Jeanette Striano was born the third of six children. One thing that was hardly a secret was the fact that she was not the favorite child. In everything from boys to schoolwork, Jeanette was judged very harshly. Angelina rarely, if ever, gave her the benefit of the doubt. She could never be her younger sister Adeline or her younger brother Al who were the true favorites of the family. She never tried to be either but she realized from an early age that Angelina demanded perfection of her. Jeanette’s willful nature did not mesh well with her mother’s expectations. There were certain ways that a young all-Italian girl was expected to behave. These guidelines were non-negotiable as far as Angelina was concerned. From an early age, Jeanette knew that there would be only one way that she would live her life: her way.

When Jeanette was in her late teens, 5^th Avenue in Brooklyn was known as a very eclectic environment. It was here that she chose to work in a classy dress shop selling dresses. She was quite good at it, too.  Legend has it that she was so charismatic that after 10 minutes of shooting the breeze with her, she would convince you to buy the Brooklyn Bridge. When Angelina Striano found out, however, she ordered her to stop immediately. Back then, a nice Italian girl was not permitted to work in a non-Italian neighborhood. She would work for an Italian employer or she would not work at all. Despite her mother’s objections, Jeanette continued to work in this store. She did not care that the employer was not of her heritage. She enjoyed what she did but she was really happy about the fact that she was well paid. She was proud to be Italian but to her it did not matter where she sold her dresses, as long as she got paid and enjoyed going to work.  She told her mother this and, in spite of the numerous arguments,  she eventually won the battle. The war, however, was in its infancy, as this was one of the first exhibitions of Jeanette’s willful nature but hardly the last.

The club was dark and smoky. Standing on the stage in front was a young twenty-something named Jeanette. She was crooning torch songs for the patrons to hear. Her voice was like that of an angel; she was the Italian version of Ella Fitzgerald and proud of it. She was at this club on a regular basis earning a little extra money and enjoying every moment that she was in the public eye. She loved to sing songs about love and destiny and used her voice to pour emotion into it. As she sang Wheel of Fortune by Kay Starr the crowd looked on in appreciation of her considerable talent. Jeanette did not realize, however, that her mother had discovered what she did for fun. Angelina marched down to the club that Jeanette was performing in and ordered her to leave. She told Jeanette that the only people who sing in clubs are sluts and wild women and as far as she was concerned this was not to be her daughter’s role in life. Jeanette enjoyed what she did and did not want to stop but she had to obey her mother’s wishes. She did leave, albeit reluctantly, but this was only round two. The much more explosive round three was just around the corner.

The height of the conflict between my grandmother and her mother came when there was a dispute over whom she would marry. Her mother set her up with a nice young businessman named Jimmy Russo. It was not really optional for my grandmother to say no, at the risk of forever disappointing her mother. She chose to marry Mr. Russo but she had a genuine problem. She did not want to upset her mother but at the same time she realized that she did not love Jimmy. She acknowledged that he was a very kind man but she would be doing him a disservice by staying married to him because she did not love him. She proceeded to receive an annulment and instead married a hard working roofer who was born in Prague. His name was Dominic Marvo and he eventually became my grandfather. To Angelina, this was a sin of the highest order. There was a virtual apocalypse in the Striano household and all kinds of arguments ensued. In Angelina’s legendary words, which have been passed down since they were uttered, “You are leaving gold to marry brass.” From this moment forward, Jeanette had lost all favor with her mother. This same displeasure carried over to my mother who was viewed as being the product of a marriage that Angelina did not approve of.

Jeanette’s relationship with her mother was one that would dictate much of her life. Jeanette always felt slighted by the fact that her mother made no secret of which children were her favorites. She made a decision, however, not to let this keep her down. She knew that she was going to do things her way and that was that. She was not going to allow anyone to tell her what would make her happy. Her happiness was her business and it would remain that way until she died in 2004. Jeanette may not have always been right when she pushed her own agenda but, at least, she was unafraid to back it up. She had the courage and spirit with which to combat her mother’s own forceful nature. She was always respectful of her mother but she also realized that she could not allow her to jeopardize her future.

Author, New York Times columnist, and dedicated son Mr. Sam Freedman appeared at Baruch College last week for a talk back about his historical biography Who She Was. The book is a factual rendering of his mother’s life: raw, unpretentious, and heartbreaking.
She grew up in the South Bronx’s Jewish ghetto, and lived a very hard life. She was obliged to support her family from a very young age, and only found solace in her friends and lovers. Her greatest aspiration was to attend college; however, her family’s demand to help defray the cost of living excluded this from her future. Freedman writes of this as his mother’s catharsis, after which all seems to deteriorate.
He calls it a form of penance, by which he can repent for many years of misunderstanding. Like many young people, Freedman saw his mother as a burden. Her final visit to his college dorm was a mere annoyance to him as he tried to forget his “degenerate and dissident mother.” Decades after her death he sought to recompense through his book.
“These things may wax and wane,” he said, “[but] there’s nothing time bound to the 1930’s and this book.” The truth is Who She Was is a universal biography about the struggles of “growing up in an impoverished household” and dealing with the sins of our fathers (or mothers, in this case.) Frequently Freedman would cite his mother’s “zest for life,” her improvident philandering with the catholic boy Charlie. His unidealization and unwavering candor when writing Who She Was set it apart from other biographical books.
It is almost impossible not to connect with Freedman’s account. Any reader, Jewish or Hindu, rich or poor, male or female, can find some semblance of recognition in his book.

           If he wasn’t working he was driving. Driving south, every few months after the divorce from his first wife Marilyn McClure and the separation from the son he always wanted, he just dropped everything and drove. On his way there he thought of her, how when he married her she looked just like Diana Ross- she still did. He thought of Bryan, their son Bryan who was so bright in everything.  It was the thought of them that kept him awake and heartened on the road. From New York City to Orlando he didn’t even make a stop at to sleep at one of the motels that lined the highway.

            He drove down that highway in a trusty brontosaurus of an Oldsmobile station wagon, his Chips sunglasses glinting in the sunlight. Gold rimmed, green tinted Rayban Aviators that he bought right after seeing “that guy from Chips” wear them. He checked the gas, looked left before making a turn and adjusted his rearview mirror as he turned his Ms. Ross’s best tune “Do You Know Where You’re Going To?” up. As he arrived closer and closer to Florida he felt himself grow warmer. Even for early spring it seemed unnaturally warm almost as if the earth were letting off steam. Or maybe it was the warmth emanating from the sheer goodwill of his intentions. If he worked it right he thought, “this might be the last trip I have to make….”

           His son Bryan turned eleven and started his first year of junior high that year. Instantly the corners of his lips turn upwards, he relaxed the tautness of his jaw and his eyes crinkled. He remembered the conversation he had with him the week before, “Dad I am going to SeaWorld next week, on a class trip, two whole classes are going, and our teacher asked us if our parents, you know our mothers and fathers, want to volunteer to help out. Hey dad, when are you coming to visit us dad?”

             As he pulled up to the junior high school he was stunned at the space between the separate buildings. To him they resembled simple one-story houses widely spaced on a thick green grass carpet– a far cry from the stone catholic schools of his youth.

            He strode up to the front desk where a secretary looked up from her paperwork gave him a strained smile. “Excuse me can I help you?”

            ”Yes, my name is Julio Alarcon and I am here to get my son Bryan for the class trip to Sea World” His chest puffed out a bit as he anticipated an expression of recognition from her.

          ”Bryan? I’m afraid we don’t have a student here by this name…” She trailed of as she saw his smile crumple, “Wait, we have a student named Jules Alarcon is he your son?” At that he let out a loud swoosh of air from his lungs thanked her and mechanically followed her instructions. Even though his son was his namesake, no one referred to him as Jules, not even himself.

          As he opened the door to the classroom he didn’t even have a chance to alert the teacher as Bryan came bounding into his arms with an impetuous hug and a  “DAD!”. It was worth it he thought, as he had to explain to the bemused teacher that he really was his father. Bryan’s mother Marilyn, although of mixed race herself was considered African American. Although America liked to think of itself as racially unprejudiced even in 1979 his marriage to her raised eyebrows. His son was just caught in between these social forces he had no control over. All you need is love.

          In a flurry of commotion he found himself on a bus and then off it, shepherding students from on exhibit to another. All the while he made sure to catch Bryan’s eye and smile reassuringly at him, as if to say he would never leave. His son appreciated that and rewarded him by flashing him a dimpled smile and a wave. “Hey dad, do you know the difference between a killer whale and an orca? There is none! They’re both the same!” The front row of his teeth mischievously peeped out and his eyes shone as he grinned broadly at his own wit and father. He then ran back to sit with his whole table of friends. Julio tried to capture that moment in a photo but at the last minute the whole group decided that they were camera shy. All that remained was hands in front of faces hiding almost as if they wanted to be forgotten.

        As they drove home in his car Bryan jabbered on ceaselessly. Julio was regaled with tales about his latest high score about hoops and his new high score in Mega man. As he pulled up the clean white driveway of 17 Columbine Drive his indulgent glowing smile turned into one of bemused despair as he realized that he had forgotten his keys to the house. Ever handy and prepared from the last time he forget his keys, he pulled out a piece of wire from the glove compartment a proceeded to pick the lock of his own house. Again.

         “Mom! Dad is home!”

And so it began again. He smiled confidently and tried to catch her all the while explaining his surprise visit.  She only had eyes for the exhilarated expression of joy on her sons face as ran back and forth between them, a merry pendulum with long limbs and Cheshire cat grin. All he had to do was wait for the right moment to ask her to come back to New York. All they needed was love.

                Dinner was always a silent affair but on that particular night everyone chattered on as if to dance around the giant elephant in the room. Technically they weren’t married anymore. Technically Julio was free to remarry or move on with his life. Technically Julio could forget he ever had a son and no one would judge him for it. Technically that is what any stereotypical free willed man would want, to ramble on into the world unencumbered by the worries of domestic life.

            This wasn’t what he wanted.

        He told her right after dinner, right as he watched her rinse the dishes with that poised air and efficiency he loved so much and right as Bryan walked into the kitchen. For what reason no on ever remembered, not even him.

          All there was….all there was left for him, was a silence.  In that moment of “damn communication breakdown” as he put it, he knew he had to go.

            ”Marilyn could you make me a carrot cake? and upside down pineapple cake you know the ones you always made for me?….before I go….?” He started the question off strong just like anything he undertook and then the uncertainty in the air came stinging clear as he saw the incredulity in her eyes. He trailed off…

              “You want me to bake all that now, Julio look at how late it is! I just got out of work!”  Her left hand worked up reflexively on her right hip yet even as she grumbled she set to baking. His mouth watered from the cinnamon smell as she set them out to cool later that night. By morning he was gone.

As he drove into Virginia later that afternoon he hit the break, pulled over, cradled his forehead onto the steering wheel and cried.

He had forgotten the carrot cake.

And the upside down pineapple cake

But not his family, he never could.

            If he wasn’t working, he was driving. After that last trip, he decided to take a break from driving. He thought back to his homeland Bolivia and that girl, oh girl *intake of breath…girl he took there, and left behind. When he got back to New York he bought a one-way ticket there and left.

             Little did he dream he come back to New York the following year with that same girl. Her name was Ada, now an older woman and in that year she was carrying in her womb his very first daughter, Katie. It would be just like starting over. If he failed then he would try again and again, and again.

My brother (age 3) and I (age 4) in front of our home right before I was off to school.

As she drove back to their home she tried to hold back her laughter. During the five-minute ride, she glanced several times at her rear-view mirror showing the incredibly naïve and adorable creature she helped create. After a few seconds of coaxing him to show it to her, the mother noticed that the test paper her six-year-old son produced was a fake. At the top of it in thick writing read “90000%.” But she didn’t let him know his mistake. She loudly praised him just to allow him the moment of smugness he experienced while seated in the back of the car.

July 9th, 1992: his birth. Around 12 P.M., he entered the world as Kevin Saroop. The proud and exhausted mother took one look at him and her happiness quickly turned to concern. The boy didn’t look similar to any of her or her husband’s family. His skin was dark, his nose wide, and his hair thin. “Oh no,” she thought lying on the hospital bed. “This boy isn’t going to look nice.” Back at home, her husband was drinking and celebrating his son’s arrival. The boy was introduced to his older sister who quickly took to him. Since Kevin was unexpected, his parents had to clear a room in their home that was originally intended to be his father’s office.

As a toddler, Kevin was often bullied by his sister. Being that he was younger and given more attention, she found it easy to displace her emotions through bossing him around. At first, Kevin didn’t object as he was too young to do anything. Through older age and greater sense gained by his fourth birthday, Kevin began to fight back. No matter how much they fought, however, his sister never brought up his greatest weakness, his greatest insecurity: his bed-wetting accidents. Every time Kevin wet the bed, he would cry incessantly due to a heightened sense of guilt. At those moments he felt like a mistake and sought solace in his family.

Although they fought often, Kevin and his sister enjoyed each other’s company. They were only one year apart and liked to do kiddy activities together. They also liked learning about one another. By the age of five, his sister graduated kindergarten wanting to be a doctor. This was something her parents were proud of. When she asked Kevin what he wanted to be at that age, he answered “a chicken man.” This term was used by Kevin and his sister to describe the men who killed chickens at the Halaal farms for paying customers. “And if you can’t be a chicken man?” his sister would ask. “Then I’ll be a garbage man,” he would answer.

When Kevin entered the first grade and his sister entered the third, he began realizing the problems of being a younger sibling. They both attended the same parochial school, which started using an honor roll list when a student entered the third grade. Kevin’s sister was unaware of this and was put on the honor roll list for her hard work. Her teacher complimented her good efforts during PTA meetings, which circled back to increased parental attention at home. Realizing that he could get the same result if he did well academically, Kevin struggled to keep up with his work in the first grade, most of it assigned by a bad-tempered teacher.

In the following years, Kevin and his sister continued to attend the same school. While she participated in many competitions and won some, pressure was put on Kevin to do the same. She also came out on top of her class, something her parents expected of her. They expected Kevin to do well too, if not better, since he was supposed to learn from her mistakes and achievements. Thus he secretly admired his sister and, at the same time, secretly hated her for outlining his life for him. He rebelled by refusing to do well in school without incentives, which his parents readily prepared. To him, the gain of these incentives represented a form of affection. They were tangible signs of love.

When the time came for his sister to move on to high school, Kevin felt slightly relieved. No longer would he have to be in the same academic environment as her. No longer would he have to be compared to her. But the great shock came when his sister passed the “Specialized High School Admissions Test.” After news of her acceptance into one of New York’s specialized schools, Kevin’s sister became the gleaming pride and joy of their parents. Boastful words were transmitted to relatives via phone and in person while Kevin dreaded the moment he would have to take the test. It became so overbearing that at the mention of his sister’s news, Kevin would hang his head down and usually exit the room. Two years later, after attending two different test preparation programs and receiving a bit of tutoring, he took the test. Kevin was not admitted into any of the existing specialized schools.

The disappointment of his parents reached an all-time high at the receipt of his test score. The idea of him not being able to attend a specialized school was devastating so much so that his mother actively sought out newly built specialized schools within New York City. When she found out about Brooklyn Latin High School she immediately forced Kevin to investigate admission into the school, which he eventually was granted and had taken. At the same time, his sister was rejecting the proposal of becoming a pharmacist by her parents. In an effort to further win his parents over, Kevin assumed the role of aspiring pharmacist within his family. This would follow in the steps of his father, whose approval mattered to him most.

This took a drastic turn once Kevin entered high school. As you probably already know, high school is a learning experience. It’s a time when most of us discover what we want to do with our lives and the last time we’ll be regarded as minors. Kevin’s time in high school helped him further define his being so as to point toward the direction of the career he wanted to pursue. Being a fan of wrestling for over 13 years, Kevin always admired the high-flying tactics of wrestlers such as Rey Mysterio and Jeff Hardy. He always said that he’d be a “high-flyer” one day and engross himself in the exhilarating feeling. Upon declaring a possible goal to become a wrestler, Kevin was seen as a joke by his family. His parents and sister laughed at his unrealistic assumption, which he defended by saying he’d work hard to make real. His “back-up plan” is pharmacy, which he plans to attend school for after graduating from high school.

Eight years ago, my astrology-oriented cousin read Kevin’s palm. She claimed that one of his lines spoke of success and money. Although Kevin doubts himself and tells all of his friends that I’m better than him at everything, I know that the story on his palm is correct. He’s taking his own route instead of an expected one, and working toward his own dreams is the greatest sense of fulfillment he can ever achieve.