.  Baseball has been an aspect of my life since I first stepped onto the top of the dugout of legendary Yankee Stadium.  At the age of four, my tiny body bounced up and down on this structure, ignorant to the history I was making in my own life.  Ever since that day, I knew it was this great sport that flowed through my veins.

Unlike many other things in life, baseball is straightforward.  It makes perfect sense to me.  School, on the other hand, is filled with complicated formulas, historical facts, and tests to study for.  All of these things that cause anxiety and made everyday life tedious are forbidden here on the baseball diamond.  It is almost as if there is an unwritten rule that says, “forget everything, just think baseball.”  Now this is something I can relate to in every way, shape, and form.  Catching, throwing, and hitting a baseball are what I take pride in, things I live for.

During my high school years, my teammates shared this desire and passion with me.  Some of my best friends were made on the baseball diamond.  During baseball season was when we judged each other and granted each other respect that we valued greater than life itself.  Who threw the hardest, ran the fastest, played the toughest?  These were the questions we asked ourselves; everything else didn’t seem to matter.  Our love for the game came natural.  We didn’t have to force ourselves to go to practices early or stay later for extra training sessions.  There was no other place we wanted to be.

We became brothers, coming from different religions, races, and cultures.  Jewish, Catholic, black, white, Puerto Rican, Italian- these aspects of ourselves weren’t important to us.  We learned about each other’s cultures and considered ourselves members of each and every one.  A more accurate description of the special bond we had is a diverse family brought together for one shared goal- a New York City Championship.

It was baseball that allowed me to experience what it is like to be a hero, a savior.  The most important knowledge I gained; however, came during my senior year of high school and was a great turning point in my life.  As one of the oldest member of the team, my younger teammates not only respected me but they looked up to me.  Determination and dedication came along with this new role of captain.  Our school was strictly known for our academic achievements.  This forced us to work twice as hard in order to achieve our goals on the baseball field.  We wanted to prove we weren’t just capable in the classroom.  I have experienced many defining moments on the baseball field that has developed me into the person I am today.

When I walked out of the elevator of the seventh floor of the William and Anita Newman Library Building, I saw posters and flyers telling all that Francine Prose was amongst us.  To be honest, at first I didn’t truly understand the magnitude of having such an accomplished writer at Baruch willing to talk to Macaulay Honors Students about her life’s work.  I soon realized this was a privilege not just a mandatory part of my Arts in New York City course.  Professor Roslyn Bernstein and the rest of the esteemed Baruch College staff had nothing but praises regarding Francine Prose and the novels she wrote, including the book my fellow classmates and I recently read, Reading Like a Writer.

The night began with a few people stepping up to the podium telling the audience about Francine Prose and her successful career.  The respect for her was evident from the first words out of their mouths.  One thing I learned from the experience with Francine Prose was that “Hansel and Gretel” holds a completely different meaning than it used to.  From my childhood, I remember the old tale about a witch wanting to eat two children.  It is safe to say that Francine Prose put a truly original spin on this narration enticing listeners from the beginning of the story.  Her version of “Hansel of Gretel” was a rendition of a true story that left the audience asking themselves different questions.  It was amazing to witness and listen to how a somewhat boring event was transformed into an interesting, enticing piece of literature.

Following Prose’s narration of her version of “Hansel and Gretel” was a question and answer session.  All throughout the reading of the short story I racked my brain trying to think of the perfect question to ask, but my attempts were unsuccessful.  As the question and answer session ended, I was shocked to see almost everyone in the cramped room, flock to Francine Prose whether it was to sneak in another question or just get her signature.  I said to myself, “I may never get another chance to meet another highly accomplished writer.”  I didn’t hesitate in knowing that I should also get up and encounter this talented writer.  As she handed the book back to me with her signature on the first page, she was answering another student’s question.  I overheard her saying was that she remembered what it was like to be in college reading countless books that bored her to death.  I laughed to myself for this is how I have always felt since the beginning of high school.  I was comforted to discover that she is a very down to earth person, being able to relate to an ordinary college student like myself.  It was astonishing to learn that such a renowned writer and celebrity like Francine Prose, was just another person trying to make a living, one novel at a time.

Trying to keep a positive attitude about the upcoming opera, as I walked into the Metropolitan Opera my perspective drastically changed.  Earlier in the week, I was actually looking forward to “Doctor Atomic” since it was based on a topic I was greatly interested in, the atomic bomb.  One thing I was not looking forward to was the opera style singing that was to be expected in the performance.  When I think of opera, I imagine heavy-set opera singers singing so loud that it shatters wine glasses and audience members’ eyeglasses.  This was the way it was in the old days, opera singers were usually heavy men and women because they were the only singers capable of hitting the loudest notes.   I was pleasantly surprised to see that I was wrong about the big-boned singers.  To be fair, as an eighteen-year-old college student, opera is not my music genre of choice.  I would be much happier listening to hip-hop, rap, or even country music.

One deterring factor of “Doctor Atomic” was the fact that I couldn’t understand the plot and events going on in the play without looking at the translator on the back of the seat in front of me.  The singers’ words were so distorted and unclear that I couldn’t just listen; I was forced to look down at the translator.  With my eyes going from the stage to the translator constantly, it was almost impossible to understand the dialogue and get the full effect of what was happening on stage.  I found myself constantly asking the question, “Why can’t they just talk?”  It would have been a much better and more enjoyable experience if the dialogues were spoken instead of screamed at the top of their lungs.  What I am trying to say is that “Doctor Atomic” would have been better off as a regular play or even a musical.  It would have been much easier to follow making it more enjoyable.  The audience wouldn’t have to turn to one another for an explanation, much like I did during the opera performance.

Some positive aspects of “Doctor Atomic” were the scenery and visual aspects of the performance.  The elaborate set designs were truly remarkable; however, the atomic bomb itself looked like a ball of lint.  Besides that one minor mishap, I loved the rest of the scenery.  This part of the opera was gripping from beginning to end.  The performance opened with actors and singers in what looked like a huge bookshelf.  It was almost as big as the stage and had many unique characteristics that allowed it to form into different pieces of the opera.  It opened at the middle like a window and even had shades on it to portray images shown from a projector.  It was interesting to see how the set designers used this one object in all aspects of the play whether it was used to convey the image of a storm, a bedroom, or an office full of scientists.

The actors displayed the guilt and mental anguish experienced by the nuclear scientists very well.  Scientists such as J. Robert Oppenheimer, “the father of the atomic bomb,” were portrayed as geniuses riddled with guilt.  Even though the gifted minds behind the Manhattan Project created a weapon that changed the world ever since it was used on Hiroshima and Nagasaki at the end of World War II, they knew this opened a whole new world of terrible and disastrous consequences.  The facial expressions and tones in their voices truly allowed the audience to feel guilt and turmoil they were going through.
All in all, “Doctor Atomic” was not a bad experience, if you love opera.  For me, it was difficult to stay awake and understand the plot of the opera.  I feel that the opera would have been much better if the dialogues were spoken, especially in regards to an audience of a much younger age.  The story and plot revolving around the atomic bomb, the single most destructive weapon on the face of the earth, kept the audience interested.  This interest; however, only lasted until the singing began.

As soon as Jeff Mermelstein entered room 12-170 I knew it was going to be a fun, action-packed class.  It began with him asking Yuriy, a fellow classmate, and I to change seats in order to set up his projector.  Gladly, we did as asked.  As we were moved our belongings, Jeff cracked jokes to us and could have been mistaken for a college student himself.  Previously, I was expecting that class to be just another talk with a photographer, but I was pleasantly surprised it wasn’t.

I thought it was a great idea Jeff Mermelstein brought along a whole treasure chest of his most prized and famous photos, instead of just addressing the class without any visual aids.  In recent classes, we discussed different photographic techniques and terms such as vantage point and color contrast, and I was interested to see how he used them.  There are a few pictures I remember more than others.  I especially like the set of photos that dealt with elderly women playing a card game.  He highlighted how they dressed and presented themselves to one another.  These photos made the viewer ask, “Why would they get dressed up just to play cards?”  Another photo that stood out to me was a picture in front of a store with what seemed to be blood on the floor in front of it.  He explained that even though it looked like the scene of a murder, the “blood” was just the reflection of the red neon light of the store’s sign.  Jeff even admitted that when he was taking that photo he was not conscious of the liquid looking like blood until after it was developed.  He also told the class that he takes pictures of basically everything he sees, and then once the photos are developed, he sifts through the thousands of them and keeps the ones he wants and stores the others somewhere else.

Some of his photos were odd, but he kept a great sense of humor while we laughed and jeered at them.  He even laughed with us.  A lesser photographer would have taken this to heart and may have even been offended, but this wasn’t Jeff Mermelstein.  Pictures of random people on the street, animals, and even inanimate objects filled the classroom for eighty-five minutes, keeping my fellow classmates and I at the edge of our seats.  He did a great job of explaining every picture we asked about.  I wondered how he got so close to some of his subjects without getting attacked or hit by them, especially since most of the subjects in the photos seemed upset they were being photographed.  In response to this he said, “I would never risk injury for a photo or even a camera.”

There were a few things that Jeff said that will help me during my street photography project.  He advised us to take pictures of what we want to and have fun with it.  He also added that we should take pictures of everything, and then go through the photos later to see what we want to keep or discard, similar to the style he uses.  Jeff Mermelstein was a great guest to have come to the class and I wouldn’t be surprised if I see some of his work in the future.

When I initially sat down in anticipation of “Waltz With Bashir,” I didn’t know what to expect.  My instincts told me that it would be an old-fashioned movie with dated, classical music, making sense of the name of the play.  I was pleasantly surprised to see that I was wrong.  The delivery and style of the movie was truly unique and unlike any other production I have ever seen before. 

The most difficult part of entertainment is capturing the elusive attention of the viewers and maintaining it throughout the production.  “Waltz With Bashir” certainly accomplishes at least part of this challenging task.  The opening scene consisted of a bone-chilling dream that had viewers gasping for air and on the edge of their seats within the first ten minutes of the movie.  The snarling, vicious dogs running through town made viewers cringe and shield their eyes in anticipation of their prey.  Ari Folman’s production dealt with the always-controversial topic of war, which immediately grabbed the attention of viewers.

Folman took a great risk choosing to use animation to create his documentary of the horrors of the 1982 Lebanon war.  Using comic book-like techniques to depict a dreary topic of war and death was unheard of.  From my own observations, there were mixed emotions on Folman’s use of animation.  Some thought it was ingenious, while others felt it took away from the seriousness of the topic.  I agree with the latter of the two.  In my opinion, I believe the movie would have had a greater effect if it were filmed using real actors and scenery.

Although Folman succeeds in obtaining interest and attention early in the movie, I believe he fails to maintain it throughout the entire course of the movie.  Once people adjusted to this film style, the story lost its appeal.  There were even certain scenes I found myself asking, “What does this have to do with anything?”  For example, a nude woman twice the size of an average man magically appears on a boat and takes a military man away with her.  I’m sure there was some significance to that scene, but for the average viewer it only convoluted the plot.

On the other hand, one highlight of this production was the interesting music.  Folman’s use of music was one aspect of the movie that worked very well.  The unpredictable use of the classical waltz showed Ari Folman’s skill as a director and storyteller.  Most people expected the movie to have a scene in a ballroom, but that wasn’t the case.  The misleading title surprised viewers when the waltz was used as a technique to dodge bullets for survival.  Along with music, the ending of the movie both shocked and wowed the audience in a disturbing and enlightening way, much like that of the first time Saving Private Ryan did the first time viewers saw it.  Saving Private Ryan was one of the first movies to show the real, bloody side of the war without holding back, shocking audiences.  This was very similar to what Folman did in “Waltz With Bashir.”  Folman obviously wasn’t afraid to tell the truth about war.

All in all, “Waltz With Bashir” is worth the price on the ticket.  There are both highlights and drawbacks to this movie, but no movie is perfect.  The music, along with the beginning and end of the movie, make up for where the movie lacks.  The animation style is interesting to view, especially with such a serious topic.  Most of the time when people think of animation they imagine Elmer Fudd chasing Bugs Bunny with a shotgun, but people will be shocked when they see this production.

All throughout our world vandalism can be found almost anywhere.  We may have to look a little harder and dig a little deeper, but no matter what anyone tells you, vandalism is always around.  Whether it is graffiti on the wall of the corner drug store or defacing a park bench, vandalism is a crime that has been plaguing places all over the world for years.  This crime can be especially seen in the five boroughs of New York.  Living and growing up in Staten Island, I wanted to focus on the ever-growing problem of vandalism around my home.

When I first began my photo-hunting expedition, I struggled with finding a theme to photograph.  Then, all of a sudden, this idea of photographing vandalism soon came to mind.  As a little boy growing up in a condominium complex riddled with graffiti and broken swing sets and slides, I was never allowed to play outside.  I never experienced the park literally less than a block away from my own home.  The slides were always damaged and the swings unsafe and full of graffiti.  At such a young age, I didn’t truly understand why I was never allowed to play there but I always wanted to.  I figured this topic of vandalism would be a perfect Street Photography theme, since I have much experience with it.  I don’t want this assignment to come off that I live in a terrible neighborhood.  My parents are hard working Americans that only want the best for their children, but sometimes it is impossible to escape acts of vandalism.  As it was previously stated, vandalism is everywhere whether you live in the apartment complex down the street or the most expensive house on a private street.

The photographs that I chose to take each have its own special meaning and message in it.  I wanted to show not only the large, obvious signs of vandalism, but the small, less noticeable ones as well.  My goal was to educate the public that vandalism is something that has been around for a long time and doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.  My tactic for finding vandalism was driving around in my car with my camera ready to shoot.  Surprisingly I actually found some great spots on my first photo shoot.

I wanted to capture the vandalism that hit very close to my home as a child.  I started my expedition a mere fifty yards away from my front door.  As I previously mentioned, there is a small park designed for young children.  Sadly the teenagers that resided within the vicinity of the park felt it was necessary to destroy swings and slides for amusement.  The few pictures I took of the park truly show the devastation that vandalism had on my condominium development.  After I was satisfied with the pictures around my home, I hit the road in order to find examples of vandalism a little further away.  My friend agreed to help me with the project in that he would drive and I would take pictures of whatever I felt would help me reach the goal I was trying to achieve.  Red lights gave me the opportunity to snap still photos of graffiti all over Staten Island.  When we stopped for a dinner break at Outback Steakhouse, I was shocked to see the amount of vandalism in the parking lot.  One picture I captured shows an upside down handicap parking sign.  This just goes to show that there are some people on this world that don’t have respect for the elderly and disabled.  It is bad enough these people are at a disadvantage, but now they have to get embarrassed.  One thing that had me worried was what I looked like taking all of these pictures on Staten Island.  Ever since September 11th 2001, people have become especially weary of what is going on around them.  I wondered to myself if I looked like a terrorist taking pictures in order to plan an attack.  Yes, it is a terrible thought, but it makes sense and I even received a few dirty looks.  I didn’t bother to attempt to explain that it was a project for school.  The people would not have believed me.

There is one photo, the last one in my Microsoft Powerpoint presentation, that signifies what has to be done to stop this growing problem of vandalism in Staten Island and all of New York.  I titled the photograph “Stop and Stare” because that’s exactly what needs to be done.  People and police of Staten Island have to stand up against these vandals and put an end to this epidemic.
This street photography project not only has helped me to become a better photographer and enhance my originality, it has also given me a newfound respect for real photographers like Jeff Mermelstein and Susan Meiselas.  I can only imagine the looks of disgust and disapproval they receive each and every day they take photographs.  They do it because they love their occupation and they are truly artists behind a camera.

I had never been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art before and when I heard there was an Italian-based exhibit, I couldn’t wait to get there.  I didn’t see this journey to the MET as a mandatory assignment for a grade; I saw it as a way to learn about the art of my own culture.  As soon as I entered the exhibit I felt right at home.  I was surrounded by countless paintings of Bible scenes and Italian settings that reminded me of my early childhood.  As a child, my family and I would journey to Church every Sunday and learn about such scenes as the priest delivered his sermon.  All throughout my time at the Art and Love in Renaissance Italy Exhibit, memories and emotions surged through my body as I walked past each gigantic oil painting.

Even though there were about twenty paintings I could write about, I narrowed my search down to three.  “The Crucifixion” by Gerald David was one of the paintings that really caught my attention.  In this graphic scene from the Bible, Jesus Christ was mocked, ridiculed, and spat upon for being the supposed “Son of God.”  At the end of his journey carrying the cross, nails were driven through his hands and feet.  Religion is a huge part of my life and this painting had a significant meaning for me.  It reminded me that God gave his only son to save mankind.  The vivid colors of the painting allow the viewer to truly see what occurred and the amazing sacrifice Jesus made for us dying on the cross.  Also, the fact that this painting was so large made it seem like the audience is witnessing the Crucifixion first hand.  It was unlike any other representation I had ever seen.
Following my mini-theme of religion of the Art and Love in Renaissance Italy Exhibit, there was another scene from the Bible that jumped out at me.  “The Annunciation” by Luca Giordano was a truly breathtaking piece.  In this painting, the angel Gabriel is delivering the joyous news to the Virgin Mary that she will bear the Son of God.  This is one of the most famous moments of the Bible and this painting truly does it justice.  Giordano does an excellent job of using bright, shiny yellows to represent the angel Gabriel’s wings and halo.  It was almost as if the angel was standing there before you.  Also, similarly to “The Crucifixion,” the size of the painting was another significant factor.  It was so large it almost took up an entire wall.  The size of the painting allows the viewer to almost hear the sacred message from Gabriel to the Virgin Mary.  It was a magnificent sight.

Finally, the third painting that caught my attention was titled “Wolf and Fox Hunt” by Peter Paul Rubens and Workshop.  This painting veers away from the other two previously mentioned because it has nothing to do with religion.  There was something about this huge painting that called to me.  The vicious looks on the wolves and foxes had me wondering why anyone would ever hunt these vicious but beautiful animals.  One portion of the painting had a German Shepherd pinned to the ground by a wolf.  I found myself saying, “What’s the point of this?”  The humans are the mindless animals in this painting for letting this occur before their eyes.  The chaos in the painting was unimaginable.  Animals were ripping and clawing at one another as humans watched high on their horses, safe from the danger so close to them.  It looked like something out of a horror movie.

My adventure to the Art and Love in Renaissance Italy Exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art was one that I’ll never forget.  I didn’t know much about paintings before my trip and I am proud to say that I can name and describe some pieces from this exhibit.  This wasn’t just a school assignment; it was the beginning of a new interest in Italian Art and culture.

When we first received news that my fellow classmates and I would be going to BAM, the Brooklyn Academy of Music, I was looking forward to a thrilling performance.  Much to my dismay I was mistaken.  I was one of the first to arrive at BAM and I noticed some of the trailers for the performance we were about to witness.  My excitement and anticipation quickly changed to dread and loathing.  Several flat screen televisions were playing a few short clips that made my stomach churn.  As much as I didn’t want to, I decided to give the Urban Bush Women a chance to impress me before I made hasty conclusions.  I entered the theater with an open mind, hoping I would be wrong about the performance.

From the very beginning of the performance I was bored.  Slow movements began to put me to sleep and I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open.  The open-mind I came into the theater with was slowly fading.  I knew this would be the longest ninety minutes of my life.  Scene after scene of what seemed like pointless dancing filled the stage and lulled me to a drowsy state.  Besides the incredibly tedious plot, another thing that made this a difficult experience was the fact that I had no idea what it this performance was about.  If I didn’t ask my fellow classmates after the performance I still wouldn’t have known that it was about slavery and survival.  The Urban Bush Women use “contemporary dance, music, and text with the history, culture, and spiritual traditions of African Americans and the African Diaspora, exploring the transformation of struggle and suffering into the bittersweet joy of survival.”

One upside to the performance was the ending dance “battle” between the male and female cast members.  Jumping, kicking, and spinning filled the stage as these talented dancers did what they do best.  It was interesting to see how they used dancing and choreography to express their emotions to one another, including the audience.  I wondered if the dance moves were specifically choreographed or made up on the spot.  It could’ve gone either way.  This incredible scene of organized chaos truly saved the show from an almost certain demise.

When my fellow classmates and I were first notified about the upcoming visit from Samuel G. Freedman, I was looking forward to receiving insight and inspiration for my own “Who She Was” assignment.  After reading his book, it was evident to see the love and respect he had for his mother, but hearing him talk about her was completely different.  After this class, I decided that I would write about my own father because of the love and respect I have for him, much like Freedman and his mother.  Freedman claimed that the book was used as an “act of penance” towards his mother.  He also said that he made sure everything was done correctly.  For example, clothes, language and culture of his mother’s lifetime were vital to capture the essence of his mother’s life.  This is the technique and approach I would use for my assignment.

Jotting down facts and techniques Freedman used to obtain crucial information would be crucial to my own assignment.  Freedman commented on how he interviewed various people to get information about his mother.  I would follow this excellent approach.  After hearing this tactic, I started planning the days I would use to travel to my father’s hometown and his place of work.  These were two places where I knew I could find out information I could use in my paper.
The effort and passion Freedman had when writing his book is clearly evident.  He uncovered certain aspects of her life that I don’t know if I would want to know about my own mother.  Freedman said, “Being attractive was part of her life-force.”  To be able to talk about one’s mother as a sexual being shows the extent of the relationship between Sam and his mother.  Growing up in the Great Depression, Eleanor Watkin didn’t have an easy life.  Sam rummaged through social security records, birth certificates and other primary sources of research to tell the world his mother’s life story.  One thing that especially caught my attention was that Sam “rescued his mother’s history.”  He said that if he didn’t it would have been forgotten forever.  As a loving and loyal son, he wouldn’t let this happen.  With the great success of his book, I think it is safe to say he accomplished his goal of keeping his mother’s spirit and story alive forever.