Me in the local news

As my teenage daughter observed, town council hearings where we live tend to be dominated by white guys in their 60s waving printouts and citing statistics about our insupportable tax burden. At the last hearing, I weighed in on the other side, then wrote a follow-up letter to my town council. Here's the story. I was offline for a couple of days, but if the reporter had reached me, I'm not sure I would have been able to say much more than the rest of the text of my letter:

"I could have bought new clothes [with the $183 I was enclosing], but my closet is full. I could have gone out to eat a few more times, but my family prefers home cooking. I could have spent $183 at Dunkin Donuts, as NK student James Wilkinson pointed out at the school committee hearing (61 large lattes, or 122 small coffees!), but I take a thermos of home-brewed coffee to work every morning. $183 wouldn’t have been enough to buy another car, let alone insurance and gas, but fortunately the four drivers in our family are still getting along with two cars, thanks to the yellow school buses and RIPTA buses that our tax dollars underwrite.

"Somehow we Americans seem convinced that if we spend our money however we like, it is well spent, but if our government spends it on our behalf for things we’ve all agreed we want and need according to centuries of democratic process, it is money wasted or even stolen. This attitude is bad for our blood pressure, bad for our community, and bad for our future.

"...I prefer not to earmark this $183 for a particular purpose, but if that is required, I ask you to spend it on the school department, and if you need me to be more specific, then please use it for the elementary school music program. Since my own children are in high school (one about to graduate), no member of my family will benefit directly."

P.S. For statistics about return on investment, check out this study showing that Massachusetts residents who overrode Proposition 2-1/2 retained their property values better than those who stuck to the cap. 

A VILLAGE OF ONE: A Fox Point resident remembers what she learned in Uganda

My cover story for the February 2006 East Side Monthly won a Metcalf Award for Diversity in the Media ("established in 1988 to honor the late Michael Metcalf, publisher of The Providence Journal,...to celebrate talented, thoughtful journalists in all media for their important efforts to promote diversity, inclusion and respect for all"):

Racheal Adriko-Spillberg finally has what her father back home in Uganda always exhorted her to get: a purpose. A mission. Not just a vague goal to do good, but a plan for exactly how to make life better for specific people in need.

You expect her to be a veritable whirlwind of energy when you learn all that this Fox Point resident has been doing over the past few years---from teaching school to launching a major transatlantic philanthropic initiative, to producing a film about it, to authoring science books commissioned by the American Association of University Women, in addition to writing her own memoirs ... and that's just a partial list! But in reality this solidly built young woman radiates calm and inner peace, whether she's talking (in her fluent English with just a hint of a British accent) to a reporter or to a group of schoolchildren.

She appears as comfortable in a drab American sweater as in colorful, traditional African dress. When you see footage of her thanking a Ugandan boy for handing her another book, you hear a note of reverence in her voice, as if she feels she is touching a precious, sacred object. Yet she employs self-deprecating humor in discussing herself, even while publicizing the important, serious work she is doing in the world.

For her recent campaign to collect large numbers of books and deliver them to Uganda, Adriko-Spillberg has been featured on Channel 10 and in the Boston Globe and the Cambridge Chronicle. But no amount of American media attention confers more honor than the praise of the elders back in her native village of Arua: "Our daughter Racheal is returning with valuable gifts." "This girl of ours has not forgotten us." Though her daily life currently spans two American cities—Providence, where she lives, and Cambridge, where she works—the mentality of the African village remains deeply ingrained in her. Fond of the saying, "It takes a village to raise a child," she sprinkles this theme throughout her stories about herself: "The whole village did not know how to cure my loneliness" (when her exiled parents temporarily left her in the care of her grandmother); "The whole village was aware of what I'd done" (when she got expelled from boarding school for sneaking out to visit a night club). "Everyone trying to correct you and mold you."

Born into a family with four sons, Adriko-Spillberg was highly valued as the only girl—and thus the only potential dowry-bringer. "As much as they sometimes fought me," she recalls, "my parents always listened to what I had to say." Apparently the listening was mutual. The importance of "making a difference" was a constant theme of Adriko-Spillberg's father, a university professor who ran afoul of the reigning Idi Amin and fled with his family to Kenya, his wife's country of origin, when Racheal was a year and a half old. They stayed there more than ten years, until her father felt it was not only possible but also his family's duty to return to Uganda and support the country's new regime. To their amazement, everyone in Arua (whom they'd been unable to contact) was still alive and well. Adriko-Spillberg's father was soon elected to local office.

After her peaceful Kenyan childhood, she had trouble adjusting to life back in her war-torn birthplace. There she encountered not only a different native language (though English is spoken both places) but also a different outlook on the world. "War changes people," she says. "With years and years of war, you don't know what tomorrow brings. People thought minute to minute.... I felt like I had been uprooted and replanted in the wrong soil and climate." Her determination to come to America for college was one of many issues she and her father clashed over during her teen years. But she's never forgotten his teachings, especially the ones he utilized in his efforts to talk her into staying in Uganda: "Everyone has a purpose! You're here to do some good for the world!" At the time, Racheal's response was, "If I don't leave here, I'll never find my purpose!" When he refused his financial support, Adriko-Spillberg's sympathetic mother threatened to sell all the cows in Kenya to pay for her daughter's education. Finally her father backed down and allowed her to fly to Boston and enroll at Fisher College, one of three all-female institutions she'd applied to without her parents' knowledge by borrowing the application fee from an older brother.

A decade later—after graduation from Suffolk University; marriage to a man she describes as "a white Jewish boy from the South Shore" whom she worried about introducing to her parents; and a grueling daily commute from Fox Point to her teaching job at Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. School in Cambridge—Racheal Adriko-Spillberg began to see what her purpose is: "to inspire education, working with books and children."

The Ugandan book-donating venture started in late 2004 with a box of unclaimed books Adriko-Spillberg kept seeing on the floor in a hallway of her school. Upon learning they were slated for the trash, and anticipating a holiday trip back home to Arua, she thought, Why not take them with me?

A few years before, the Ugandan government had started offering free education in grades one through six. With the resulting influx of new students whose families weren't previously in a position to pay tuition, the schools have become woefully understaffed and undersupplied. It is not unusual, Adriko-Spillberg says, for a Ugandan school to have one teacher for two hundred children, and "no tools for learning—no books, no pencils, no paper ... To write, they wet the ground and form letters in the mud with sticks."

Adriko-Spillberg wanted to convey to her American kindergartners what this might feel like. As part of a unit on Africa, they went beyond building model villages and cities. Saying, "Pretend we're in Africa right now," she got rid of all the books in the classroom, along with all the paper, pens, colored pencils, etc. Soon, she reports, "They were fighting and complaining. It really drove home to my students what it's like not to have." They became enthusiastic about giving the children in her home village not only the box of discarded books but also as many additional books as they could collect. "These kids became my mouth—they spread the word."

Meanwhile, back on the East Side, Adriko-Spillberg enlisted the help of her husband. As his day job, musician and music producer Richard Spillberg is a computer programmer for LighthouseMD, a Providence company specializing in medical management software. Spillberg asked and got permission to put out a box at Lighthouse for book donations. The response from Lighthouse employees was so overwhelming that before long, recalls company president Steve Tortolani, "The venture went from good to 'Omigosh, how do we get all these books to Africa?'" Adriko-Spillberg's original notion had been to carry them in her suitcase. Now, with books coming in from both Cambridge and Providence, the number easily reached a thousand. In the words of Tortolani, "We had created a problem. And we were more than happy to help solve it." LighthouseMD funded the shipment of more than half of the books. The couple took care of the rest in their luggage.

But just getting the books across an ocean and a continent (Uganda is in East Africa) solved only part of the problem. The final challenge was to find a way to start and keep the books circulating. That's where the Village Council members stepped in. When Adriko-Spillberg tells the story, it sounds like a folk tale she might be reading aloud to her schoolchildren: "One person contributed his bicycle to the cause. Another said, 'My contribution will be a brown box to hold the books.' Another said, "My contribution will be a little black rope to tie the box onto the bicycle.' And another said, 'I shall donate my time, to ride the bike around and deliver the books.'"

And so began a mobile bicycle library, with weekly visits to five villages and two schools.

Adriko-Spillberg admits she wondered whether books would even be a priority for the war-ravaged villagers; but her doubts were put to rest when she saw children hungrily grabbing the books and sneaking off into the shade to devour them. Just like American children, they were full of curiosity about the unfamiliar images, especially snow, hats, and mittens! And one of the biggest hurdles was teaching them how a library works. "They were running for the hills with these books!" Adriko recalls. "The following week, they didn't want to give them back." The children had to learn about book exchange, and had to be reassured that the supply would not run out.

Their reaction was "part of the war turmoil—living moment to moment," Adriko-Spillberg explains. Her resolve to continue and expand the program is strengthened by the knowledge that her homeland is still being terrorized by local war lords subjecting villagers to rape, kidnappings, and arson. "These rebels tell our children to take a gun and fight a war. Now, our children can look at them and say, 'No, give me a book instead.'"

She brings up another realization: "In order to establish a literate community, we need to provide books to adults as well—tell them, 'You're their mentors; the children need to see you reading.'... The idea [of a mobile bicycle library] may be small, the immediate impact small, but the ripples are big." For example, she has high hopes that her efforts will improve AIDS education. "If you can read about how it spreads, you can learn how to avoid it." She tells potential donors to her cause, "You're not donating—you're investing."

Investor Steve Tortolani, president of LighthouseMD, agrees. "This is such an amazing venture: potentially taking a young generation and empowering them, through education, on so many different levels—to read, to write, to pass on traditions from generation to generation.... We're thrilled to have been involved, and anxious to continue." While acknowledging "problems with infrastructure" that make it impossible at the moment, he envisions, in perhaps a few years, funding the shipment to Africa of personal computers containing thousands of volumes of text. Meanwhile, Adriko-Spillberg, who has continued to collect books in her basement, talks about a plan to build a "House of Knowledge" in Arua, a library that will be open late to serve the adult community as well as children, offering "continuing education" classes such as professional development workshops for teachers. She even mentions internet access. (This is indeed an ambitious plan, considering that Arua currently has no electricity.)

Since her December 2004 trip, she has collected six thousand more books—and needs to find more funders besides LighthouseMD to help transport them again. Fortunately or unfortunately, she's gained time in which to do this, since a travel advisory issued for Uganda postponed her plans to go there this past holiday season. "It was sad for me; I'm their Christmas Santa," she says, but with presidential elections coming up—and thirty-four candidates vying with the incumbent—the situation has been too dangerous. At least one contender is inciting rapes and riots, and aid workers have been killed. "As Africans, we can't handle democracy!" Adriko-Spillberg points out. "Everybody wants to lead! Everyone wants to be President!" She hopes the travel advisory will be lifted after the election in March.

When asked about the role of books in her own upbringing, she recalls a book-poor childhood that has clearly been the inspiration for her current passion. Some books were imported from London; photocopying books was common. Adriko-Spillberg can recall no Ugandan or Kenyan publishing house, and no libraries. Even in the "posh" girls' boarding school she attended in Kampala (appropriate for the daughter of a minister), there'd be just one book for the class. "Our main texts were stories that I wrote!" Adriko says of her childhood home. "My parents read newspapers, and my dad would say, 'Go write a story that we can read later tonight.' He taught me that stories could be anything. I published my own little books—I got a lot of attention from that." Later, in discussing her teaching career, she muses, "In the early elementary years, a lot of education is through stories."

Adriko-Spillberg remains an adept and entertaining storyteller, but in telling me the story of her life (which has included excerpts read aloud from work she did for a UMass class in memoir-writing), she never loses sight of her audience. She frequently inserts my name, to let me know she remembers it's me she's telling about the time, when she first got to Boston, a fancy boutique on Newbury Street convinced her she absolutely needed sheets and shams and a featherbed totaling over a thousand dollars—or the time she rode to a baby-sitting job in red cab #69 driven by a singer/guitar player who toured in a band called "Wargasm," and with whom she later eloped—or the time her father insisted her new husband come to Uganda, where he had to "go through our cultural heritage, formally ask for your hand in marriage, and pay your dowry ... Do not question tradition!" despite all Racheal's objections: "Rich and I now have our bank accounts together, so technically you're charging me for myself ... How can you put a price on my life? ... I know I'm worth a lot more than this!" (ten bulls, five chickens, twenty goats, and a sack of corn).

Adriko-Spillberg was initially nervous about settling in Providence, a city she didn't know, but she now says she loves its diversity, affordability, charm and uniqueness. She and Spillberg own a multifamily house near Wickenden Street, and Adriko has just been elected to the board of the Fox Point Citizens’ Association. "It can't just be the mayor making changes," she says of proposed zoning changes that residents fear will result in hi-rises and chain stores. "My voice needs to be heard." Adriko also serves on the board of Providence's Looking Glass Children's Theater. And as an inner city schoolteacher aware that many children lack any concept of home ownership, Adriko-Spillberg has plans to work with Domain Properties, the Providence real estate company, to publish a child-friendly book about mortgages and other aspects of real estate investment. Meanwhile, a number of Rhode Island schools have expressed interest in having her organize an "Africa Day" and book drive on their premises.

Wherever she goes and whomever she contacts, Racheal Adriko-Spillberg seems able to impart the African village mentality of all taking responsibility for each. At the end of our interview, she inspires me with these parting words: "It was really wonderful talking to you and meeting the village of Gigi today. You're now a part of Africa, where our goal is leaving the world a better place."

A NOVEL APPROACH TO THE LAW: Well-known local attorney decides to play detective

This was the cover story for the January 2006 East Side Monthly:

Here's an inspiration to anyone in the process of formulating a New Year's Resolution. Prominent East Sider John J. ("Jack") Partridge—founding partner of the law firm Partridge, Snow & Hahn, a man whose list of past and present "Professional and Civic Organizations" spans over two pages—has just published a novel. Plus, he promises, there's another one coming out next year. Makes the rest of us look like slackers!

The 367-page murder mystery set in Providence depicts an appealingly recognizable cast of characters, such as the colorful mayor, "Sonny Russo," with his gift for playing the media, his questionable ethics, and his unsavory henchmen. Entitled Carom Shot ("n.: In pool, a shot in which the object ball strikes another ball and rebounds into a pocket"), the book features the yellow Number One ball on the cover. Its already-written sequel, which will of course picture the blue Number Two ball, is scheduled to come out in September 2006. And when you envision the rest of the balls on the pool table, the possibilities are ... well, maybe not endless, but you can see where this could be heading.

How has it been possible to achieve all this, for an attorney who has a busy practice in insurance and banking regulation, general corporate law, and trustee work; and who serves as Co-chair of the Pawtucket Foundation, Vice Chair of the President's Council at Providence College (his alma mater, where he is also Class Agent for his graduating class), trustee of the Boys' and Girls' Clubs of Pawtucket, member of the Governor's Insurance Council, trustee and treasurer of Ocean State Charitiable Trust—to name fewer than half of his current community activities?

"I found time," is the simple explanation from the down-to-earth Partridge, who was born in Central Falls and lived most of his life in Pawtucket. Of the writing he's practiced as a sideline since high school, Partridge concedes, "It's certainly come and gone.... At P.C. you turn out an enormous amount of written material. We had at least a paper a week every week for four years." As a result, Partridge modestly claims, "I can sit down and fill pages!"

Throughout his career, he's had the support and encouragement of his wife, Regina (McDonald) Partridge, an artist specializing in monotypes and monoprints who's a partner at Studio Goddard-Partridge in Pawtucket; along with the couple's three (now grown) children, Sarah, Gregory, and David. "Every once in a while I'd sit down and express an idea I had in the back of my mind—story lines and movie scripts based on things I'd conjure up in the middle of the night.... I'd go down to the basement [in the family's Pawtucket home] or up to the office [in the East Side home they moved to nine years ago—an office Partridge describes as "lined with mysteries"]. Eventually I'd get it done. I'd do it on vacations—I'd fit it in!"

Until now, Partridge hasn't published anything but an occasional op-ed piece in the Projo. Much of his writing has been non-fiction, including a book outline about King Leopold of the Belgians, and another, written while in Italy, about a modern-day Machiavelli ("Unfortunately that idea was picked up and done by others!" says Partridge). Meanwhile, he describes the fiction-writing he occasionally turned to as "an escape, a getaway from the rigid, accurate writing lawyers do. It gets the mind out of the box."

Reporter's note: Anyone who's worked at a law firm is familiar with the "manuscript-in-the-drawer syndrome." Lots of law school graduates are ex-English-majors—good with words. When I was a paralegal in the Eighties, young associates often assured me, "I'm really a creative person!" "Look at me, I'm practically in tears, here," confided one as he pored over a tedious contract. And a junior partner once opened his desk drawer to reveal the screenplay he'd written in college. The firm seemed brimming with frustrated talent—a big reason not to apply to law school.

Unless you can manage to be like J. J. Partridge.

Over the years, Partridge has also found time for other interests besides writing and law, such as theater—he was an extra in local productions of "Meet Joe Black" and "The Last Shot"—and especially politics. He names the late John Chafee as his mentor. Partridge ran the 1970 gubernatorial campaign of Herbert F. DeSimone, who lost by only 1,871 votes (the exact number rolls easily off Partridge's tongue). Describing himself as interested in "good government" first and foremost, he left his position as Secretary of the Republican Party in the early 1970s to become Chairman of Common Cause, of which he still serves on the advisory council. Around that time, he was also involved in organizing the Rhode Island Constitutional Convention, which took place during a Projo strike, so that, according to Partridge, "there was virtually no coverage, and people thought they could do and say whatever they wanted." One example he recalls is someone literally holding back the minute hand on the clock above the speaker's podium to keep midnight from striking. (So far Partridge hasn't included that detail in a novel.)

"Mystery writing is fairly conventional," points out Partridge, who describes himself as a "voracious reader of every kind of book," especially mysteries, and especially series containing what he calls "continuing characters." He names among his favorite authors P.D. James, John LeCarre, Sue Grafton, James Lee Burke, Janet Ivanovich, and Tony Hillerman. The standard formula for a mystery, according to Partridge, involves a murder; a group of suspects with motive and opportunity; a sleuth; enough clues dropped along the way "so that the reader can say 'oh yeah' at the end"; and tensions created among the characters within a particular setting that provides convincing details of their daily life and work.

Carom Shot opens with the murder of a young white woman. The victim, whose father happens to be a member of the Providence police force, turns out to be a dropout from the East Side Ivy League "Carter University"— which the narrator describes as "a mini-state inhabited exclusively by the smart, the opinionated, and the stubborn," and whose "main drag," Thayer Street, "... is alive, trashy, nondescript, and very non-Ivy, having had the benefit of haphazard growth which permitted the funky, the offbeat, and the counter-cultural to prosper, survive, or disappear without notice." This murder may or may not be the work of The Stalker, a serial sex offender who's been preying on black Carter co-eds, creating a campus security nightmare that Mayor Russo, reluctant to provide more police protection, tries to pass off as solely the university's problem.

The sleuth is narrator Algy Temple, a fifty-year-old lawyer who serves as University Counsel, and whom Partridge, in an interview, describes as "a person whose roots go back as far as they can here in Rhode Island"—a character who, fittingly, at the low point of his morale tries to derive comfort and inspiration from the statue of the city's founding father in Roger Williams Park. Temple's family pedigree contrasts sharply with that of his close friend since childhood, Providence Police Commissioner Tony Tramonti, whom Partridge points out is "a good guy coming along, trying to make his mark, whose family came up the hard way." Tramonti is waiting for the right opportunity to run for mayor—undoubtedly material for the book's sequel(s). Narrative tension comes in the form of potentially shady characters neither the narrator nor the reader knows whether to trust; family obligations; rocky romance; and familiar-sounding town-gown politics ("Sonny Russo had made a career out of painting the tax-exempt University as a free-loading, snooty, drug-ridden, haven of liberal hypocrisy"). A campus rally featuring a black reverend/community activist provides the scene for a breathtaking climax.

Carom Shot uses as its epigraph the opening lines from the Eagles song "The Last Resort": "She came from Providence/ the one in Rhode Island/ where the old world shadows hang/ heavy in the air." A unifying factor for all the novel's characters is what Partridge calls the "old world murkiness" of the city of Providence, which he captures so well in descriptions of both the physical setting ("It was all so pristinely historic that it made me nostalgic for the neighborhood's remembered tawdriness") and the emotional atmosphere ("...if Providence politics has a texture, it is sandpaper"). "Sharing common experiences gives you the same approach to a lot of issues," says Partridge, who claims that whether you're from Algy's background or from Tramonti's, your "life experiences are very much the same....This state does promote, within families and groups, a 'let's get on with it' approach to life, a desire for good government, a desire to see your kids do well."

Like any fiction writer worth his or her salt, Partridge disclaims any direct connection between his creations and real life. "These characters get born and developed," he says, like a father talking about a child who grows up regardless of parental influence. "Some traits may be reflective of people I know. You can see I have an idea of what law firms are like, especially East Side firms.... Algy as a character came along fifteen years ago in my mind," asserts Partridge, admitting that with this novel, since it grew and developed over such a long period of time, "There's a bit of a time warp. This is not necessarily Providence today. I don't mean to say the Providence Police Department is currently as I describe it" (which is to say, manifestly corrupt). Of Providence politics in general, Partridge states it "has not always worked well—it depends on who's in various chairs. I like it when it's contentious, because it's more fun!"

With a variety of ethnic groups presented in the novel, Partridge obviously has taken care to avoid stereotypes, to be balanced and fair in his characterizations. One could argue that he is not quite so successful when it comes to gender. The narrator's love interest is a strong, intelligent (not to mention sexy) professional woman, but at times the book reverses real-life gender roles in a way that doesn't seem to do justice to the female population. For example, in the book the first black Ivy League university president, who's good at galvanizing and unifying the various factions on and off campus, is a man, while his incompetent predecessor from the Midwest who lasted only a few years was a woman. And that's just for starters. But to complain about such things puts one at risk of sounding like one of the politically correct whiners whom Algy Temple so sensibly disdains.

"The real writer is one/ who really writes," wrote the poet and novelist Marge Piercy in a poem called "For the Young Who Want To" that ends, "Work is its own cure. You have to/ like it better than being loved." And a (probably apocryphal) story describes the mother of author-journalist George Plimpton bragging at a cocktail party, "Anybody can write as well as George does. But George does!"

J. J. Partridge does, too. And the Providence literary scene is the richer for it.

"THE BOOK STOPS HERE: Just How Public Is Our Public Library?"

My first cover story for East Side Monthly, appearing in the December, 2005 issue:

"I LOVE MY LIBRARY," everyone says. "I believe in the Library." "I've given money to the Library."

"I love my work," say the Providence Public Library employees. "I love my job." "I love what I do."

Yet these same people are angry. They're bursting with stories, charging injustice, betrayal, high-handedness, underhandedness, elitism. But few are willing to give their names. "This is off the record," they say. Or, "Please don't print that—they'll know who said it."

With eleven branches—a lot for a city this size—the PPL faces the constant challenge of responding to a diverse population's changing needs. Four years ago, PPL was the second-ever recipient (in the category of "urban libraries") of the coveted National Award for Library Service, given to "outstanding libraries that make significant and exceptional contributions to their communities." Some of the PPL's many outreach programs currently include literacy classes for immigrants of all ages; job training for youth; multi-lingual educational materials for teachers, students, and parents; long-term bulk loans to public schools; and book-bearing visits to day care providers. In recognition of these and other programs, the PPL will be featured in an upcoming report on urban libraries prepared by Libraries for the Future, a national organization for the preservation and renewal of libraries.

Still, on the home front, the Library has been mired in controversy. This past September, after a rancorous fight, library workers voted to unionize for the first time in PPL's 127-year history. And in early November, the Providence City Council was poised to pass an ordinance that would have allowed the City to appoint a third of the Library's 33 trustees. Introduced by Councilman David Segal and co-sponsored by Rita Williams, Miguel Luna, and Council President John Lombardi, the legislation would have required any private or "quasi-public" (Segal's term for the PPL) organization that gets more than a million dollars from the City's General Fund to have public representation on its Board. When the Library threatened to reject the City's annual $3 million if the ordinance passed—a threat that many have called a bluff—the motion was tabled for thirty days until everyone could figure out what to do next.

HISTORY

The PPL is unusual—though not unique—in that, originally funded solely by private money, it now gets over half its annual operating funds from the City and State. Still, its Director reports to a privately appointed Board of Trustees, and the PPL's mission statement declares: "The Providence Public Library is a private, nonprofit corporation providing public library services to the City of Providence and the State of Rhode Island."

Patricia Raub, who currently heads the grassroots Library Reform Group and also teaches American Studies at Providence College and UMass Boston, has (with the help of Elaine Heebner) written a booklet entitled "Unsettled Accounts: A Brief History of the Financial Relationship between Providence Public Library and Its Public Donors" (expected to be available soon in the Central Library's Rhode Island Collection). The title gives away the plot, introduced thus: "...[F]luctuations in the level of city and state funding have often left library officials feeling helpless, unable to control or even predict public contributions from year to year, even though library expenses have constantly risen. Frustration and anger on the part of library administrators have sparked resentment by city and state officials, who perhaps have felt that the library should have been grateful for whatever financial support it has received, and more understanding of the many conflicting demands upon limited public revenues. Consequently, the relationship between library and public officials has often been an ambivalent one."

At no time has this relationship been more unsettled than now.

BOARD MEETINGS AND MAKEUP

Making the Providence Public Library "more public, open, and responsive," is the goal of the Library Reform Group created in 2004. Member Linda Kushner brings up recent cuts in the book budget, acknowledging that the Library might well have decided to shift money to other priorities such as construction (several locations have lately undergone renovations). Kushner's point: "These are important decisions. The community needs involvement and needs to be told beforehand."

One recent reform is that PPL—after moving its endowment and fundraising mechanism to a separate legal entity that's exempt from public scrutiny—is required to comply with the Open Meetings Law. Notices of upcoming Board meetings are posted at the Central Library on Empire Street, at the City Clerk's office, on the Secretary of State's website, and on the PPL website, where a link to "Upcoming Library Meetings" generally yields the message, "No meetings are scheduled at this time," because, as Reform Group head Raub points out, the Library "is not posting notices more than the required 48 hours in advance. We are having to watch the websites every day."

Some maintain that the new compliance is "not really meaningful," since few trustees actually attend meetings (only 9 are needed for a quorum), and, in the words of one observer, "those who were there didn't ask many questions. It doesn't look like it's a really active Board." Kushner reports that a meeting she attended, "including six minutes of public comment, took fifty minutes, and the Treasurer's Report had no figures in it." A former PPL Trustee who asked not to be named says, "We were never told anything," and can recall "no serious policy issues" under discussion in several years on the Board.

Kushner praises the PPL for having recently appointed more Providence residents as trustees. But she would like to see "publicly appointed members who represent different libraries in different areas of the City, such as members of Friends groups, to bring to the Board some of the real-life experience of being a library patron." PPL Librarian Margaret Chevian can recall only a handful of trustees, in her 42 years, whom she would describe as "regular users of the Library."

Councilman David Segal pushed for open Library Board meetings as well as last year's resolution requiring the PPL to submit quarterly financial reports to the Council. Asked about the effectiveness of this so far, Segal says, "It lets them know we're paying close attention. We're still concerned about having a top-heavy administration that gets significant raises while the rank-and-file workers see no raises and no—or negative—changes in their benefits."

UNIONIZATION

In spring 2004, citing years of level City and State funding, the Library announced upcoming layoffs and cuts in hours and services. A group of library workers formed the Providence Public Library Defense, which urged citizens to sign petitions, attend meetings and rallies, write letters, contact trustees and donors—even at one point rally outside Library Director Dale Thompson's East Side home and plaster her neighborhood with flyers. A related online discussion group called "Save PPL" vowed "to shine light upon the lies and manipulations of the Providence Public Library board of Trustees and administration." One message accused the administration of having "the nerve to give themselves close to half a million dollars in pay raises over 5 years while asking staff to take non-paid vacations." (Thompson's salary rose from $99,962 in 1998 to $142,800 by 2004. There are nine other administrators listed on the PPL website. A full-time clerk with decades of experience currently earns about $25,000, a veteran rank-and-file librarian about twice that.)

When the smoke cleared, the citizens and public library employees of Providence appeared to have won a few concessions. After initial projections of as high as 60, only 21 staffers, including 7 librarians, lost their jobs—besides all the PPL janitors, whose work became outsourced. Most of the 21 had accepted "voluntary" severance packages. Branch hours didn't suffer; cuts in hours and services were concentrated within the Central Library's reference department.

But morale stood at an all-time low. How things were done angered people as much as what. Laid off workers had no hint of their termination date until an announcement, at 2 p.m. one day, that this was it. Many of the retained workers were told to report to different locations the next time they showed up for work. According to staff, since then they have continued to feel powerless and ill-treated, with some made to divide their work time among several branches, and many locations severely short-staffed. This spring, citing a fifth straight year of level funding from the City, the PPL did cut branch hours. And with rumors of further cuts—and even branch closings— spreading by autumn, the hundred PPL workers (including 20 librarians) voted to unionize.

"Other times the union issue came up, I spoke against it," recalls Margaret Chevian, who's worked at PPL since 1963. "I still feel unions just add another layer of bureaucracy. But this time, our backs were against the wall. We had no choice."

COMMUNICATION

Several sources attribute a "closed-door policy" to Dale Thompson, who came from California to become Assistant Director in 1980 and was promoted to Director in 1987. "She'll never talk to you."

The PPL website lists the Director's phone number.

"Dale Thompson," says a pleasant voice.

I state my purpose, reminding her that we met recently at the funeral of my father-in-law, a PPL Trustee Emeritus. She says she's so glad I called. We make an appointment for a face-to-face interview the following week.

Within two hours of leaving a message for the head of the Board of Trustees, I get voicemail from PPL Marketing Director Tonia Mason, confirming my appointment with Thompson and adding, "... Mary Olenn who's our Chairman has told us that you had called her, also, she'd gotten the message, but I told her that I would give you a call since you're talking with Dale, I told her not to bother calling you back, because Dale is going to be our primary spokesperson at this time..."

In contrast, nearly all the community activists and employees contacted for this article have volunteered names and numbers of more "people you should talk to."

Under the heading "COMMUNICATION," the website of The Devin Group, hired by the PPL during the union organizing, states, "Consistently, communication appears as one of the top three items that needs improvement in every organization... Regardless of the reasons why, we all must find a way to communicate... Not just distribute information, but communicate in such a way that people reach an understanding." (Pro-union PPL employees quickly identified Devin as a "union-buster," not just a consultant hired to improve communication and morale, as the administration initially called him. "We can't imagine that Mark Devin's time is cheap," declares the PPL union website, "and so that makes us wonder where a cash strapped institution finds the funds to hire such a man.")

"The Providence Public Library is a very closed, opaque institution," says library patron Sheri Griffin in recounting the 2004 fate of the then-nascent Friends of Fox Point. Upon learning of the proposed cuts, this group circulated a petition (which Griffin says gathered 2,000 signatures in ten days) asking the administration to meet with patrons before implementing changes. "They didn't call any of us," Griffin recalls. "My phone number was on all the petitions." Instead, in what she calls a "paranoid response," she got a two-page document headed "Friends of the Providence Public Library," outlining a "Goal" ("To work in partnership with the trustees and staff ... The Friends, as an auxiliary organization, are not authorized to set Library policy, speak on behalf of the Library's Board of Trustees or commit Library funds."); listing "Example [sic] of Friends activities," and setting rules for "Implementation." After much internal controversy—several members "just wanted to have 'book & bake' sales and buy some shelves"—the Friends of Fox Point declined to sign and disbanded (but are rumored to have reorganized under a different name).

The Friends agreement "makes sense—I can't criticize it too much," says Richard Robbins, a retired librarian who's been instrumental in getting Friends groups started in Pawtucket and Warwick. Last year Robbins helped organize "Friends of the Library," intended to serve not any particular branch but the whole PPL—a group that, like Griffin's, fell apart due in part to controversy over whether to sign the agreement. "While our group was called 'Friends of the Library,' that was really a misnomer," Robbins recalls. "It was a protest group. It should've been called 'Enemies of the Library Administration.'" But, Robbins admits, "I cannot be friendly towards the current administration, because they have been inconsiderate of the staff... If there were ever a new administration there, I'd be interested in being a real Friend of the Library."

STATE FUNDING

"Among the most generous in the country," is how Anne Parent, Chief of Library Services for the State Office of Library and Information Services ("OLIS"), describes Rhode Island's funding policy for public libraries. This fiscal year, PPL is receiving $746,501, representing 25% of the tax-based funds it got from its own municipality two years ago; plus $575,246, representing 25% of what it spent on operating costs out of its endowment income (PPL lobbied for this new funding mandate, which benefits mainly itself and Westerly, the only RI libraries with big endowments). The State also partially reimburses construction costs, not considered operating expenses.

Besides the above percentages—which every "qualifying" RI public library is entitled to—the PPL alone receives funding for a Statewide Reference Resource Center. The 2004 cuts targeted this SRRC when its state funding remained level. OLIS maintains, in a Q&A page on its Libraries of Rhode Island ("LORI") website, that "every RI public library welcomes nonresident walk-ins and telephone reference questions," and that while "the breadth, depth, and specialization of Providence's collections" behooves the State to give them special support, the OLIS contribution is "a state subsidy for services that would be provided in any event, rather than a 'quid pro quo' dollar-for-dollar payment for specific services." Anticipating a 2006 legislative commission "to look at the future of all RI libraries," Parent now hopes "the statewide role of the PPL" will be a particular topic of discussion.

Currently up to $924,116, the State's contribution to the SRRC brings its total funding of PPL operating costs to over $2 million in 2005-6. OLIS and PPL negotiate an annual contract for the SRRC, posted on the LORI website. Despite OLIS's repudiation of a "quid pro quo" arrangement, the most recent contract posted (2004) gets down to the nitty-gritty, specifying several minimums: hours the Center is to be open, courses and workshops to be offered, visits of staff to other libraries, etc.

Asked if the City has any plans to negotiate a similar contract, Providence Mayor David Cicilline says, "I don't believe that's necessary," pointing out that the PPL is a separate nonprofit organization run by "people who are experts at administering and managing libraries... I'm not proposing that the City manage the Library—that's a function and responsibility of the Board." He does, however, say he supports the concept of adding publicly appointed members to that Board.

THOMPSON SPEAKS

The interview with Dale Thompson takes place at the Rochambeau branch, on the same day a Projo Metro section front-page article proclaims the standoff over the Board composition. Beginning outside, a tall, smiling Dale Thompson in sunglasses points out architectural features of the original building and the recent addition, towards which the Friends of Rochambeau raised over $100,000. "We own all the buildings, they're not City-owned," she says, proceeding inside. In the community room where a Friends of Rochambeau Book Sale is doing a brisk business, there's a portrait of Elodie Farnum, the child-prodigy violinist who died at 13 in 1915, prompting her benefactors to found Rochambeau with the money raised for her European debut.

The tour of the branch continues: conference space for community meetings; technology center for computer training classes ("all free, and all privately funded ... high speed internet access through the generosity of the Champlin Foundation"); main reading room with its new "open sightlines"; teen area; Russian collection "for the growing number of immigrants in the community"; and finally the upstairs children's section. The branch is full of patrons, all ages and colors. A man in a yarmulke types at a computer terminal. Another man reads a Russian newspaper. Thompson warmly greets a mother and toddler who climb the stairs to return picture books.

Seated at a kiddie-sized table in "Vicky's Reading Room" (named for the late library advocate, Senator Victoria Lederberg), Thompson doesn't stop talking, except for an occasional sip from her Dasani bottle, until she's finished describing every one of the programs on her written list: intergenerational Family Literacy ("now privately funded by five or six different sources"); Cradle to Crayons ("funded through private funds"—also connected to a federally funded program headed by Ready to Learn Providence); LARKS (Learning and Reading Kits) in English and Spanish; "Mother Goose Asks Why"; the 2nd grade library card campaign ("private funding to give every child a book" when s/he signs up for a card); Book Buddies volunteers; TeenPOWer ("corporate support plus private donor challenge grants" to pay high school juniors and seniors—who hang out at the library anyway—to read to younger kids and help patrons on the computers); curriculum support for schoolteachers (Eisenhower Grants); the Verizon "Whiz Kids" program, including a grant from the Rhode Island Foundation to teach filmmaking; ten bilingual Americorps volunteers (federally funded) ...

Interview time is running out. Thompson readily states the endowment size: between 35 and 36 million, with a spending policy of 6% ("We know it's high, and it needs to be lowered"). From Elodie Farnum to Verizon, the message of the past two hours is clear: The Providence Public Library has many funders that are not the City of Providence or the State of Rhode Island.

Asked about the brinksmanship reported in today's Projo, Thompson unveils some news: this very morning, she signed a contract with two consultants, Synthesis Partnership, a Providence firm that "works with organizations facing or creating change," according to its website; and Dubberly Garcia Associates, Inc., specifically a library consulting firm based in Atlanta and Denver. They've been hired—with funding from the Rhode Island Foundation, solicited jointly by the Library and City—to help facilitate the Strategic Planning Process already begun this past year with community meetings at every PPL branch. Expected to come up with a 5-year plan by spring—in time for the next budget cycle—the "planning team" will include 5 members from the Library (Thompson, 2 trustees and 2 staff members); 5 from the City (Director of Policy Gary Bliss; City Solicitor Joseph Fernandez, who already holds Cicilline's ex officio seat on the Board; Providence After-School Alliance head Hillary Salmons; and two City Council members); and five from the community whose identities are (or were, at the time of this writing) still to be determined. "We need to develop consensus among all partners around these issues: what our crucial services and programs are, and how to provide them with the available resources," says Thompson. "We want to be communicating all during the process about what's going on—keep everyone informed so everything is clear."

QUESTIONS FOR THE FUTURE

By the time you read this, news of the Strategic Planning team will have been widely publicized. Key players will have indicated whether this satisfies them for now; all the members will have been named, and observers will probably complain that too many are 02906ers. Governor Carcieri may even have appointed a State representative to the PPL Board—something he's been entitled to do but never has. And the real questions and issues will still lie ahead.

Questions for the Board, like one prompted by a perusal of PPL promotional materials, including the 2005 Annual Report with its financial statement listing almost a million private dollars for "Organizational Restructuring (Restricted)." This calls to mind the 2004 brouhaha, when the administrative salaries that came under attack were defended as privately funded, while the longstanding SRRC was placed at the mercy of State budget constraints. How is it that so much private money is specifically designated for cherished items, while the public money—much of which the Library has just threatened to reject—seems to go for basics like keeping workers' salaries paid and buildings open?

A question for outside donors: Why not become a local hero by funding these ordinary, everyday things the people of Rhode Island rely on?

And here's one for everybody: What will it take to get all these Library lovers—who've so far demonstrated their passion and commitment through angry voices, antagonistic websites, letters, rallies, meetings, petitions, labor and legislative battles—to start working with, rather than against, the PPL leadership?

Wrapping Paper Relic

Found in an antique desk in our century-old house. From the Sixties? John used the last of it to wrap my Christmas presents.

Playing with Fire

Okay, I KNOW that fire is a highly dangerous and destructive thing, taking mere seconds to go from a harmless spark to a fatal conflagration---I'm not denying this. But how come it takes me six matches, twelve sheets of twisted newspaper, sixteen cedar shingles, countless dry sticks, and at least forty-five minutes of near-constant attention to get my wood stove out of the creosote zone?

Peer Pressure

Middle Schooler won't wear mittens or hat or zip up jacket. Has played cello since third grade and happily checks "classical" for "favorite type of music" when filling out questionnaires, but was discovered up in room the other day with radio tuned to loud rap.
When is it time to worry about drinking and drugs?

Prius Pride

When you get a new Prius (which was the car you really wanted to buy two years ago but ended up with a Rav 4) you get to hear about all sorts of other people who wanted to get a Prius or DID actually get a Prius, including your neighbor's relatives, whom you see only when they drive up from out of state in the megamotor---such a gas-guzzler that you have actually exchanged e-mail with someone in another COUNTRY who has complained about this family's vehicle; and that makes you think Toyota needs to come out with a bumper sticker that says, "MY OTHER CAR IS A PRIUS."

Dinnertime, Monday

So what time do you want us on Saturday night, Amy?---and we need directions to your house. Uh-oh, Amy, we're having a cello crisis here, I think Olivia just broke a string. Amy? Can you hear me? Amy you're breaking up, I can't hear you, are you driving out of reception range? Amy?... I give up, she'll call back. Okay, Olivia, yes, it looks like a broken G-string but it's not the end of the world, we can get it fixed. *RING RING* That must be Amy---Hello? Oh hi, Tom! Are you sure? Thanks so much, and I'll drive next week. Do Casey and Ryan have their portfolios and their post-it-pads? Yes, I'll tell her. Martha?! That was Mr. McGowan, he says he'll be here at 5:15 to drive you to art lesson so be sure & be ready. No, Olivia, I can't call Mr. Beekman now because the violin shop isn't open on Mondays, I'll have to take the cello to him tomorrow, and he'll probably make us leave it overnight---he always does when it needs repairs. But I can call Mr. diCecco and cancel tomorrow afternoon's lesson, that way you can stay after school like you wanted and help Amanda brainstorm for her Head Turkey campaign…Are you sure there's a late bus? Even though intramurals are over?

Saying good-bye at the school bus stop...

…planting a kiss like Glenda the Good Witch upon Dorothy's forehead. "Be good, be safe." But what I really want to say is directed at the rest of the world: Be kind, be gentle. Please drive carefully. Warning: sensitive person. Give praise and smiles. Include. Accept. Encourage. Watch out for cello on staircase. Don't make fun of lentil-leftovers in lunch box. A backpack containing three hardcover textbooks is too heavy for a child weighing under eighty pounds.

Broaching the Subject of Longevity

National Geographic's November cover story is "The Secrets of Living Longer." There's another semi-current magazine still kicking around my house with the same basic cover story. Harvard Magazine calls theirs, "Is Aging Necessary?" I'm tempted to answer, "Apparently not, provided you went to Harvard."

Sweat

Rush daughter to piano lesson after 3 on-way errands, of which only one entirely successful. Zoom off, two more errands take up 10 of 30-minute lesson. How to fill time?--- since have unwisely omitted to bring laptop, reading material, sewing basket, bills to pay, etc. Consider stopping at local library for mindless "new release." Remember music school waiting room has magazines. Debate between Oprah and People ("Jen and Brad: Why They Split"). See little book face-down on shelf. Turn book over. Begin reading, for the first time, Don't Sweat the Small Stuff...and it's all small stuff. Steal book (return next week, promise!). Home: husband informs already own copy.

Coffee Klatsch

Yesterday morning in what felt like a throwback to the Sixties, four Saunderstown moms of fourth graders decided to have coffee together. "Brewed Awakenings" was discussed, but we ended up in my kitchen once it was revealed that two dozen homemade blueberry-banana-bran muffins had just come out of my oven. Most of the mugs were chipped, and all had blueberries painted on them, in three different china patterns. Discussion topics included our children, home renovations, underwear, and jobs---okay, so it wasn't exactly like the Sixties.
After everyone left, around 10 a.m., I found I was just as productive as on those days when we all disperse immediately upon Bus 19's driving off with our kids frantically waving and blowing us kisses.

Knight Edwards: In Memoriam

This past September a memorial service was held at Central Congregational Church in Providence for my father-in-law, Knight Edwards. Four hundred twenty-six people signed the guest book. Most of those—including the mayor, a U.S. Senator, two university presidents, and many others whose significance was probably lost on me—stood in line for up to two hours to shake our hands. Days later, attendees were still telling me what a wonderful service it was. One neighbor raved about the eulogy given by Central's pastor, Rebecca Spencer: "I told my husband when I die, I want her—even though I'm Catholic!" But another neighbor voiced a small complaint: there should have been more stories about Knight.

I acknowledged he had a point, then reminded him that Knight himself was the real storyteller; nobody else in the family has his talent or inclination for keeping a live audience captive and delivering a punchline.

Many people who shook our hands in the receiving line, or wrote us condolence notes, told stories, of course: Knight as a young boy indignant at having his hat swiped and thrown around the school bus; Knight and his father, William H. Edwards, greeting each other with a hug each morning as they started their work day at Edwards & Angell; Knight accompanying a young relative to a school father-son weekend when the boy's own father was ill with polio; Knight walking out of a Department of State Library Services meeting in disgust when he disapproved of a policy decision.

But as I ponder the absence of this man I loved, I wonder if his essence can be captured as well—or better—by the stories he himself used to tell, rather than by the stories we now tell each other about him. Like the one about the old Yankee sailor he met who abandoned his outing on a very foggy day: "Couldn't see my first mahk." "What was your first mark?" asked Knight. "Bow of my boat." Or the joke about the man who stood up at a dinner party and gave a toast to his lovely wife, "who's given me thirty-six of the best years of my life." "Thirty-eight, dear!" the wife called out, to which the husband replied, "Thirty-six out of thirty eight isn't bad."

"Don't stop me if you've heard this one," he'd say; "it bears repeating."

An effective speaker also knows when to shut up. Once in the Eighties when Edwards & Angell sponsored an outing for all their staff—a free concert, I think it was—Knight confided in me that so many people thanked him on the way out, he'd given up trying to explain that despite his name, he was not really responsible, not the "owner," just one partner in a firm established decades earlier by his great uncle. "Now I just say, ‘You're welcome,'" he told me.

Good storyteller that he was, he knew how to draw stories out of other people, too. No one acquainted with him escaped hearing about his World War II experiences, when, according to him, the U.S. Navy misinterpreted all the "ENG" (for English) courses on his Brown transcript as Engineering and made him a gunnery officer on a battleship. There was many a dinner table rendition of the Battle of Leyte Gulf, complete with artillery sound effects (probable source of his advancing deafness in later years); and my favorite wartime story involved a superior officer taking Knight aside and admonishing him, as an engaged man, to stay away from the gambling table. But the night my future in-laws met my parents for the first time, Knight somehow got my father, a man of few words, to tell a long story I'd never heard, about his own wartime reunion with family members in the Old Country whom he'd never met before. My father got choked up near the end of his telling, and none of his listeners' eyes were quite dry.

There were stories Knight couldn't tell without crying, either, like the time he was summoned to Ravello to rescue his stepmother and father, who'd just suffered a heart attack; Knight would break up when recounting how the innkeeper, a large Italian woman, enclosed him in a bear hug with a hearty assurance in broken English: "He is going to be all right!"

Despite his strong personality and ability to dominate a room, there was a big component of humility in Knight Edwards. When my father explained, that same night of their first meeting, that he'd gone to college on the G.I. Bill, Knight allowed as how he'd gone to law school on the G.I. Bill—making it sound as if he wouldn't have been able to go otherwise. And Knight always depicted himself as a young lawyer having to apply for a job at Edwards & Angell just like everyone else. (At some point he was eligible to convert his "LL.B." degree from Harvard Law School into the more impressive-sounding "J.D.," but he thought it silly to bother.)

I never knew Knight's father, William H. Edwards (known as "Bill"), but I see the same unpretentiousness in a photocopy we have of a letter he wrote to his infant namesake, my husband's older brother, in 1954. After devoting many words to the baby's illustrious maternal ancestors, he says, "Your forebears on that side are, I am sure, much more distinguished than those on your father's side. Not that your father's ancestors weren't good people. But they were mostly farmers without fame." The letter also states, "I think myself that preoccupation with one's ancestors means too much looking backward; but there is interest, if the interest is kept in the right proportions, in knowing the facts, and there is also inspiration (and sometimes warning) to be derived from studies of this sort." The accompanying handwritten genealogy chart, covering eight generations, details not just Edwardses but also Potters; Palmers; Gurneys; Shaws; people of Dutch extraction with names preceded by "Van"; some eighteenth century Fondas whose descendants supposedly include the famous actors; and others too numerous to list here. The earliest known Providence residents on the chart were born before the American Revolution. One couple is noted to have lived at the corner of John and Thayer Streets around the beginning of the 1800's.

When I peruse this chart and think of all the lives represented on it, indicated only by names like "Mehitabel Albro" and "Elisha Palmer"—plus a few dates and footnotes Bill made to the chart, containing such information as "buried at Swan Point," or "Storekeeper, South Berwick, Maine"—I wonder if any of these people, besides Knight and his father Bill, could laugh heartily at their own expense, recite long passages of Shakespeare from memory, and cry unabashedly at weddings. I wonder what stories people told about them, and how long the stories got passed around before they—the stories—died out. (Of the parents of the Edwards & Angell co-founder, Bill writes, "John Edwards. A farmer. It is said he could neither read nor write, but his wife Ann Van Schaik (pronounced Van SKOIK) kept his accounts, read to him, brought him up to the mark.")

When Knight's grandfather, Seeber Edwards (brother of the law firm's co-founder), died in 1914 at the age of 45, his family published a memorial volume about him. I remember coming across a copy of it years ago. It told all about the schools he went to and the jobs he held and the work he did for his community. Just as at Knight's funeral, it was all about him, and yet the man himself was missing.

The part of Rebecca Spencer's eulogy that sticks most in my mind is about Knight gripping her arm to tell her something important. What he actually said to her is lost on me—I can't remember that part of the story Rebecca told—but her description of him leaning close to her and holding on to the crook of her arm, such a typical gesture to anyone who knew him, brought him to life.

This was supposed to be a piece about Knight Edwards and his Providence heritage. And it is, but more than that, it has turned into a piece about life and death, about memory and storytelling; about how to tell a story, "how to save a life," as the writer Tim O'Brien has said.

Way on the opposite end of my children's family tree is my ninety-three-year-old Great-Aunt Jo. She's the last surviving member of her generation, from a family of six children, including my grandfather, whose parents emigrated from Naples around the turn of the twentieth century. The last time I saw Aunt Jo, prompted in part by the recent death of her ninety-five-year-old sister, I pestered her for stories of their childhood. Their schooling had largely ended by eighth grade, and they were never much given to writing things down, or having things written about them—there's no hand-annotated genealogy on this side of the family, no long discursive letter upon the birth of a namesake, no front-page newspaper article reporting someone's retirement from a distinguished career, as in the case of William H. Edwards. But I had my laptop with me that day, and as Aunt Jo talked, I typed as fast as I could: about how they washed sheets in a stovetop cauldron, and all six children used the same bathwater, and their mother (who later died of a cerebral hemorrhage while frying veal cutlets for dinner) sent them running down to the street with a loaf of still-warm bread to give to the soldiers returning from World War I … Aunt Jo is throwing a party at her house in New Jersey next month. I'm tempted to bring my laptop again—but on second thought, I think I won't. I think that, this time, I'll just sit there and be with her.

One Saunderstown neighbor told my husband and me that a few decades ago, his own father had been impressed, maybe even a little envious, at the boat Knight owned then, a Sabre 28 named Chibouk (that's another story). It became a sort of inside joke within their family: every time they gazed off the porch of their summer cottage at a pretty little sloop sailing down the Bay, they'd say to one another, "Look, there goes Knight Edwards!"

Knight Edwards died on August 21st, 2005. On September 9th, in accordance with his wishes, his ashes were scattered over Narragansett Bay, south of the Jamestown Bridge, on an outgoing tide.

[This article appears in the November 2005 issue of East Side Monthly.]

School Report: HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

The close of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, the penultimate book in J.K. Rowling's series, leaves in question the future of Harry's school. Will parents be willing to send their children to a boarding school that, despite every precaution, was recently attacked by Death Eaters? While the invaders gained access only with the help of an insider (now removed), how many parents will still believe the school's line about protective enchantments making it the safest place in these troubled times, with so many getting won over to the Dark Side, and terrorists lurking everywhere? Even with sufficient enrollment, how will Hogwarts solve its current leadership crisis? And who will teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, a vital discipline that's been unable to retain an instructor for more than a year?

With these issues all up in the air, now seems like a good time to assess Hogwarts: what it has stood for, its success rate so far, and its chances of survival.

Mission and Philosophy

Many people from the Pope on down have expressed opinions about the advisability of encouraging children to immerse themselves in tales of witchcraft and magic. At Hogwarts, rooms clean themselves à la Mary Poppins; bruises heal instantly, doors open at the touch of a wand. It may indeed be wrong to give youngsters the impression that problems can disappear so easily. But the really big problems in the Harry Potter books persist with real-life tenacity and complexity. Hatred festers for generations. Characters seem bent on not only hurting one another personally but effecting widespread destruction. (Sound familiar?)

Anyone who has actually read the books (as opposed to propaganda about them) will know that the message taught at Hogwarts has consistently been one of moral rectitude. Magic, like earthly powers, can be used for either good or evil, and the Hogwarts administration has come down firmly on the side of good. The latest book contains a flashback in which the series' villain, the still young Voldemort—(let's face it, only the uncool and/or cowardly refer to him as "He Who Must Not Be Named")—tells Headmaster Albus Dumbledore he's found no evidence out in the world of what Dumbledore has tried to teach him: that "love is more powerful than my kind of magic." But Dumbledore has a new protégé now—Harry Potter, whom he reminds, "You have a power that Voldemort has never had.' 'I know!' said Harry impatiently. 'I can love!'"

Now, this is not new ground for children's literature, not even sci-fi/fantasy. In A Wrinkle in Time, Meg, to save her little brother, has to figure out the only power she possesses that the evil aliens don't; of course it's love. But Rowling's protagonist is more of a modern cynic than anyone Madeleine L'Engle dreamed up: the text of the above scene continues, "It was only with difficulty that [Harry] stopped himself adding, 'Big deal!'" A very believable reaction, given Harry's frustration with the ever-losing battle against Voldemort—and one today's teenagers can certainly relate to, which may be one reason for the series' popularity among youth despite its ultimately goody-two-shoes message.

Harder to account for are the objections of adults. Reportedly some feel disturbed by the way Rowling blurs the distinction between good and evil—Harry's inward grumbling is a case in point. More dangerously, in researching the past Harry often finds himself drawn to a morally ambiguous character. What better way to teach children and teenagers about good and evil than to show them the gray areas? Real evil is often hard to spot—outwardly appealing, even seductive, masquerading as goodness (self-righteousness) or innocence (deliberate blindness).

And so it's true: Hogwarts students are not necessarily learning to obey authority unquestioningly. Sixteen year old Harry stands up to the Minister of Magic, the head of the witch/wizard government, saying, "You're making Stan a scapegoat, just like you want to make me a mascot," when he refuses to become the Ministry's poster boy. What could be more admirable—or more appealing to an adolescent? And how can any thoughtful parent object? The Minister is more of a politician than a true leader, more concerned with his own image than with serving his constituents or Doing Good. Harry has learned to see through this hypocrisy. How threatening is that?

Curriculum

Hands-on learning is key at Hogwarts. Boring lectures are rare, and nearly every lesson ends with a practicum: students must cast their own spells, mix their own potions, "Apparate" themselves to the other side of the room, etc. And lest you question the rigor of a steady diet of Divination, Charms, Herbology, Occlumency, and Transfiguration, let me point out how impressed I am, as a 17-year veteran English teacher, by the sophistication and wit of J.K. Rowling's writing style. Youngsters are certainly improving their reading skills, not to mention their vocabularies, if they can get through several books of several hundred pages each containing grammatically correct, syntactically complex sentences such as this: "Had Lucius known he held a portion of his master's soul in his hands, he would undoubtedly have treated it with more reverence—but instead he went ahead and carried out the old plan for his own ends: By planting the diary upon Arthur Weasley's daughter, he hoped to discredit Arthur and get rid of a highly incriminating magical object in one stroke." Compare Harry Potter to Judy Moody or Junie B. Jones, and you'll see at once why he's superior. Regular exposure to witty wordplay, in the form of fictional names like "Narcissa" and "Sanguini" (a vampire character), can only improve your child's S.A.T. scores.

Aspiring witches and wizards receive rigorous preparation for their own standardized tests, which bear initials like "O.W.L." and "N.E.W.T."

Parents concerned about their children getting enough writing will be happy to hear that Hogwarts students are assigned a great many essays, and that modern technology such as the self-correcting quill pen does not relieve them of the responsibility to check their own spelling.

Sports

The athletics program at Hogwarts appears to be limited to Quidditch—but what a spectacular sport it is! Opportunities abound for the same kinds of rivalry, injury, and celebrity that we know in more traditional sports—plus the playing field is three-dimensional! Students untalented at Quidditch, such as Harry's friend Hermione Granger, are encouraged to settle for excelling in academics.

Administration and Faculty

Hogwarts is divided into four Houses: Gryffindor (Harry's house), Slytherin (home of the morally questionable, as the name implies), Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw, which compete for the annual Cup using a point system. Each house has its own Head. During the current leadership crisis, some of the Head jobs seem to be up for grabs.

As boarding schools go, Hogwarts does not provide quite as much supervision as might be hoped for. This is probably because, as a fictional character, Harry Potter joins a long line of adolescent protagonists, from Cinderella to Dorothy Gale to Aladdin, whose parents—after having apparently given them a strong foundation of love (thus making them lifelong Good Guys)—are now absent (usually dead); whose treatment at the hands of their stepparents ranges from benign neglect to outright abuse; and who are lucky enough to have gained one or more mentors (preferably possessing magical powers) who advise and protect them but provide none of the breathing-down-your-neck that a real parent does. Just like their real-life counterparts, Hogwarts teachers and administrators range from sinister and vindictive to utterly incompetent to wise and admirable--but always slightly remote and distracted, so that the adolescents can both get away with a lot and get into a lot of trouble. But at Hogwarts—as at many real-life boarding schools— relationships among peers are paramount. Students develop lifelong friendships and loyalties. An important part of Harry's moral development involves learning to stick up for nerds and to value the school's social outcasts.

While members of the faculty appear highly qualified within their fields, some betray questionable ethics, and they don't always treat their students fairly—though this may be because we're usually getting the story from the students' point of view. Most notably there's Harry's nemesis, the oily-haired Severus Snape, on whom a Muggle student of mine developed a wicked crush, which she wrote about to wonderful effect in her highly successful college admissions essay. A new character in the latest book, Professor Slughorn, is a toady who practices blatant favoritism, cultivating only students with high connections or special powers. Professor Trelawney has an obvious drinking problem, but it's only sherry bottles that Harry catches her hiding. Which brings us to ...

Rules of Comportment

I must admit, I was a bit uncomfortable at the number of times Harry and his friends sat down for a drink (usually butterbeer or mead) with their teachers. Judging from the way these beverages loosen tongues and promote conviviality, they contain alcohol—so what goes on in those British boarding schools, anyway?! With all the books' romances, now that Harry and his friends are teenagers (crushes, breakups, frustrations, love-hate relationships), there's "an awful lot of snogging," as one friend of mine put it. You might also be put off by a bit of bathroom humor; and the text indicates rather often that somebody "swore," although the actual swear words are not printed.

Rest assured, however, that transgressions at Hogwarts are noted and punished. Harry gets detention for talking back to Snape. Recalcitrant students lose points for their Houses. Assigned prefects among the students, such as Ron Weasley and the aforementioned Hermione, serve to police the younger students.

Admissions and Fees

Hogwarts does not take unsolicited applications. Qualified students are sought out and invited to attend. Diversity is highly valued; Hogwarts accepts students for their magical aptitude and does not discriminate against Muggles (regular human beings) or on any other basis of race, let alone creed, color, or sexual persuasion. Tuition, room and board are set at vague but apparently reasonable rates, which never seem to be a problem even for orphans like Harry.

Directions on getting to Hogwarts

Due to recent security measures, Apparating to Hogwarts is temporarily banned. Students who have been accepted may travel by train from King's Cross Station, platform 9 1/2 (to which access is gained by pushing purposefully at the barrier between platforms 9 and 10).

Supplies:

Students are encouraged to purchase all books and supplies, including wands and capes, at Diagon Alley prior to the start of the term.

How to contact Hogwarts:

Currently all correspondence should be addressed to:

Professor Minerva McGonagall

Acting Head of School

Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry

Hogsmeade, England

and preferably sent by owl post. Large donations from philanthropic organizations are most welcome, especially during the current crisis. The future of Hogwarts hangs in the balance.

[This article appears in the November 2005 issue of East Side Monthly.]

BOOK: "Who is Charlotte Simmons?"

I propose a selection for a parent-child Book Club, popular in elementary schools, providing intergenerational bonding over literature. Except this one would be at the college level.

I’m talking about Tom Wolfe’s I Am Charlotte Simmons, in which the protagonist goes off on a scholarship to an elite university—the fictional “Dupont,” where she expects to find peers who are not only intellectually but also morally superior to the yahoos back home. Instead she finds rampant sex, drugs and alcohol, racial and social intolerance, eating disorders, blatant consumerism, selfish ambition coupled with academic laziness (including cheating)—you name it, “Dupont” embodies it.

Before leaving her there, Charlotte’s mother tells her if she doesn’t want to “git pushed into thangs … All you got to say is, ‘I’m Charlotte Simmons, and I don’t hold with thangs like ’at.’” But the book’s title is supremely ironic, for Charlotte has no idea who she is. Overcoming her initial horror, she quickly becomes sucked in by the scene: spends a large percent of her money on designer clothes; pursues a relationship with a BMOC despite realizing he’s a soulless predator; rejects a true potential soul-mate because he’s too geeky; completely neglects her former lifeline of academics; and arrives home for Christmas catatonically depressed.

Everyone in the novel proves similarly shallow (possible exception: the dumb jock, who struggles for depth but is too dumb). And every character—albeit brilliantly, accurately captured—is just as flat and stereotyped: frat boy, preppie date, bulimic roommate, basketball team homeboy, militant activist, self-centered nerd, oily college president, self-righteous professor, manipulative coach … It’s highly entertaining. But I couldn’t help wondering why I was slogging through all 676 pages when I couldn’t sympathize with any of the characters.

This, however, is not the question most people of my generation (40s and up) ask when they read this book. Rather, it’s “Is college really like this nowadays?” For the few I found who confronted their college-age children (“I hope this isn’t what your college experience is actually like…”), the children, not having read the book, were able to brush them off (“Yeah, Dad, you don’t want to know!”) or plead ignorance. (“Mom, what are you talking about? Who is this Charlotte Simmons?”)

Okay, I can see how anyone who attended college before the sexual revolution might be shocked by all the casual “hooking up.” And a few of the most de-humanizing phenomena Wolfe describes didn’t exist a generation ago (cell phones, co-ed bathrooms). If you were fortunate enough to attend an institution with enough real estate to give every student his or her own room, you wouldn’t have gotten “sexiled.” Still, much of the book rang true for me: drunken hazes; party suites; the club that kept a file of old papers for members to re-submit; sexual experimentation; consciousness-raising about date rape, the girl we watched pile food onto her tray, then excuse herself to vomit— Need I go on? Maybe it never happened to you. Or maybe you need a reminder.

When I described the book to current students and recent grads, it invariably struck a chord. “Sounds just like college!” quipped a senior who took my phonecall at the Brown Office of Public Relations (where I was referred after tryng the Offices of Student Life and Residential Life). She confirmed that “sexiling” was common, adding, “Freshman year is an excess. We used to be such party animals.” Invited to comment, Margaret Klawunn, Brown’s Interim Dean for Campus Life, did not respond. Students who readily corroborated Wolfe’s depiction of college life gave me permission to quote them—as long as I didn’t use their names. I was told, “Wesleyan is quite the place for drugs,” and, “Freshman year, I was surrounded by guys who were big alcoholics”—this from a 2004 graduate of Trinity College in Hartford, where the Thomas Wolfe now listed in the student directory is allegedly the writer’s son. “I’ve never seen so many kids destroy private property in my life. They would tear down signs in the dining hall, kick over trash cans full of trash in their own dorms, pee and puke all over the place…”

“A cesspool of drugs and sex—that may be a gross understatement,” was the reaction of Cherisse Cobrand, a black scholarship student at Duke who alone was willing to be identified. Another Duke junior who sees many parallels between Duke and “Dupont” claims that Wolfe’s daughter attended Duke. After describing “insane partying and illicit fraternizing,” this student reported, “Perhaps more disconcerting to me, however, is the prevalence of political apathy.… There are many curious, aware, interested-in-the-world students at Duke, but it is masked under a pretense of unconcern.… Paradoxically, I've been able to capitalize on this.” She attributed her appointments as Teaching and Research Assistants to the fact that “there aren’t many people competing with me for the positions, the talking time in class, the special opportunities, the awards and distinctions.” Charlotte Simmons becomes demoralized by this observation instead of using it as a chance to shine.

The Yale alumni magazine printed a panel discussion among students entitled “Are You Charlotte Simmons?” Upshot: yes, all this goes on, but you don’t have to let it dominate your experience. I heard similar testimony from students at Middlebury, Tufts, and Harvard: “It’s part of the culture, but you can avoid it if you want to.” Those who were most blasé about the lack of personal control had already encountered it—often in a more extreme form— in high school.

Some colleges are successfully curtailing the worst kinds of destructive behavior. I received extensive evidence of crackdowns at Duke—largely in response to lawsuits and negative publicity. Colleges have also established networks of support services, such as ”Behavioral Health Centers” and the aforementioned Dean of Campus Life. On many campuses students can choose to live among others who share their values—same-sex housing, over-21 housing, Christian housing. The existence of these options can reassure students and parents. But those who feel most depressed and isolated are often least likely to seek support. When Charlotte drums up the courage to approach her R.A. (“Residential Advisor”), the insincere platitudes she hears only make her feel worse later. At Duke, I was told, responsibility for rules enforcement often falls to R.A.’s, who “tend to turn a blind eye.” “My R.A. was a sophomore guy—was I going to go to him?” said the grossed-out Trinity graduate.

So where does that leave you, the concerned parent?

One of my most interesting interviews was with a Harvard scholarship student who claims he’s never encountered most of what Charlotte did—except estrangement from family. “Every person I know who went home for Thanksgiving had some sort of breakdown and wanted to leave [home] immediately,” he said, admitting there’s a “distance” whenever he tries to talk to his parents—even the one with a college degree. “It kinds of feels empty when I’m trying to explain to them everything I went through. The more involved I get and the more I do, the harder it is to communicate with them.” Not understanding what a “tutorial” is, his parents can’t appreciate how much harder he has to work in one. Every time he mentions The Crimson (which he writes for), “I have to remind them it’s the newspaper.” They don’t see why he has to get off the phone at 11 p.m. to attend a Crimson meeting. Summers aren’t so bad, he says; eventually he re-adjusts to the culture of home. But for short vacations, “I’d almost prefer not to have a break.” Talking to him reminded me of the chapter in which Charlotte writes a glib letter home—annotated after almost every sentence with her private reflections on reality.

Who’s responsibile for this lack of connection? And is it inevitable, or should we resist? “Sometimes I think the parents don’t want to have an idea of what it’s like!” the Brown senior said when I mentioned my facetious Book Group plan. Repeatedly, collegians expressed this sentiment: “My mother trusts me… She doesn’t really want to know what goes on.” Becoming an adult is partly about gaining independence. Children need freedom and privacy—even if this means they’ll make mistakes. My neighbor whose daughter graduated a few years ago from Tom Wolfe’s alma mater, Washington & Lee (which Wolfe denies is the novel’s basis), told me, “You raise your child and have confidence in them… I firmly believe there are things you’re better off not knowing.” Having read the novel, along with other Wolfe books, this father conceded, “He always gets the language and the atmosphere right. The question is how much he’s exaggerating—I hope a lot.” Of his own daughter, he remembers thinking, “‘She has more sense than this; she’d never do this. She’s not so shallow, vain, and stupid.’”

I believe in trust. But I also believe in discussion. My husband arrived home from his commute one night shaken by an NPR report about binge drinking on college campuses. “If I’d only warned her before she went,” lamented a mother whose freshman daughter died of alcohol poisoning. (Guess what we talked about with our children at the dinner table that night?) One young woman told me her lowest point in college was salvaged by a conversation with her father, who’d attended the same college thirty years before. Duke junior Cherisse Cobrand credited her mother for giving her a strong sense of identity when she wrote me, “Those people who did not know who they were or what they stood for prior to college literally lose their minds once they are there.… I thank my mother all the time for never sheltering me from the world, as I find that those students who never got the chance to be strong individuals growing up become subject to all sorts of influences in college.”

Does your child know who s/he is? Enough to withstand exposure to thousands of very different identities?

If you don’t want a truthful—admittedly satirical—depiction of the current American college scene, don’t read I Am Charlotte Simmons. On the other hand, if you do read it—and can get your kid to—you may be able, when dropping said kid off at college this August, to say something more helpful than Charlotte’s mother’s “… no matter whirr you’re at in the whole wide world, you’ll always be our good, good girl.”

And come the first vacation, you might be better equipped than Mrs. Simmons to deal with that strange person upstairs who can’t get out of bed or speak in anything other than monosyllables.

[Gigi Edwards spent 17 years as a high school teacher and college counselor.]

[This article appears in the July 2005 issue of East Side Monthly.]