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Ocroua

•s. 1993

TheNewJournal Volume 26, Number

T he magazine about Yale and New Haven

2

October 15, 1993

STANDARDS ------------------------~---------

4 About this Issue 26 Between the Vines: While We Were Away. by Elena Cherney.

PROFILES ----~--------------------------------

8 Voice of the C hesapeake. by Jess Row. In his debut collection ofshort stories, Chris Tilghman (TC '68) returns to his roots on Maryland's Eastern Shore.

13 Guitar Man. by Caroline Kim. Street musician Clifford Byrd speaks his mind.

page 13

FEATURES ------------------------------------5 Abodes Like Toad's. by Wendelyn Pizer.

Ifyou live in one of Yale's famous

suites, get used to having visitors.

10

Yale's Orphaned Art. by Kate Schuler. The university's outdoor art collection suffers.from more than just wind and rain.

page 16

16 Shadow Boxing. by Joshua Auerbach. In a dingy second-story room on the outskirts ofthe city, Ring One Boxing, its coach Brian Clarke, and a group of determined kids survive on grit and thrive on glory.

22

Is It Time? by Ben Lumpkin. As New Haven prepares to elect a new mayor, an exasperated electorate slides toward indifference.

26

Black Hole Sleuths. by Cheryl M . H arris. A team of Yale physicists have moved science a step closer to understanding the life and death ofstars.

Cover Design by Jay Po rter and Suzan ne Kim. Cover pho to by M' B Singley.

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(Volum~ 26. Numw 2. Tht N~ ]Durnal is published fiv~ times during th~ school year by Th~ New Journal at Yal~. Inc., Post Offiu Box 3383 Yal~ Station, N~ Ha~~.

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Copyright 1993 by Th~ New Journal at Yal~. Inc. All rights r=rv~. R:q>':""uccion eith~ in wh~l~ or in part without wrin~ ~ission ~f th~ pubf!sh~ and editor-in-chief is prohibited.

ThiS maguin~ is published by Yal~ Collcg~ students, and Val~ Untversu;y lS nor responSJbl~ for tts con~entS. T~. <!'ousand. coptes of ea~h lSSU~ ar~ dhtnbuted fr~ to mem~rs of the Yale University community. Tht N~ ]Dunutl is primed by Turley Publications of Palmer, MA. Bookkcq>tng and b!llmg serv1US arc provided by Colman Bookkcq.mg of New H aven, ;)ffi~ address: 305 Crown Street, Office 312. Phone: (203) 432-1957. Subscriptions ar~ _available to those outstde the ya1~ community. Rates; One year, SIS. Two years. $30. Tht Nnu fDIInuU ~ncourages l~ters to the editor and comment on Val~ and New Hav~ lSSUCS. Wnte to Jose Manu~ -.:-esoro, Editonals, 3383 Yal~ Statton, New Haven, 06520. All I== for ~ublication mwt indud~ address and signature. 1M Nn<~ ]Dunuzl r=rves th~ right to cdir alll~ters for pubhc:auon.

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T H E N EW jOURNAL

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IssuE-

ometimes, four, five, or even six years are not enough to feel comfortable and con nected to Yale and New Haven. As soon as we've made new attachments and made this place "feel just like ho me," it's almost time to go.

Finding a place where we feel we belong exerts a strong pull on the spirit. Our cover story is about one such place, where street kids, young men, and a dedicated trainer have forged a kind of family. A place more like a sweatshop than "home away from home," Ring One Boxing has become a place for some to find the support and encouragement to pursue their dreams.

In a return to his Chesapeake roots, writer Christopher Tilghman speaks about home. His stories are sho t through with sentiments and visions from Maryland's Eastern Shore.

Thinking about home takes hold on us here at Yale as well. Wendelyn Pizer takes us on a tour of Yale's famous party rooms. Elena Cherney tells us concerns about what happens to our families while we are away do not decrease with distance. Wherever we go, it seems, there's one thing we can't escape- the pull of home.

As always, TNJ welcomes anyone to our family. Come to our writer's meeting at 7 :45 p.m., Monday, October 18, in the Berkeley Seminar Room if you want to write, draw, design, produce, or shoot. Come to our business meetings every Wednesday at 8 p.in. in the Berkeley Seminar Room, too. There's always one more place at the table.

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OcrosER 15, 1993

Abodes Like Toad's Wendelyn Pizer tudents under age 21 don't get turned away at the lived in the Beach Club last year too, said he spent about door. They enter the dimly lit, noisy 'room and imme- $200 on alcohol for parties. Still, he said the worst part of diately push their way to the bar. Arms outstretched, living in the Beach Club is cleaning the bathroom after parthey wait for the tap of Milwaukee's Best to slosh into their ties. "I also don't like the smell of beer that hangs around for plastic cups. Foaming beer in hand, they survey the scene. a few days," he added.

Spotting some familiar faces, they jostle their way back into Before the air has time to clear, friends ask when the the crowd and yell to their friends over the deafening strains next party is. Call it the price of living in a room with a ~ of the Dead. All the while they scan for that cute someone doorbell (the Beach Club), a k itchen (the Bat Cave in ~ who smiled at them two days ago in history section, and Silliman) or in a suite with two floors (Book World in ~ who just might be out tonight.

Calhoun and the Cottage). It is not just a tradition for ~ It's not Demery's, Naples, or Sigma Nu. It's the Beach occupants of these rooms to throw parties. It is a social obli- -., C lub, a large suite in Silliman, hosting one of its five-keg gation. "You have something to live up to," Derek ~ parties. And the Beach Club is just one of a host of rooms Hausladen (DC '94) said. But the obligation has its ~ well known around campus for their catchy names and their rewards. "The easiest way to meet people is to stand by a ¡5 seminal role in the Yale social scene. On nights when these keg and pour beer," Hausladen said. "Soon everybody ~ E rooms throw parties, hundreds of students pack into their knows your name." c spacious common rooms, then overflow into the entryway ~ he first Monday of each new semester is "Tequila ~ and the courtyard.

Monday" at the Beach Club and the Bat Cave. The .g Last year, the Beach Club residents threw about 16 partwo rooms, which share an entryway in Silli~an, 8 ties. Four hundred students came to the largest one, which featured a live band and six and a half kegs. But only about team up to serve tequila and beer to all who show up, even ~ half of the guests drink at Beach .---------,r"''l'--------......--..,.,.---,-~"""'"":l~T"""<'--:---=:-on--:----------C lub parties. "It's so hard to get a beer here," because of the number of people, said resident Matt Bierbaum (SM '95).

Instead, "most people get hammered beforehand and come here after to hang out."

Residents of these rooms have to be willing to stack their furniture in a corner, discard their privacy, and open their suite to whomever shows up, even the student who came to a Davenport Cottage party earlier this year wearing an inflatable moose around his waist. And Kate Battle (SY '95), a former resident of the Saybrook Beach, said she and her roommates had to kick people out of their bedrooms during parties in their eight-person suite.

'----------:._"""""""--;__::~_:..:.....:..;'"""'"""-_.;.;.L.o::~""'""-.o.:..::.........:....-""""'..;..;...:..:....;;.....,..;..;;..;..~~.....:.......; Buying beer all the time The smell ofstale beer permeates the entire environment. Do we have to have another party? also adds up. Bierbaum, who

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OcrosER 15, 1993

THE NEW JouRNAL 5

those who do not know what they are to live in the Beach, had to prove they in for. A Silliman freshman walked were worthy of the suite. "People were past the kegs in the entryway of the like, 'Oh, there's girls in the Beach,"' Beach Club around 9 p.m. on Tequila Battle said. "We felt a lot of pressure."

Monday of this year, and asked if he But she said they lived up to expectations, throwing several parties last year, was in the right place for the blue book party. Bierbaum and his room- even a Christmas party with cookies mates told the student, "Yes, but it and candy. doesn't start for an hour." When he In Branford, in past years, wincarne back an hour later, blue book in ning the student housing chair elechand, he found the kegs tapped and tion meant picking first in the room the tequila flowing. draw, which almost always meant livLast year, Beach Club residents ¡ ing in the God Quad. "It was a real strange election," said Adam Dorfman added a new twist to an old tradition.

(BR '94), last year's housing chair and They ended one of their parties with a four-inning game of late-night, naked current God Quad resident. "Are you "stickball," a game that uses a cut-off voting for people for housing chair or

he lived until about five years ago. He donated a picture of a boat that hung above the mantle. From that picture came the name "Beach Club."

Students letting loose for the weekend were shocked to see Gillon show up at Beach Club parties. Maybe they should have listened to him earlier in the week when he announced the party in class and hinted that he might come. But the end of Gillon's stint at Yale coincided with the end of another era. The picture of the boat no longer hangs above the mantle. It was stolen this summer. "It was only a $10 painting, but he donated it," Bierbaum said, adding, "We want it back."

----"-'"""--

Last year, Beach Club residents added a new twist to an old tradition. They ended one oftheir parties with a game oflate-night naked "stickball. " broom handle and a tennis ball instead of a bat and baseball but is not usually played in the nude. Actually, Bierbaum admitted that the players on the team at bat were the only ones completely naked. "You could wear your boxers when you were fielding," he explained.

The chance to live in a suite with a triple-sized common room, (the Beach Club, the Bat Cave, and the God Quad), or one with a long, wooden bar, (the Beach Club and the God Quad) can spur competition in the room draw. Bat Cave resident Hien Tran (SM '94) said she thought someone offered one of her roommates money if she would forego living in the room. Saybrugian Battle and her roommates, the first women in years 6 THE NEw JouRNAL

Thru bedrooms, big common room, courtyard views, sticky floors. for who you want to live in the God Quad? Probably more for the God Quad." Starting next year, the God Quad residents will either be chosen in a special early draw or in an election for some kind of social chairperson, which would clarify the God Quad's role as the center of Branford's social life.

These rooms have not always smelled of beer. The Bat Cave and the Beach Club started out inauspiciously as fellow's suites and later became student rooms. Former Silliman fellow Steve Gillon, who taught history at Yale until last year, left a legacy to the occupants of the Beach Club, where

ook World also draws its name from its centerpiece. About four years ago when a New Haven bookstore called "Book World" closed its doors, the students who then lived in Calhoun 426-427 bought the store's neon sign. Too large to fit through the door, they hoisted it up four floors and hauled it through a window. The Bat Cave's name comes from a mysterious, sealed closet in the room's hallway.

Someone once likened it to a cave where bats would be likely to live. She said she thinks the closet is filled with asbestos, but the name stuck. The Saybrook Beach takes its name from

B

OCTOBER 15, 1993

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its main attraction: an outdoor deck that can be reached by climbing out one of the windows.

But the Beach seems to have reached the end of its era as a party room. Until this year, the two suites comprising the Beach were linked together in the room draw, allowing eight people to live together. Now that the suites are occupied by separate groups, there are fewer potential hosts, a limiting factor when collecting for beer money. Battle said she thought college officials may have separated the rooms to cut down on parties where drunk students could overflow onto the deck, which was enclosed only by a low railing.

There are other ways to kill a party room's potential. Last year, Book World's first party of the year became its last when it was broken up by the Calhoun Master and Yale police, said one of last year's residents, who asked not to be identified. He said he also thought safety was the motive since the room adjoins a roof, but he still felt his room was unfairly singled out.

"It's not the safest thing in the world to have drunk people up on the roof, but it's not completely hazardous," he said.

For Book World, getting their parties broken up is becoming an annual event. "It's tradition," the former resident said. "Every year Book World throws a party and it gets busted by the Master." Now, Adam Miller (CC '96) is one of the nine residents of Book World. He remembers last year's party, but, in light of the appointment of a new dean in Calhoun, he said he and his roommates are ready to continue the tradition. The tradition of throwing parties, that is. Not the one of having them broken up. li1J

Wmdelyn Piur is a junior in Timothy Dwight Colkge.

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THE NEW jOURNAL

7

Voice of the Chesapeake Jess Row

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etween the dark span of the Atlantic Ocean and the shallow waters of the Chesapeake Bay lies a narrow strip of land known tp Marylanders as the Eastern Shore. It is a land of cornfields fringed by fishing villages and resort towns, isolated by 30. miles of water and three centuries of history from the ~rban sprawl across the Bay. For the acclaimed writer Christopher Tilghman (TC '68), it ~ is home ground, a place filled with family history and childhood memories, and the source of the values that inspire his work.

"My stories have always been filled with a keen sense of place," Tilghman says, speaking over the phone from his home outside Boston, "with people who are attached to land, to nature, and to their families." This sense of history and tradition led critics to hail In a Father's Place, Tilghman's first collection of stories, as one of the most distinctive and unusual books of 1990. Michiko Kakutani (SM '76) of the New York Times wrote, "Many of Tilghman's people come to see their lives not only in terms of their immediate families, but also in terms of generations within the arc of history. " The importance of personal history in his work, Tilghman says, is rooted in his own experience.

The Tilghman family has lived on the Eastern Shore since 1650, when a surgeon named Richard Tilghman came to Maryland to escape the English Civil War. "The governor of Maryland gave him a grant of land by the Chester River," Tilghman says. "Our family place is on that same land." By Tilghman's childhood in the 50s, most of the family had moved away from the farm. His father chose to continue the family tradition on the Shore, running the family farm during the summer while working as a publisher in Boston for the rest of the year. Tilghman spent his summers in a decaying mansion filled with portraits of his ancestors and legends of family ghosts. When not working on the farm, he sailed the rivers and creeks of the Shore. " I got to see the different cultures of the Shore doseup," he says. "The kids I hung around with were the chil8

THE NEW JouRNAL

dren of farmhands , and we'd talk to the seine-hauler fishermen who worked on the river. " He sensed the age-old tensions of the Shore-between black and white, rich and poor, watermen and farmers. In his story "On the Rivershore," he wrote about the murder of a Shore fisherman by a farmer, and an aging landowner who tries to resolve the dispute. "I never witnessed any such dramatic event," he says, "but a child absorbs a lot from the attitudes of people around him." Over time, he became an accomplished sailor and grew to love the water. In his stories, even when he changes names of places on the Shore, he never

'1 realized I wanted to write about people:~ not vast theoretical constructs.

Fiction is not a product ofthe intellect. :1:1

alters the details of the waterways. " I remember them too well," he says. "Those rivers were as much a home to me as the land was."

Yet Tilghman has always been a visitor to the Eastern Shore, part of the first generation of }:lis family that has never lived there. For a time, he forgot his roots. "All through my early years as a writer," he says, "I had no idea of the effect the Eastern Shore had on me." Rediscovering the bonds of family and land brought him to write the stories of In a Fathers Place. In many ways, he was returning home.

T

ilghman began his writing career a thousand miles from Maryland, on a Navy supply ship in the Atlantic. He had been drafted during his senior year at Yale, and became a navigator for the Navy three months after graduation. At sea, he wrote "volumes" in his journal-"most of it enraged," he says-and decided to write OCTOBER 15, 1993

fiction when he was discharged. He had done some writing as a child and in high school, but at Yale he was more interested in music. Being at sea for nearly three years changed his perspective. In his story "Norfolk, 1969," he wrote about a young sailor who comes to love the sea despite his disgust for the military. "The farther the jupiter plowed toward the center of the ocean, the more an elemental soul asserted itself, swells of time, growing over a million square miles," he wrote. "None of the anguishes of that age, none of the compromises that had been forced upon him, none of the political confusions in his head, mattered anymore."

In the story, his love for the sea drives a wedge between the sailor and his pacifist wife, who finally leaves him when he is away. "I wasn't in that situation exactly," T ilghman says, "but the conflict was the same-between my political feelings and the majesty of the sea." Like the sailor in his story, he found something timeless and transcendent in his experience on the ocean. He began writing to capture that sense of wonder. "It's one of the greatest privileges of being a writer," he says, "to be able to spend your time dealing with these great mysteries, with this sense of astonishment at life."

Many years passed before Tilghman reached maturity as a writer and began to publish. "When I began writing in 1971," he says, "I had my head full of the French-the critical theory that I studied in college." His years at Yale came at an important juncture in modern literary criticism, when the theories of Levi-Strauss, Derrida, and the Marxist critics gained prominence. The new methodologies influenced his first efforts at a novel. "It was a wildly intellectual enterprise," he says, "and not any good at all." After working on the novel for six years, he abandoned it and turned to short fiction. He found his whole approach to writing changing.

"I realized I wanted to write about people, not vast theoretical constructs," he says. "Fiction is not a product of the

OCTOBER 15, 1993

intellect." According to Tilghman, fiction writers have to be "dumb"-they have to work from the heart and the gut instead of the brain. His stories became more personal, reflecting his own experiences as a sailor, as a ranch hand in Montana, and as a young husband and father. It was inevitable that he would eventually come to write about the Eastern Shore. "That was the turning point," he says, "when my writing-and in many ways my life--came full circle."

His current project is a novel, set on the Eastern Shore in the 30s. The novel began as a short story, but he found there was too much to say. "It calls on many of the experiences I' had as a child," he says. Working in a longer framework allows him to present a larger view of the culture of the Shore from different perspectives: watermen and farmers, whites and blacks. "I feel like a kid in a candy store," he says about writing the novel. "It's really given me a chance to get back to the things I'm closest to." n the end, it seems enti rely fitting that writing has brought Tilghman to appreciate his own background and his own history. "Writing for me has always been a process of exploration," he says. "You put down everything you know and try to discover some connection, some explanation for why things happen." The search for understanding takes place in many of his stories-a sailor finding consolation for his loneliness in the ocean, a young man returning to his family ranch to try to understand his parents.

One reviewer called the search "the desire of his characters to reckon with their lives as a whole." In Tilghman's view, it is the most important thing anyone can do. "We have to explore these things," he says. "It's the only way we'll ever understand just what we're doing here." .-J

I

jess Row is a freshperson in Trumbull College.

THE NEW jOURNAL

9

Yale's Orphaned Art Kate Schuler

s

The Women's Table joins Yale collection ofpublic art.

0

n October 1, hundreds of students, faculty, and alumni gathered to celebrate the dedication of what Yale President Richard Levin (GRD '74) called "a beautiful vision and remarkable artistic achievement."

The Women's Table, a sculpture by Maya Y. Lin (SY '81, ARC '86) celebrating the contributions of women at Yale, was unveiled in front of Sterling Memorial Library. President Levin, former President Benno C. Schmidt, Jr. (TC '63, LAW '66), and Provost Judith Rodin (GRD '79) spoke, and Whim'n Rhythm sang at the ceremony. With such fanfare surrounding its installation, and the disruptions caused by its construction, the sculpture has caught the attention of the entire Yale campus.

The Womens Table, a 32-ton granite sculpture and fountain, celebrates the role of women at Yale. Digits engraved in the circular granite surface catalogue the number of women matriculating at Yale each year since the school's founding. The dates begin in 1701 and stop at 1993; future numbers will not be added. In a few years, or even a few months, when the fanfare and the hype die down, when the name of the artist and the tide of her work are forgotten, when its meaning is no longer publicly exalted, what will become of this multi-million dollar project?

Rodin, addressing the issue of the possible treatment of the sculpture said, "I think people will recognize the meaning of this, the welcoming and inclusive nature of the sculpture and walkways. I hope people will treat it kindly and reverentially."

If the treatment of many past acquisitions is any indicaro THE NÂŁw JouRNAL

tion of the fate of Maya Lin's work, the piece will need more than just Rodin's hopes and assurances. Before the Lin sculpture was unveiled, there were rumors of plans for beer slides atop the installation, and one student predicted The Womens Table would become a "big student birdbath. " Such treatment would follow consistently Yale's tradition of disrespect and apathy towards its public art.

Claes Oldenburg (SM '50) intended his sculpture, Lipstick on Caterpillar Tracks, to draw controversy. One of the more prominent works on campus, it has garnered the attention of students since its installation in 1969. The occasion drew a crowd of over a thousand onto Beinecke Plaza. Oldenburg and a group of students who had helped commission the sculpture hoped the piece would act as a rallying point and gathering place. The artist originally intended the lipstick to be inflatable so that students could raise it during important events or to announce a speech.

Although the original vision did not succeed (structural problems demanded that the vinyl and wood be replaced by steel, aluminum, and fiberglass), students found many uses for the giant landmark. In the turbulent years of the late 60s and early 70s, the lipstick served as a podium and kiosk for radical groups like Students for a Democratic Society. Zero Population Growth sheathed the lipstick with a huge plastic bag, and opponents of the piece reportedly tried to pour lye on it to quicken its deterioration. Since the lipstick's relocation to Morse College, students have found less radical uses for the sculpture; it has become more a joke and catalyst for pranks than anything else. Nevertheless, history of art professor Vincent Scully OE '40) interprets the postering and graffiti on the Oldenburg sculpture as congruous with the original purpose. He exalts the sculpture as "a functioning work of art." Citing the Oldenburg sculpture as an example of a work intended to incite reaction, he explains. "Art is always for a response. The lipstick extracts a reaction; myths are built around it." The Women's Table differs in style and intent and, therefore, according to Scully, will differ in its role on campus. "The lipstick is very approachable. The Maya Lin piece is a different style, a different type of work altogether."

The fate and condition of these and other works of public art on campus relies on the judgment of students and administrators. "The way public art is kept up is a reflection of the way people feel about it," says Scully. "If they like it they will respect it; if they hate it they'll trash it."

OCTOBER 15, 1993

This sentiment does not account for apathy towards the works, which is probably more common than real emotion either way. The kind of treatment most sculptures receive is not motivated by politics or an attempt to make a statement about the nature of the artwork itself. Rather, sculpture at Yale often goes unnoticed, ignored, or at most used for private intentions and pranks.

Susan Frankenbach, registrar of the Yale University Art Gallery, commented that public sculpture is for use by the community "as long as the integrity of the object is upheld."

Some recent acts have overstepped this boundary. About three years ago, a group of students wrapped a sheet around the head of a Henry Moore bronze statue in the gallery's sculpture garden and then set it on fire. Last spring, students climbed plowed piles of snow on Beinecke Plaza to reach the blades of Alexander Calder's stabile Gallows and Lollipops and used masking tape to form the initials of their

"The way public art is kept up is a reflection ofthe way people feel about it. Ifthey like it they will respect it; if they hate they'll trash it. " singing group. While these may seem like minor and harmless pranks, such acts may permanently damage already fragile works of art.

Mark Aronson, an an conservator at the gallery who removed the masking tape from the Calder stable, explained that removing the tape removed some of the pigment as well. Outlines of the initials remained, especially where blue pigment was used. It is not a simple matter to repair or paint over the damage. Certain ethics come into play when restoring damaged works. Since original brushstrokes cannot be replicated and the exact pigment cannot be matched, the conservator must weigh the value of preserving as much of the original work as possible versus ensuring its longevity.

The Calder has not yet been repaired; officials are investigating the cost of repair and trying to decide whether or not to replace the original matte sheen of the stabile with a more durable gloss finish. While these issues may not seem vital to the everyday workings of the university, they do involve a financial, as well as aesthetic, accounting; vandalism greatly diminishes the work's value. As Frankenbach said, a damaged work is "only a shadow of its former self."

The Calder stabile, installed in 1960, was already in delicate condition before last year's incident. Aronson said, "The damage placed further stress on an already fragile 0crOBER 15, 1993

piece." He explained that the university was looking into repairs not simply to flX the damage from the masking tape, but also to remedy long-term deterioration of the piece that the investigation uncovered, deterioration caused by environmental conditions and normal wear and tear.

Any outdoor sculpture is destined to be worn and weathered and will need repairs on a regular basis. Yet Yale makes no provision for periodic maintenance checks on the condition of the outdoor collection; subtle damage often goes unseen. Frankenbach says the art gallery must "rely on other people to be our eyes"-that is, Yale assumes others will report any damage. Aronson acknowledges that the sculptures should be washed once or rwice a year and the bronzes should be waxed annually; the gallery, however, lacks the staff and funds to regularly maintain the collection. ncidents such as the damage to the Calder stabile clearly indicate that art around campus does not always receive the respectful treatment it would command if it were not located in a gallery. Gallery security supervisor Lynn Fitzgerald commented that outright malice has not caused damage to any of the works recently, but rather the carelessness of"students who weren't thinking."

While the art gallery and university administrators have legitimate complaints when they bemoan the lack of concern for art on campus, they seem co take a passive role in the outdoor sculptures' welfare. There are no labels or placards on the sculptures to help students identify the artists or interpret the work. While the university seems to have made an effort to bring the works of great artists to campus,

I

Th~

Cakkr stabik installation draws glanus .from pass~nby.

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it does litde to further enhance their presence and introduce the students to the artistic meaning a n d historical value of the works.

The vandalism of the Calder and Moore sculptures received minimal publicity. The stud ents who damaged th e Calder were o nly mildly reprimanded and made to pay a few hundred dollars for the removal of th e tape, not the thousands it m ay cost to actually repair the work. The vandalism of the Moore sculpture was not even investigated. Dean Trachtenberg asserted that such behavior falls under t h e "Theft and Willful Property Damage" clause of the Untkrgraduat~ &gulatiom, but Fitzgerald stated that "there are no specific security measures to safegua rd the work on campus, because so far we've been lucky and most damage has been minimal."

After the Calder incident last year, Fitzgerald asked that a statement be issued to call students' attention to the art around campus. Marie Welnien, the art gallery's public relations coordinator, drafted a statement chat outside works are "no less valued works of art. Posting of notices is not only disrespectful and may cause damage, but is vandalism. " The statement was n ever published. Neither the Yale Co llege Dean's office nor the Art Gallery could offer an explanation as to why it did not appear in the Untkrgraduau R~gulations as intend-

ed.

With all the fanfare surrounding Maya Lin's Th~ Womms Tab/~, it is hard to imagine that its installation might be the last time anyone wi ll seriously consider its purpose and placement on campus. The 32-ton granite structure will surely endure the physical challenges Yale students and the New England climate present.

Perhaps Th~ WOman Tabk w ill be as durable in student minds as well. 1811

s

/Vlu Schukr is a sophomo" in Saybrook Co/kg~.

OCTOBER IS, 1993

Guitar Man Caroline Kim Kansas City. h~r~ I com~ Kansas City. h~" I com~ They got th~ P"tti~st little womm th~" And Pm gonna g~t m~ on~ Well, I'll b~ standing on th~ corn~r Of12th Stre~t and Of 12th Street and

Vin~ Vin~

With my Kansas City woman And I'll hav~ a 12th Str~~t jug ofwin~...

And iflm gonna g~t th~r~. lm gonna g~t th~r~ just th~ sam~ 'caus~ lm going to Kansas City Kansas City. h~" I com~ Kansas City. hn-~ I com~. uitar Man stands by the Co-op, baseball cap backwards, instrument in hand, and his case wide open on the ground, welcoming donations.

"Hey Cliff!" someone waves.

Without skipping a beat he bids a good afternoon and goes right on singing "Kansas City Baby." Students often say they never hear him play anything else.

C lifford H. Byrd, born and raised in New Haven, is a familiar face on Broadway. I often hear students mention the Guitar Man in dining hall conversations: "Who is he?" people ask, "I've always wanted to talk to that man." "He's the only guy on the street I give money to." All seem to agree that he's different from the others that frequent the sidewalk.

He has a certain energy about him.

G

Wt!l~

I'll b~ standing on

Of12th sm~t and Vin~ Of12th sm~t and Vin~

They only let me see her twice a week, and when she sees me that gives her hope to live... it keeps her strong." H e points to h is guitar. "Right now, that's my only way."

"I've heard you give guitar lessons," I say.

"I sure do. Don't have anyone at the moment, but if you know anyone.... I need the money to go see my girl. She's a beautiful, lovely flower.. .I love her." Cliff pauses. "When she gets out we're gonna be married." H e tilts his head to the side and talks about her for a while. "I got her off drugs.

She'd been busted fo r drugs and escaped, but she's straight now. She's gonn a be OK. You know what? I put her there .. .I busted my own lady for her own good , because I seen her running out of motivation. When she comes home I'll keep her away from that old environment... she's had her ups and downs but she'll be OK; she's into the Lord now."

"You believe in God?" I ask.

Cliff breaks into a ten minute speech about the Lord Jesus and God's everlasting Grace and forgiveness. H e plays piano at church every Sunday and reads the Bible n early every day. I ask him where he finds his

th~ cornn-

"Sure I'll help you with the article," he says as he leans on a newspaper dispenser. "Some brother wanted to write a book about my life once.... You know what I can do for you?

You want to write a book? Honey, can I tell you stories.... " I smell alcohol on his breath.

"You see, tomorrow's Friday and I have to work real hard so I can make enough money for a ticket and cab to go see my girl. If you can spare anything, I really need it. She's in prison, and she needs me.

OCTOBER 15, 1993 -- .::;>-~

faith. you see that tree over there?

Man can make a lot of things, but no matter what, he can't make a living, breathing tree, and man can't create those stars and th e moon. He can only make a replica. So I know.

I may be smokin' t h i s "'"'~')

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I can be a millionaire tomorrow with my g u itar. Eve ryone here's got a chance."

"You really believe that?" I ask with some skepticism.

"You have to help yourself- that's all it takes. I mean, look at you and me, we can write that book." I laugh.

"That's why all the nationalities come around h ere .... But I'm a realist, the white man is running this country. You should k now it," he waves his hand towards me. "They're using your people as a trade country." I'm KoreanAmerican. "They know you guys are makin' the dollars .. .I don't have to go to Yale to k now that. America needs that trade... that's why they're being so sweet and kind. Otherwise, they wouldn't have time for you, as they don't have for some in this country that need ·help. There's a lot of people here that need help and don't get it."

that ain't cool. But I've been there," h e says. "I almost d ied off of drugs .... My heart was going 'BOOM BOOM BOOM,' and my head felt like a pumpkin, and I said, 'Yo buddy, something ain't righ t. This stuf(js killing me."' Cliff feels that God gave h im anoth er chance to live. "We all got a right to live, but if you th row it away, then consider it thrown."

He tells me he was on coke. "At the time I thought that was really happenin'," he drawls. "I was young .. .! did n't care about dying ... ! wanted guns.. .l wanted money.... T hank God I didn't kill no one. I've never killed anyone. When I ·was in Vietnam I didn't kill no one either. I'm a Vietnam vet you know, honest co God. ''I'm not a hoodlum like some of my brothers, God bless them. I see my With my Kansas City woman brothers on the street with ten d ollars And I'll have a 12th Street to rush to get a fix." H e says he's differ- jug ofwine... ent and wants people to see it. H e says And ifFm gonna get there, he's not a beggar, just a man trying co lm gonna get there just the same make a living with his guitar." 'cause lm going to Kansas City I ask him how he started playing the guitar: he explains that niusic was his first love. As a boy he would listen CC H i Cliff. " Two students come by. "I've got someto his grandfather play gospel musicand the blues, when his grandmother thing for you." One of wasn't listening. C liff has loved music them hands him a five dollar bill. ever since. God gave him a gift, he says,_ "H ey, you know, I got a song for the gift to play any instrument. He's a you tonight," he says and breaks into self-taught guitarist with perfect pitch the bl ues . H e cracks a few jokes in and a photographic memory. ''I'm not between refrains a'nd his audience of bragging," he insists. "It's something two laughs good naturedly. Mter the God gave me." song he asks if we enjoyed it.

Cliff says he's never had to "beck"Very much," one of the students on down to white supremacy." "I'm reply. not in college, but I know what that is.

"Then that made me enjoy it too," I'm an American black man, and thank he bows.

After they leave he turns to me. "I God I'm not in Africa with them lions.

I stand on my own, and that's my way. love them. God bless them. Not "I respect myself so others can because he gave me five dollars," C liff respect me too, and if you treat others insists. "Because he's a human being. It like you want them to treat you, then doesn't matter what color you are, we're nothing goes wrong. I love what I do.... all b rothers and sisters under God. OCTOBER 15, 1993

Without God in your soul, you're among the living dead." vidently, I'm not the first student to approach him. Some upperclassmen know him and even play guitar with him on occasion. Cliff tells me he's seen students come and go after years at Yale.

"My friend in Switzerland wrote me a letter and says when he come back he'll buy me chicken, because he knows I love chicken." Cliff has a

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throaty laugh. "That made me feel good. You know why? 'cause he knows , me.

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Kansas City, here I come. it gets dark, I shiver and notice the evening chill. With a handhake and a friendly smile, Cliff and I part company.

"See you around," he says. Walking away, I begin to wonder what exactly it means to know someone. How many people know Cliff as more than just Guitar Man, as more than just the indigenous figure on the Broadway sidewalk?

How many imagine that the Guitar Man in front of the Co-op with a cigarette dangling from his mouth could also be a political commentator, a self-rehabilitated anti-drug activist, and a God-fearing advocate of the Golden Rule? Everyone's got a story.

Sometimes, all it takes to find out is a willingness to look deeper than an open guitar case.

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15

Shadow Boxing joshua Auerbach

0

n the outskirts of rhe city, in a dingy second-story room, three friends dress for battle in the late summer heat. Red padding covers heads and groins, and gloves slide over carefully raped fists. Smiles turn to scowls. In one month, these three will be fighting for state championships in separate weight classes. Today, under the watchful eye of their trainer, theY. will rake turns pummeling each other.

This second-floor room is the home of Ring One, New Haven's one and only boxing gym. The trainer, 34-year-old Brian Clarke, is at the moment standing amidst the combatants, lacing their gloves. He could hardly look more out of place. Brian's got long blond hair and the chiseled features of a Last Action Hero. It's only when he speaks, something he is known ro do for hours on e·nd, that his boxing expertise and his deep commitment to his fighters surface. Brian is part inner-city activist, parr boxing coach. The activist Brian will talk passionately about "keeping kids off the street" and how boxing can give kids the discipline to succeed. Then the coach Brian will reemerge, grinning. "I can train a kid," he'll say, so emphatically that you can't help but think his kids are in awfully good hands.

Brian's three proteges are Willie Medina, 26, the gym's most experienced and respected fighter; Damon Harris, 18, a recent Wilbur Cross High School graduate who has been boxing for three months; and Pedro Carmona, 21, a young man who has begun to turn his life around with dreams of professional boxing. None of them looks particularly friendly right now. Willie and Damon are limbering up in the ring, which is really nothing more than a thin floor mat, ring posts, and rope-all patched together with duct-tape. Willie and Damon will box for two rounds, followed by Willie and Pedro, then Damon and Pedro.

With three urgent blasts from a buzzer, Willie and Damon face each other, knees bem, gloves raised. Everyone else in the gym, ten or so men and boys working at punching bags, turn their attention to the ring. "Box!" Brian commands, and the fists start flying. Two sounds can be heard: the whoosh of exhaled breath and the thud of fists hitting bodies and fists hitting heads. From the outset, Willie controls the action, landing punches with tremendous power. "Willie, throw that hook in there," Brian directs from outside the ring. "OK," Willie responds coolly, deftly mixing the punch into his barrage.

Damon, meanwhile, who's faster than Willie, tries to use his speed to his advantage. Damon's got the right game plan, but Willie is too strong and experienced.

The buzzer ends the round. Damon looks relieved. By 16 THE NEw JouRNAL

the ropes he confers with Brian, who tells him th at h approaching Willie at the same angle every rime he tries throw a punch. The coach is energetic bur nor frenetic. • muscles, still impressive after 12 years of retirement from fi~ ing, bufge out of a paintspattered, black-andgold Ring One T-shirt.

H e's trying to show Damon how to mix up his repertoire, throwing punches in the air as he talks.

In the next moment, Brian's hand is on Damon's shoulder, reassuring. The buzzer sounds again, and Damon heads back into the middle of the ring fo r his,______. . .;. second round Brian Clarke (for right), owner ofNew with Willie. his stable offighters.

Leaning on the top rope, Brian watches the round unfold. content. The coach thrives on days like these, when his box knowledge and his teaching skills are put to the test. I vision, and his ability to convey that vision, make the di8 ence between a productive and an unproductive sessi1 between victory and defeat.

Sometimes these days are few and far between. · ng One Boxing is located on the second floor of a !1' tory cinderblock structure, down an easy-to-miss~ I driveway that runs along the back lot of A-1 To}~ The first floor of the buildi()g is Nino's Auto Body Shop, so driveway is strewn with corroding European autos. FroJTI outside, the only evidence of life on the second floor is a OCTOBER 15, 1993

low, handpainted Ring One sign and the occasional sound of Brian's buzzer, blaring insistently through the windows. Go up the staircase. When the smell of sweat begins to overpower the smell of automobiles, you'll know you've arrived.

Visiting Ring One for the first time early in the summer, before Damon and Pedro have ever set foot in the gym, I don't find any sparring going on.

Brian walks over to me, and an incredibly enthusiastic, impassioned monologue begins.

"The idea of the program is to keep kids off the street," he __,.....----l says. As the coach talks, he reinforces his meaning with shadowboxing gestures. He ...,.........._..... smiles his cocky, matinee-idol grin and then grows serious again, explaining how he emphasizes the importance of education to all his kids and how boxing can be an integral part of that education.

"Boxing teaches these kids selfsufficiency," he says. "You get rwo kinds of kids with boxing, scared kids and kids who think they're bad-asses. The scared d"f One Boxing, stands proudly by kid is going to get some confidence. The bad-ass is going to get knocked out and learn he's a> not so tough." >X I'm standing there punchdrunk, overwhelmed by the flurry I of cliches. I feel as if I've heard it all before. Politicia[ls talking iB about keeping kids off.Jhe street. Big-time college football ;it COaches talking about putting education first. Brian sounds sincere, but in these first few moments I'm skeptical. The next time I hear the cliches, I won't be. I'll realize that Ring One is, in many ways, itself a cliche-the dingy, sweat-stained ring, the !I Young fighters clinging to their dreams, the charismatic coach rJ

1

; : ; __ __ . . J

who can't stop talking. And then I'll realize that here, unlike any other place I've visited, the cliches are all real.

What convinces me is a visit to the back corner of the gym, a tiny area set off with blue tarpaulins where Brian says he's got a scrapbook that he wants to show me. Inside these blue tarpaulins, along with the scrapbook and assorted other memorabilia, is something I don't expect to see: a bed. This tiny corner of the gym is where Brian sleeps. "lfl the winter I can see my breath at night," he says.

0

pening Brian's scrapbook like opening a floodgate.

Brian's stories pour out, one after another, at a relentless, exuberant pace. The stories revolve around a set cast of characters. None of them trains at Ring One anymore, but they remain presences in the gym. They are the ones whose names are written on fight posters or directly onto the walls under words like "State Champion." The older men in the gym, at the mention of their names, will nod and smile. Brian, a gifted yarn-spinner, can conjure them all up, re-creating the way they talked and the way they carried themselves in the ring.

Many of Brian's stories center on Kareem Wali, 15 years old when he fought for Ring One. Even at that age, Brian says, Kareem showed more talent than any other fighter who has set foot in Ring One. Brian says he altered Kareem's birth certificate so that he could fight older boys when his peers no longer presented a challenge. "Kareem firmly believed that he was never going to lose," the coach says.

Kareem's confidence disintegrated in one night, at the New England Golden Gloves in Holyoke, Massachusetts. Kareem was fighting in the finals against a local kid with an amazing left hook who everyone thought was unbeatable. On fight night, Kareem performed beautifully, dominating the local kid and even swaying the hometown crowd. Then, inexplicably, the judges gave the fight to the local kid. Kareem broke down.

"There was a lot of shit going on in the ring, so I told my other fighters to take Reemy down to the locker room," Brian says.

"When I got down there a few minutes later, he wasn't around.

I found my kid crying in a bathroom stall."

After the Golden Gloves it became an impossibility to keep Kareem focused on boxing. "He pulled out of eight fights in a row," Brian says. "I used to chase him all around New Haven." '

''~u get

two kinds ofkids with boxing, scared kids and kids who think they're Brian has no bad-asses. '' illusions about

The two quarreled, and, eventually, the coach threw Kareem out of the gym. He wasn't committed to being a fighter anymore. Kareem still calls Brian to say he wants to get back into the sport. The coach has al~wed Kareem back into the gym on several occasions. Each time, though , Kareem has failed to follow through.

With lightning quickness, the subject turns to Reggie Higgins, Brian's closest approach to training a pro. "Reggie was the first fighter that I developed from scratch," Brian says.

"He was my fighter. And if a kid's your fighter, then no matter where he goes he's still your fighter." Boxing coaches like to see their athletes as works of art which only they can complete. Reggie was Brian's first creation.

Almost as soon as Reggie sec foot in Ring One, he and Brian became inseparable. They trained together, hung out together, and celebrated victory after victo ry together. Brian recalls post-fight revelry almost as vividly as he recalls the fights themselves.

At 25, Reggie began to catch the eyes of professional boxing promoters.

One by one, with practiced smiles and dazzling promises, they came, each with his own bit of advice for Brian's fighter. "I was losing the grip," Brian says. Increasingly, Reggie insisted on doing things his own way.

It was not until Reggie did the unthinkable that Brian and Reggie's relationship fell apart: Reggie sparred at another gym. "You just don't do that," the coach explains. It's a betrayal that still smarts, even after two years. "I would rather have my girlfriend fucki ng someone else. There are plenty of other women out there, but how many great fighters?" Reggie never did go pro. After leaving Ring One, he was never the same fighter.

18 THÂŁ New JouRNAL

puc, relying on membership dues ($20 per month for adults, $10 for kids; professional boxkids with a B-average or better in school train for free) and whatever he ing. It's a grimy world, in which a handful of extraordican scrape together from his day job at narily talented fighters get fame and a health food store.

Brian has probably thought harder fabulous wealth while the vast majority toil in obscurity and near poverty. about the mind set of inner-city kids Still, Brian dreams. "I thought for than any ocher community activist or sure Reggie would go pro. But I want educator in New Haven. "It's a lesson pros chat I developed. If a great fight-.. in psychology up here every day," he er walked in here tonight from another says. The coach claims that he can tell gym, I'd send him away." exactly what a kid is chinking by the way he moves in the gym. Brian tells a he scrapbook closes. Sitting story about one of h is favorite little inside the blue carps in a nearkids, a 14-year-old named Rolando, empty gym on this early sum- who he surmised was being beaten at mer day, Brian is as far from training a home by the way he reacted to Brian's professional fighter as he has ever demonstration of punching technique.

Every time Brian would move his fist been.

Brian thinks that if he could move in Rolando's direction, the kid would the gym into the Hili section of New shrink, as if he were anticipating being Haven, he could have more fighters hie. Rolando ended up staying at Ring like Reggie and Kareem. It's easy to One for several days, with Brian, until see why. Both of them, like...----------....---.------=-----.--~ the majority of Ring One kids, live on the Hill. It's one of New Haven's most deprived neighborhoods, a place presumably full of young men who would be drawn to the "poor man's sport" of boxing. Brian has tried to enlist the city's help to move the gym, but he's run into nothing but red tape. Politician's rhetoric, unlike Brian's, packs no punch. None of the politicians goes home to a smelly, dingy gym on the outskirts of town.

With a mere $10,000 grant, Brian estimates, he could move to the Hill and run a program for 30 kids for a year. "What the fuck do you think you're getting here? You're getting kids that you're at risk of losing," the coach says. For the time .___:.:___:..j--.1_-J:. being, the coach has to stay

T

OCTOBER 15, 1993

'â&#x20AC;˘

A Fascinating Excursion into the Orient is only minutes away at the

his family situation calmed down.

Brian's compassion for inner-city kids does not extend to white kids from suburbia. A white fighter can find a home in Ring One, but he is going to have to work extra hard to do so. "White guys are much less likely to hang around," he says. "They usually come for the wrong reasons. They want to be tough guys."

Somehow, though, I don't find it incon gruous when Brian tells me that he grew up in an upper-middle class home in Orange, a prosperous New Haven suburb. "I was a fuck-up in high school," he says. "If it weren't for boxing, I'd still be a fuck-up. It's easy for me." Brian was a classic suburban underachiever, a kid whose IQ tests indicated he should be at the top of his class, but who for whatever reason preferred the bottom. After graduation, Brian joined the Navy, where, as a 20year-old sailor, he learned how to box.

In spite of Ring One's continually dire financial situation, in spite of its present dearth of good fighters, Brian exudes the calm optimism of someone who has survived times of true desperation. "Everything changes," he says.

"Two years ago I had Reggie and those guys. Last year, I had a bunch of little kids." Brian pauses. He seems almost . overwhelmed by the parade of faces that has passed through the gym.

Then the parade stops. There's one name he's forgotten, one face whose presence at the gym he has, perhaps, taken for granted at times. "And Willie," he says. "I always have Willie."

W

llie Medina is 5' 10" and 150 pounds. His body is taut, perfectly honed for giving and receiving blows. There are no unnecessary bulges. When Willie boxes, his eyes burst open and gaze furiously on his opponent. Willie's boxing technique, developed carefully over ten years of training, is as intimidating as his appearance. It's so good, OCTOBER 15, 1993

in fact, that when middle.class kids call Ring One asking for private lessons, Brian usually asks Willie to do the job.

Talking to Willie is not nearly so intimidating as fighting him.

Articu late and disarmingly earnest, Willie grew up with all the odds stacked against him. He has lived his entire life in public-housing projects in Stratford, watching his mother work multiple jobs to support the family and his brother struggle with drug addiction. He credits boxing with giving him the discipline to stay clean.

Now Willie wants to become a police officer or a firefighter, and he is pursuing these goals with determination.

Willie works 9 to 5 delivering auto parts. At night he takes courses at Housatonic Community College, where he has almost completed a degree in Criminal Justice, and he volunteers as an Emergency Medical Techn ician. Still, the job search has been frustrating. ''I'm taking so many tests, but nothing's working out, " he says. "Just yesterday I cook one at a fire station in Cheshire. I figure if I'm persistent something's going to happen."

At Ring One, Willie is a role model. He's constantly being called upon for advice and inspiration.

Willie is the only person in the gym whom I ever saw interrupt Brian's coaching in order to interject his own bit ,of expertise. "There's no human being that I know that works as hard as this kid, " Brian says. " If I had a company I'd hire Willie in a minure." n the second round, Willie continues to frustrate and punish Damon. The younger, smaller, less experienced fighter is exhausted. At the sound of the buzzer, he stumbles out of the ring, downcast and exhausted. Brian tries to lift his spirits.

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"What are you so discouraged about?" the coach asks. Damon mutters something I can't hear and then eases himself down onto the gym's sweatstained, green linoleum floor. eanwhile, Brian has turned his attention to the next pairing in the round robin.

no one at Ring One speaks of specifically. "Let's just say Pedro had three cars and a motorcycle when he started coming in here," Brian says. Whereas Pedro used to deal in the streets until early morning, he's now home at 10 every night. At 21, Pedro's got a wife and two kids, ages four and one, and since he started boxing he says he's

"OK Pedro," the coach barks. "Let's get ready to rumble." Brian has been looking forward to this all day. ·For th e next two rounds, Brian's best, most experienced fighter, Willie, will stand toe-to-toe with Pedro, the kid Brian calls "my next potential big-time."

Pedro Carmona walked into Ring One for the first time two months ago, and he's been at the gym almost every day since. Brian thinks that with two years of steady work, Pedro could turn pro. Introducing me to the new kid, Brian says, "He's got a key ingredient.''

The coach then hands me a big yellow pad to wear over my hand and instructs Pedro to throw a punch. A right jab, Pedro's key ingredient, lands in my hand with the force of a flying brick.

The dream of pro boxing lured Pedro off the streets, where he was doing something quite profitable that

been much more attentive to them.

On the day that I met him, he had just gotten a new job delivering pizza for $6 an hour-a far cry, he implies, from what he used to earn on the streets. H e seems to think that this new path might be his best chance to extricate himself from the grip of his neighborhood. "Me and my wife," he says, "we just want to get out."

In the ring, Willie and Pedro are slugging it out. Similar in size and build, neither one wants to back off.

But Willie is increasingly getting the better of the exchanges. Brian looks frustrated. "Use the jab, Pedro!" he commands. A few seconds later the coach curns to me and says, "Since I told him to use the jab he landed three out of the four punches he threw."

Pedro, however, soon reverts to what he was doing before, relying on a onepunch offense rather than combina-

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OcrosER 15, 1993

tions. And he's looking sluggish.

Willie lands a nasty body shot, and Pedro groans. Willie, done for the evening, ducks out between the third and fourth ropes, and Damon, still tired from his earlier rounds, ducks in.

The last two rounds of the evening, between an exhausted Damon and a sluggish Pedro, are not much to watch.

At one point, Brian, a hint of anger in his voice, says, "Gettin' ugly, guys."

Brian once told me that on occasion he will make fighters w h o are not performing stay in the ring, boxing r~und after endless round, until they show him what he wants to see. I wonder if Damon and Pedro know the threat that could be implied in "gettin' ugly."

When it's all over, Damon is left in the ring, on hands and knees, holding his head over a bucket through the ropes.

Pedro staggers out of the ring and is immediately berated by Willie. "You wanna turn pro?" Willie shouts. "You gotta hurt. It's gonna be your job buddy, your job." rian is quick to downplay his own boxing career. "I wasn't great," he says. " I didn't have the right mental attitude. I always shortchanged myself." Years of underachieving proved a hindrance. He always had a sense, he says, that someday things would go awry, that someday he would lose. Nonetheless, while still in the Navy, he managed to win the Southern New England Golden Gloves.

Back in civilian life at the age of 22, Brian began to train at the old Ring One in Hamden. Then something happened: "I lost a fight, and I quit like an asshole." It was a fight he should have won. He acrually knocked the guy down in the first round. "I beat myself," he says. Brian never stepped into the ring, as a fighter, again.

That last fight is Brian's least favorite topic of all, and he steers the conversation back to Kareem, the kid who got robbed at the Golden Gloves in Holyoke and then never boxed

B

0CTOB£R IS, 1993

again. Brian doesn't want to see Kaceem make the same mistake that he did. "If Kareem steps back in the ring again it doesn't ruin him. But by putting that obstacle in front of himself- it's going to be there for life."

As a trainer, then, Brian puts regret for his past into action. "I tell these guys, 'There's not a mistake that you can make that I haven't made. If you make it out of here with an education, then I haven't wasted my time."'

But training figh ters is also a personal mission. The competitive fire still burns. He wants more Golden G loves, more State Championships, and eventually he wants to train a professional fighter. "I let things stop me before," he says. "I'm not letting anything stop me from this." t's late. The sparring has been over for nearly an hour, and Brian and I have been talking, or more accurately, Brian has been talking, the entire time. We've left the gym, walked down the stairs, and are now standing in the gravel driveway in front of Nino's Auto Body, bathed in pink evening light. Willie walks out the door and laughs when he hears the sound of Brian's voice. "Still going... " he jokes and then heads off to his car.

The gym is empty.

Suddenly, the sound of chirping crickets in the August night is overpowered. Brian's buzzer blasts urgently through the second-story window. It's the kind of sound you might hear on a Navy warship when all hands are needed pn deck. Maybe it reminds Brian of those days in the service when he first slipped on a pair of gloves.

Brian rums and walks back up the steps. Another round has come to an end.

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21

Is¡it Time?

Ben Lumpkin or many New Haven residents, John DeStefano's cam- is unsure whether she will make it to the polls this year. paign slogan reads like a cruel decree of fate. "It' s Time," the letters proclaim in red, white, and blue. lections in New Haven have become something of a The phrase presumably reflects DeStefano's determination funereal affair. They claim little of the optimism and to reverse the trend of almost unmitigated deterioration ¡ hope for ' regeneration that accompany elections in that has left New Haven in a shambles. For many residents other parts of this country. Some would even say the current of New Haven, however, the phrase simply means it is time mayoral election symbolizes the elusiveness of real change. to retire another ¡unsuccessful administration that has sucJohn DeStefano has no significant opposition, and yet he cumbed to the sheer difficulty of governing a city whose served as chief administrative officer for the DiLieto adminneeds vastly outnumber its resources. istration, whose corruption and trickle-down economics left According to the Connecticut Department of Labor, New Haven with a $12-million debt in 1989. "These guys unemployment in New Haven peaked at 7.3 percent in July are like ghosts," says local businessman Michael Rosenthal. of this year, up from an average of 6.6 percent for the whole He added, with a fatalism that afflicts many New Haven of 1990. More layoffs loom as Sc:IU'thern . voters, "That's basic big-city politics."

New England Telephone, dealing with Although the New Haven press the competitive challenges of utility has treated the election of DeStefano as a deregulation, has encouraged 3,600 ."done deal" since the primary, an underworkers to retire or face the possibility current of malaise runs through the city. of being fired. At a time when its resiDesperation and hopelessness tinge the <apathy,~ dents can least afford it, the city's prop"apathy" of New Haven's electorate. erty taxes have risen in a way that renDeStefano posters in downtown New ders the term "sky-rocket" inadequate.

Haven are outnumbered by a more mysNew Haven has witnessed a steady exoterious poster: a square painted the fluodus of its residents, with the population falling from rescent orange of road signs urging caution with a bold-face 164,443 in 1950 to 126,109 in 1980. The trend reversed question mark in the middle. These pessimistic placards itself slightly between 1980 and 1990. But, in the words of stare dauntingly from the windows of the city's vacant Board of Aldermen president Tomas Reyes, New Haven buildings. DeStefano promises the second-coming of residents faced with a crumbling city may begin to ask progress while people wonder if it is too late; if the "time" themselves, "What am I doing here?" has passed. "It's going to be a disaster," said city resident Jim It appears that many have already begun to question O 'Conner. "It doesn't matter who gets elected." whether anything can really be done to rejuvenate the city.

The apparent "apathy" of New Haven's electorate actuShawn Garris, assistant director of the Dixwell Community ally reflects something much more serious. The whole politHouse, said the majority of New Haven residents, especially ical process has stalled, as it fails to address people's concerns blacks and Latinos, feel apathetic "because of all the promis- in a direct and meaningful way. es on the part of past administrations that never came to fruition. " Voter turnout surged to nearly 60 percent in the he sped around New Haven in his snazzy, black 1989 election as twice as many black and Latino voters, galVolkswagen, with kids in tow and the theme song to vanized by the prospect of the city's first minority mayor, ocky piping out of the radio, Republican .c andidate Kevin Skiest epitomized the angry citizen taking things into showed up at the polls. Turnout is now back to the 1987 level of around 30 percent. It is especially low among his own hands. Searching for fed-up people who could be blacks, discouraged by the failure of Mayor John Daniels- inspired by the. same "insanity" that drove him to take on once regarded as their best advocate--to redeem City Hall. the system, Skiest found frustration coupled with resignaJulia Ficklin, an Mrican-American New Haven resi- tion, people who were angry, but withdrawn. "You've gotta dent, may have captured the fatalistic mood of this election be be crazy to want to be mayor of New Haven," one man when she said, ''I'm not pleased with DeStefano... but it's a exclaimed when a Skiest volunteer waved a pamphlet at done deal. I can't do anything." Ficklin, who usually votes, him.

F

E

Desperation and hopelessness tinge the of New Haven' s electorate.

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22

THE NEW Jou RNAL

OCTOBER 15, 1993

Observers like Skiest volunteer Frank Ragozinno sometimes reduce New Haven politics to the dry observation: "It's going to take us years to wake these people up." Yet t~e~e are those who are wide awake, just paralyzed with pessimism.

"By the time you get this far, you've sold your soul to the devil," said Fair Haven resident Susan Sapp of the repeated election of Democrat administrations. But when Skiest asked her to join him in a fight for change, she just averted h er eyes and grinned . "Why did you run as a Republican?" she asked Slciest. "It's the kiss of death."

The DeStefano campaign itself seems to have largely taken place in a vacuum. It somehow remains absurdly isolated from those most concerned with the issue of change. ''I'm not going to vote unless DeStefano says something," said a New Haven resident who gave his name as K.C. "It's a wait-and-see kind of thing."

As the Dixwell Q House's Garris observed, politics take on an almost surreal aspect in the city's ghettos. People continually hear about social programs designed to improve life in the inner city and yet, says Garris, their neighborhoods remain unchanged.

Skiest points to lack of political dialogue and debate as the reason City Hall appears to serve so few of the city's residents. "How can we expect to have accountable government when we don't even have an accountable preelection format?" Slciest asked, frustrated when DeStefano declined to debate him publicly.

The very separation of people from politics that doomed the Daniels' administration may help to usher D eStefano into office, Representative Bill Dyson (D-94) observed ironically. "If there is any indication of what to expect, part of the reason the past administration got voted out was for falling out of touch: a few people being able to extract whatever they wanted from the system, the rest be damned."

Mournfulness permeates the unnatural calm surrounding the current mayoral race. "On the whole I'm pessimistic. I think this race symbolizes the deterioration of New Haven politics," said Paul Bass, political commentator for the New Haven Advocate. an city government still actively engage the city and its problems? The answer to this question may lie in the person of DeStefano himself DeStefano readily acknowledges, "New Haven does nor have a lot of time left." He points to a lack of "political consensus" as the city's chief obstacle, and one that can be overcome. But the question of just what kind of political consensus he will establish remains troubling for many.

From the election ofRichard Lee in 1953 until the later years of the DiLieto administration in the 80s, the

C

OcroBER 15, 1993

New Haven awaits political and economic revival.

Democratic Party enjoyed the reputation of what Alderman Reyes calls "a monolithic power house." Consensus within the party was not a problem. Furthermore, prior to the late 80s, this party consensus seemed to reflect the electorate's priorities. Arthur Barbieri (BK '38), Democratic party chairman since 1953, recalls handily winning elections in which there was "70, 80 and 90 percent turn out."

When an acute fiscal crisis developed in the late 80s, however, the party's leadership came under fire. In the years leading up to Daniels' election, the party's ego was severely deflated, and party organization began to degenerate.

Many regarded the Daniels campaign as a much needed challenge to the political status quo in New Haven. John DeStefano, not Daniels, received the endorsement of the Democratic party prior to the 1989 Democratic primary.

"Daniels took the party on," Dyson said.

He could do this not only because of the widespread disenchantment with the DiLieto regime and the increased organization of black voters in the wake of Jessie Jackson's presidential campaign, but because o~ the extraordinary coalition he built. "The Daniels coalition was a rare phenomenon in American politics: a progressive coalition, led by blacks and supported by liberal whites and elements of the business community," wrote Yale political scientists Mary Summers and Philip Klinkers in a 1991 article about Daniels' election to office.

Although most New Haven residents agree that this campaign coalition did not meet its full potencial as a governing coalition, they disagree as to how complete this failure was, and what caused it. Yale political science professor Douglas Rae, who served briefly as Daniels' chief administrative officer, now calls the Daniels administration "dead THE NEW JouRNAL

23

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on arrival" because of the damage done by irresponsible government under DiLiero. "Daniels played an almost impossible hand quire well," Rae said.

Most would not let Mayo r Daniels off so easily, however. Bass accuses Daniels of feeble leadership.

"You have to have a mayor who wakes up in the morning wanting to put policy in place instead of thinking about how to avoid political fighting and anger," he said.

The death of Daniels' grand coalition also marks the death of the idealism that swept him into office. It was Daniels' 59 percent to 41 percent defeat of DeStefano in the 1989 primary, after all, that gave the city its largest gulp of euphoria in recent memory. Some thought that the near 60 percent voter turnout constituted a rebirth of the New Haven political process.

Just four years Iacer, many perceive a return to the old consensus of the Democratic machine. Barbieri suffered a personal defeat when Daniels was elected (Daniels twice tried to oust the party chairman) and now looks forward to a chance ro "right the cicy."

"DeStefano has indicated a willingness to communicate with the parry, and we will show our gratitude," Barbieri said.

For many, this return to the Democratic dynasty of old has an entirely different set of implications.

"I've been a resident of New Haven for a long time. The DiLieto administration robbed us blind and DeStefano got some of that money. Anyone at all would be better than DeStefano," said one adamant city employee who wished to remain anonymous.

Still, it appears unlikely that a DeStefano administration would represent a continuation of unsuccessful policies. The DeStefano campaign has gone a long way towards presenting a distinct vision of its own.

"You can't have 50 percent of the OCTOBER 15, 1993

city's buildings not paying real estate taxes," said local real estate developer Joel Schiavone (BR '58), bemoaning Mayor Daniels' decision to build more low-income housing as a "disaster."

"You can't operate like a liberal democrat in the 90s. A successful mayor will have co be more centrist," Schiavone said, adding that he saw DeStefano heading in this direction.

DeStefano's creative proposals suggest he has grappled with the issues and sees the need for change. He has disassociated himself from the trickledown economics that spurred many a . futile development project in New

c1ts going to be a disaster. It doesn't matter who gets elected.

:1:1

Haven. Instead, seemingly aware of what Rae called the "overwhelming evidence that New Haven will not be a retail center for the region," DeStefano has opposed the building of the Taubman Mall. In calling for an increased emphasis on strengthening the city's existing institutions, such as biomedical technology, DeStefano has injected some much-needed pragmatism into the politics of a city given to pursuing unrealistic cure-ails.

Furthermore, DeStefano has given an indication he will place sound judgment before politics. A Catholic, DeStefano has supported the distribution of condoms at middle schools~ an idea that is unpopular in the !i Catholic community, whose support he may need to stay in office. ~ DeStefano's approach co the prob~ lem of exorbitant and inequitable 1i property taxes aims at long-term ~reform rather than a quick-fix solu~ cion. He proposes filing suit against ~ the Connecticut legislature ro make ~ suburbanites share the burden of taxae tion for city services-services they

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now use largely at rhe expense of New Haven's taxpayers. "The objective is not a successful lawsuit so much as to enhance the urgency of discussion of the issue," DeStefano said.

DeStefano's campaign seems particulary bold and even progressive for having emerged in the midst of a political freeze. No popu lar movement pressures him to reform. Yet, as Summers said, "DeStefano's campaign makes me feel as if the whole nature of political debate in New Haven has changed."

Board of Education there are 9,000 city jobs. All of these people have a few relatives in New Haven," he said.

"That's 30,000 votes. These are people who vote their jobs and not the . " 1ssues.

Of course, political debate takes place between factions of the Democratic party itself. Reflecting on the primary, Reyes said, "We put cogether a straightforward discussion of issues because of which DeStefano is much aware of the issues of the inner-city."

But in New Haven, where past administrations seem to have fallen our of touch, few would deny the need for greater communication between City Hall and the community.

"Accountability" is a buzz word.

Reyes himself has launched a "campaign for the betterment of New Haven" which aims, among other things, co "provide a bridge between the administration and the community."

Ultimately, one cold fact underlies all the political rhetoric. As loudly as people proclaim "It's time" for accountable government, and "It's time" for lower taxes, and "It's time" for more jobs, the economy sleeps soundly on. The fate of New Haven's next mayor lies more on the good will of Washington, D.C., and Hartford than in New Haven itself.

18)

ut while city politics may continue to evolve, one still cannot shake the feeling that those at the helm ofNew Haven's political process today are there by default.

Widespread sentiment that city government is destined to fail prevents many would-be mayors from mounting a serious opposition.

The mayoral sear is "a job char nobody wants," according to Bass.

"Any other strong candidate would have had DeStefano in a mental hospital within a week, because he can't take criticism," Bass said.

Another reason people have difficulty taking the mayoral race seriously may be that they take place in such rapid-fire succession, with elections every two years. Voters simply can't distinguish one race from another.

The Democrats, who have opposed increasing term length to four years, are sometimes seen as exploiting this obstacle to a fully organized opposiBen Lumpkin ts a sophomore m tion. "Over the past 40 years Calhoun College.

Democratic r - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - , administrations 1-r-=-=-----,====----:::~~~---:=-r,..;-.-o~::::::;.iiilil.. have been breeding apathy because apathy

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'93 e.

Black Hole Sleuths Cheryl M Harris

T

he Big Bang was only the beginning. The universe is perpetually destroying and continually creating itself.

Swirling clouds of dust become planets, exploding stars collapse into black holes. Within dying stars, the fusicm of hydrogen and helium takes place, involving intense energy, heat, and pressure. For years, scientjsts, seeking to under'S stand the intricate mechanisms behind the universe's contin~ ual self-creation and self-destruction, attempted to determine 'l the rate at which helium burns inside a massive star's core . ~This .rate indicates the ratio of carbon to oxygen formed ~ within the core's nuclear fusion reactions. Since 1 this simple ratio can reveal the eventual fate ] of massive stars, the race to ~lculate its ~ value became one of the preeminent § quests of modern astrophysics. ~ The rate of helium burning ~ has finally been measured. In ; April, rwo independent research .£ teams, one at Yale, led by Moshe ~ Gai, associate professor o physics; and the other at TriUniversity Meson Facility (TRIUMF) in Canada, discovered within their laboratories what once could only be reproduced on computer simulations. Gai and a handful Yale students achieved the same end as TRIUMF did with a $50-million research budget and the collaboration of three universities. The Yale and TRIUMF experiments found out what Gai calls the "number one unknown in nuclear astrophysics."

Yale and TRIUMF submitted their fmal research papers a week apart. Alhough the rwo teams discovered the rate of helium burning through different methods, they reached remarkably similar results and confirmed prior computer predictions.

As a result of the success of Gai's team and TRIUMF, scientists now know that approximately 85 percent of carbon atoms formed within massive stars fuse with helium and become oxygen. Knowing that more stars produce a great deal of oxygen has increased the chances that a greater number of massive stars will "skip" subsequent reactions and become supernovas. In addition, the calculated value of the carbon-oxygen ratio can help scientists predict how dense the core of a supernova will be, and if that supernova will collapse into a black hole.

..

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26 THE NEw JouRNAL

At Yale, Gai led a team composed of Zhiping Zhao (GRD '93), Ralph H. France III (GRD '94), Kin Seng Lai (GRD '97), Steve L. Rugari (GRD '90), Edward 1:.. Wilds from the University of Connecticut, and a number of undergraduates from Yale and other universities. Zhao, now at the University of Washington in Seattle, chose the problem of determining the rate of helium burning as her Ph.D. thesis topic under Gai's supervision.

After intensive observations and calculations, scientists knew that a star roughly 25 times more massive than the sun lasts about 7.5 million years before it becomes an exploding star, a supernova. Scientists consider a star "massive" when its mass exceeds six times the mass of the sun. These stars expend huge amounts of energy .in the hydrogen 'and helium fusion reactions within their cores. The cores violently contract, increasing the pressure and temperature within the cores. This tumultuo us compression of the core leads to the massive star's devolution into a red giant. At the same time, the star's outer shell expands, while reactions within the core continue to expend energy furiously.

During the first 7 million of these final years, the star produces helium from the fusion of hydrogen nuclei. In the last 500,000 years, when this reaction of hydrogen nuclei has been nearly exhausted, helium fusion predominates. Inside the . star's core, fusion reactions involving three alpha particles (helium nuclei) bring about the formation of carbon-12. A nucleus of carbon-12 can then capture another alpha particle to make oxygen-16. .

The carbon/oxygen core continues to release tremendous amounts of energy. Temperatures within the star reachlevels beyond measurements of nuclear physics. As the core contracts, iron is produced inside the core. The dying star's extremely dense center finally collapses into a neutron star, a remnant of the core, or collapses further into a black hole.

This stellar corpse creates tremendous gravity, sucking matter and light into its fathomless black chasm.

T

he ratio of carbon-12 to oxygen-16 indicates more than just the characteristics of a star's core. This ratio allows astrophysicists to estimate three things: how quickly heavy elements--such as silicon, neon, and sulfurOCTOBER 15, 1993

form within the star, in what order these elements form, and late, using from indirect measurement, the timing and eventual fate of quantum the star's explosion as a supernova. If the helium-burning mechanics, how reaction ¡within a particular massive star produces small many times the amounts of oxygen, heavy elements will ~e formed before the forward reacstar reaches the supernova stage. If, however, the helium- tion can happen burning reaction produces significantly more oxygen, reacinside the star's tions forming the heavy elements are "skipped" and the stars core. By obtainbecome supernovas much faster than expected. For scientists ing this reaction observing a star at the supernova stage, the carbon-oxygen rate, the Yale ratio can be a factor in determining whether or not this star's team could core will become dense enough to.collapse into a black hole. compute the The combined rate of these two linked reactions proportion of involved in helium burning determines the overall ratio of carbon-12 and carbon-12 to oxygen-16 within the core of a massive star. oxygen-16 Scientists had already discovered the first reaction rate but formed in the the rate of the second reaction, involving the transformation final stages of of carbon-12 into oxygen-16, had yet to be calculated. nuclear fusion Physics professor Mosh~ Gai and studmt Physicist Steve Koonin and colleagues at the California before a star Ralph K France measured the rate ofhelium Institute of Technology and independent researchers in explodes. burning in stars.

Belgium in 1985 predicted that the second reaction rate of helium burning could be measured in the laboratory.

Around the same time, TRIUMF, a huge venture speResearchers, however, found it difficult to duplicate the cializing in nuclear and particle physics founded in 1968 by nuclear fusion reaction processes inside a star's extremely the universities of Alberta, British Columbia, and Victoria, high temperature core within the mundane conditions of the and Simon Fraser University, used a different technique laboratory. The teams at Yale and TRIUMF saw an alternabased on the same principle of the reverse reaction to discovtive method for measuring the second reaction rate. er the second reaction rate. Researchers first produced a They decided to run the entire helium-burning reaction beam of nitrogen-16 and then fired this beam into a target backwards. "The laws of physics are completely invariant composed of carbon-12. Special detectors gauged similarities between the emission of alpha particles and the emission of under the transformation of time," says Gai. By reversing the reaction, the two teams calculated the reaction rate and carbon nuclei from the disintegration of oxygen-16 nuclei determined the ratio of carbon-12 to oxygen-16 more easily. created within that target.

Professor Gai calls reversing the helium-burning reaction In the July 1993 issue of Discover , Gai comments, "Now "just a clever trick to allow us to measure small quantities." we have only four, perhaps five, very good candidates for black holes. We know, based on our results, that we should Gai's research team fired a beam of deuterium {an isotope of hydrogen) at a thin sheet of titanium doped with see many more." The information gained from these experinitrogen. The deuterium beam's impact on the thin sheet of ments can also help scientists explain what will be inevitable within our own solar system. "Our sun, for about 4.6 billion titanium and nitrogen created an isotope of nitrogen, nitrogen-16. Since nitrogen-16 is very unstable, the isotope years, has been fusing hydrogen into helium," adds Gai. "In another 5 billion years it will expand into a red giant. The immediately decays into oxygen-16. Oxygen-16 further radius of the sun will then include the earth, with temperadecays into carbon-12 and helium. This process i~ simply the tures around 6,000° C." reverse of the second helium-burning reaction, officially Both research teams are still trying to lower the systemknown in its experimental reaction formula 12c(a , y) 16o, atic error in their experiments, which would make their where a and y signifY. garcicle recapture by carbon-12 ( 12c) results more reliable. Nevertheless, their results remain an to create oxygen-16 (1 0). elegant description of the death of stars and the birth of The team filled dozens of laboratory booklets with long, black holes. Yale and TRIUMF's measurement of the heliconsistent calculations of the experiment. "We spent about um-burning reaction rate has brought science closer to 13 weeks actually getting data for this experiment, and those understanding the processes behind the continuous creation 13 weeks ran 24 hours a day for about five and half days durg ing the week," says France, one of the Yale graduate students and destruction of the universe. working on the project. After nearly five years of work, Gai's Cheryl M Harris is a smior in Berk&y Colkge. team finally measured the reverse reaction and could calcu0croBER 15, 1993

THE NEW JouRNAL 27

BETWEEN THE VINES - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

While We Were Away Elena Cherney remember my family; I have a photograph. What a time it was. Two parents, two kids, all in one house. A time of innocence.

I feel much less innocent now, three years after leaving the house. I can visit the people in my family, but the fami:. ly I knew is mutated, vanished, gone. It's nothing I can explain easily or concretely. The changes I can describe look petty when I record them. The real changes are tonal, intangible. My home feels jarring and dissonant to me.

But I am not alone, I realize over brunch one Sunday morning as my friends • regale each other with · funny stories about che painful changes that have · · . assailed their families over the last three years. Our J families have ceased to be t wha_t we ~new while we frolicked 10 New Haven.

Tr o· My family has changed che least dramatically of all my friends', I think. At least, its structure has changed the least.

I am gone, but my parents and brother still live together, in our same house, on our same street, where we have lived forever.

But beyond this fapde of sameness, everything is different. Some of it I cannot describe. I feel it though, a vague uneasiness when I try to fall asleep in my house at vacations, or when I call home. I feel a slackening, a crumbling what, I'm not quite sure. Suddenly, there seem to be so many problems. Maybe we just don't pretend so well anymore. The way my mother no longer pretends to cook.

They go out instead. They don't pretend they're getting along when they're not, or that Daddy's in a good mood when he's not, or that his blood pressure is fine when it's sky-high, or that my 18-year-old brother is sleeping at home rather than at his girlfriend's.

It all seems so much more volatile, and fragile. "We can be friends, don't you think?" my mother says on the phone, attempting, I realize in rerrospect, an adult relationship with her 21-year-old daughter. She has probably read or heard from her friends chat this is important. But I am pierced. "Can't we just be mother and daughter?" I ask back. I can accept that there are no rules anymore to pretend by, but my mother must still be my mother. This shell of fam ily structure I need.

I

This is nothing, nothing, when compared to my friends' stories. They are very funny about their changed families, even though some changes are serious, tragic.

Listening to them, I realize that if it weren't for their humor we would be living in a soap opera, bewailing our fortunes over tepid cups of coffee. Behind funny fronts and stories of parents grown foo lish and fami lies farcical, we all ponder how it happened, and why it happened right when we went away. Was it our fault? The question niggles at che edge of our laughter. Was it our fault? .

B

eth and I sit over

Behtnd.funny fronts and stones ofparents breakfast as I record . . . her story. I butter a grown foolzsh and famtftes forctca/, We bagel, she an English mufl'l h · h d, d h · fin , and slie tells me how a ponaer ow tt appene , an w ry tt her parents lived separately hannened rzoht when we went awav. together under the same

28 THE NEw JoURNAL

:.r

roof all through her last year of high school, how only after she left for college did her mother move out of the house and towards divorce. I remember her describing the situation to me solemnly the first month of freshman year; I remember thinking then, how awful to have to deal with this now, of all times.

Beth knows that her going away to college was not the reason. "My parents lived separately for a year. My mom had a whole floor. It's a big house." They finally split up after her grandfather died. "I don't think they would have gotten divorced when he was alive. He never knew anything was wrong. And my mom did not have the money to move out till after my freshman year," she says. Until Beth left for college, her family maintained the semblance of a nuclear fam ily. Her dad worked, and her mo~ "was like Mom. She mommed. There was dinner," she says, shrugging.

When her mom moved out, everything changed.

Forget dinner; her mom took "all the really cool kitchen utensils." Beth's dad was unable even to make himself a tuna sandwich, since her mom had the can opener. "Every time we needed the·can opener, we got to remember why there's no can opener and who we hate," she explains for her father, her cadences making it clear that "we" did not both hate.

Getting a new can opener too soo~ would not have worked, she says. "Ir was the priniciple of the thing."

"I think the biggest change has been in supermarket

issues," she says. "We're all sort of ruled by the supermarket.

They used to go to Superfresh on I Oth Street. My mom still goes to Superfresh, but my dad goes down to the Pathmark at the airport," she explains. She's not sure why he does that; he says Pachmark is bigger, but "he always buys the same things." Path mark is so far away that often there's no food at her father's house. So her 16-year-old b rother often stops off at Mom's to eat after school, even when it's Dad's custodial time. Beth's parents got joint custody of the kids and the cleaning lady, but her mom got the supermarket.

While her brother lets his stomach lead him home, Beth has a harder time deciding where to go for vacations.

"Since I went to college, I have two houses. My Dad lives in my house. My mom lives in an apartment. I don't exactly have a bedroom there-I have a pink closet with a bed in it," she says. "It's hard for me to decide where to spend my . , nme. isa's parents split up when she was seven but she always felt that they made a healthy and supportive amity, she tells me, curled on her ratty common room couch. Her strong sense of family girded her sense of self until she got to college. But during her first year at Yale, she was shaken by her sister's questions about how healthy their family really was. She opens a pink flowered diary, and reads me the entry she made freshman year when her sister announced that she wasn't coming home anymore. " I am afraid, because I can feel that our family is going to fall apart over the years and I don't think there is anything I can do about it. I'm scared. It's hard to just stand around and watch my family self-destruct, helpless.

Now my sister is going to move away, far away from us, and never come back.

She won't be my sister, she

won't, I know it, I'm positive of it, I can see it all happening in front of my face. It's like watching a bad suspense movie.

You can only sit and watch the movie play out, or you can get up and leave. I don't want to get up and leave."

As she reads, Alisa chuckles at the high drama of her own words, and at how young they seem three years later.

While A l isa's sister challenged her notions of family, her father affirmed chem by moving to Boston from California, mostly to be close r co Alisa. ''I'd say my dad more than my mom suffers from whatever syndrome you'd get when your kids leave home," Alisa says. "My sister and I are h is only fa mil y'

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er mother's leg pain started the weekend Jenny's parents brought her to school freshman year. "By the time I was a junior there was a disabled sticker on the car," she says, d escribing her mother's pain, her inability co walk, the surgery she's had, and the surgery she still need s in order to recover fully. In the midst of the lengthy catalogue of ailments and symptoms, she begins to laugh, a little ruefully. What else can she do? How else can you handle a parent's debilitating illness when you're hundreds of miles away?

The family has changed since she went away and her mother got sick.

"My sister just doesn't come home a ny more," she says, shrugging and pacing around her common room,

pick in g lint off the carpet, straightening things chat don't need to be straightened.

H er parents are unable to keep her 17year-old sister home at night. They don't know where she goes, and Jenny doesn't chink they wane to. Jenny has a pretty good idea and is very worried.

But she's too far away to help, or even to be involved.

When Jenny lived at home, "there were rules. There were a lot of rules.

We had curfews, we weren't allowed co drive the car at night-I d on't know, what rules do you have? We weren't allowed to do things," she says, now s lou ching on a saggy couc h, face down turned.

J e nny knows that her being at home would not make her mother becter. She feels guilty at being away o nly because when she's home, some of the old rules come back into play.

Her sister stays in line more when she's at home. When Jenny's home, s he knows w here her sister's going, what's up.

But slouched o n her couch tonight, she's not feeling chat she can make a difference ac home. Her sister has been difficult since infancy. And her mother's illness is "a definite medical thing. It isn't a direct result of my coming co college," she says. But she hesitates. "Is it?"

Latc:ly, she waffles on whether her goi ng away has anything co do with OCTOBER IS, 1993

1

l

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her family's problems. "Sometimes I think that it does, and sometimes I don't," she says. Like Alisa and Beth, Jenny has decided that things may not have actually changed so much. The problems, or their seeds, were always there, and it is only since leaving home that she can see them. "I think I just never noticed things before. I thought we had a great family."

But no matter when and why the fissures began, Jenny has d ecided that for her own sanity, she cannot be overinvolved. "You can't fix things for somebody," she says. ''A lot of dealing with your fam ily is learning what is and what is not in your control."

e

( ( D istance," we agree.

"D istance." We are learning the rules of distance and space, worki ng ourselves into E indep endence. It makes us slightly more grown-up. We cry to each other ~ rather than our parents. I call home J less often. A couple of us, myself included, contemplate actually supporting ourselves next year.

This part, the independence and the adulthood that develop when your childhood family changes is good, we agree. This is growth, d evelopment, character building.

But I keep my photograph. It's better than the memory and easier than the reality. Glossy color photos full of smiles invariably improve upon the memories, air-brushing away the adolescent storms, the adult angst.

The photograph sits on my dresser, a family, a ll dressed up and happy at high school graduation, graduate bearing diploma, smiling, confident, and innocent. ~

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