Carol Bergman

I was walking on 110th Street last Friday on my way to the Hungarian Pastry Shop to read a tutorial student’s manuscript over an ice coffee and poppy seed strudel, and looking forward to that strudel, when a voice behind me—“teacher, teacher”—interrupted my guilty reverie. How could I not turn around? A young, buff man, carrying a small backpack in his hands, said, “Don’t you work for NYU? Aren’t you a teacher? Do you remember me?”

“Yes, yes, no, please remind me,” I said.

I have been teaching writing at NYU since 1997, and at Gotham Writer’s Workshop before that. I’ve had a lot of students and, when I bump into them, I always remember they have been my student, and I usually remember what they were writing about. Though a name might have slipped, that comes back to me eventually, also. But this young man, I couldn’t place him. So, I stood quietly and let him talk. He was shy and stood some distance away, not a normal distance for a conversation between people who know one another. And, for an instant, I thought he had seen my briefcase and thus assumed I was a professor--we were near Columbia after all-- and, in fact, he didn’t know me, he was a con man, and I’d better be on my way. But how on earth would a stranger know I worked at NYU?

All these thoughts were racing around in my head while I was trying to figure out when this young man took my class or, if he didn’t take my class, how I was going to get away.

“I was the security guard at MAVA,” he said. “Bentley. Remember?”

MAVA is Manhattan Village Academy, a charter school that NYU uses as a satellite location. They subcontract to a security firm and Bentley worked for them. He was a friendly security guard and I always chatted to him as I entered and left the building. I didn’t get to know him well, but apparently our conversations had made an impression because, he now told me, he had been longing to be upstairs in a classroom. Then and now, his earnestness touched me because, I believe, the desire to learn, the ability to learn, is hard-wired in us and it is only the privileged, these days, who can continue their education. I am far from sentimental, but when I watch movies about young people and their teachers, or documentaries about schools being built in impoverished countries, young children bent over their scrappy books or slates, I want to get out there and start teaching. I stood there and thought to myself: This young man is talking to me because I am a teacher. I must encourage him.

“I’m a bus driver now,” he continued, “and the MTA offers to pay for courses at CUNY. I want to take classes but am worried about how I will manage my time.”

“I am sure you will manage,” I said. “That is a wonderful opportunity. I am so pleased you have such a good job now with such a wonderful benefit. You can do it slowly, one class at a time.”

“I’ve always been a good student. I read the MTA manual in one sitting. I know I have to go beyond my high school diploma," he said.

“You will get there,” I said. “I took my time getting my Master’s Degree. I needed it to be able to teach at NYU. I am so glad we stopped to talk, Bentley. I know you will do well.”
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I took a break yesterday morning from formatting my new collection of novellas and went to the press opening of the De Kooning Retrospective at MOMA. I enjoy going to exhibitions on my own, but I also enjoy going with an artist. Though our experience of the work is always different, I learn a lot about the work itself, and the visual artist’s process. Artists are often quite verbal—they keep notebooks and sketchbooks and they read a lot—and have a poetic way of talking about their work. My cousin, Peggy Weis, an accomplished print maker, is always a joy to be with at an exhibition for this very reason. When we arrived at the room of De Kooning’s late work, she gasped and said, “Look at what happened to him. These huge canvases of sweeping brush strokes. He’s no longer painting bodies, he is using his own body to express himself.” Then a young woman arrived to tell us that it was time for the Director of the Museum and the Curators to speak. We decided to skip it and walked back through the exhibition. This seemed to be okay; no one stopped us. What a treat to have the galleries nearly to ourselves. We took our time. I was hypnotized by De Kooning's skill as a draftsman and also the way he worked the canvas month after month, adding layer upon layer of paint. I thought of my own struggle to layer work, to build texture, to stay with it in revision. And I’m pleased that I finished the last novella of my current collection because I’ve had a disrupted summer. I decided the story did not have to be as long as the others, that less was enough, that I could work—with humility—on a smaller canvas and restrain my ambition to create a master work.  Read More 

I dedicate this blog entry to the residents of Ulster County who survived Hurricane Irene and are working hard to repair their property and their lives. I was there, cat, dog and chicken sitting for my daughter and son-in-law while they went up to a wedding in Maine. My husband had returned to the city and, once he was gone, my plan had been (and notice the tense) to enjoy some end of summer fresh air, take long walks, read, relax, and write. But first the kitten jumped onto the keyboard and chewed on the wires, then there was a minor earthquake, then a bear attacked the chicken coop, foxes arrived, and my son-in-law’s deterrent—a spray and motion sensor light—went off continually, disturbing my sleep. Of course, the dog barked and barked and barked. I thought of my artist-cousin who recently went up to her home in Martha’s Vineyard for a week of solitude to think and work. She was so distracted by the obligations of house maintenance she couldn’t get started and ended up painting the stairwell a robin egg blue. Ever since, she’s been dreaming of Matisse.

My daughter and son-in-law drove through the night after the wedding ceremony and arrived at 4 a.m. The power had gone out around 2 a.m. and, to say the least, I was glad to see them. The rain was sheeting and smelled like the sea where it had been born. I was curled up on the bed with the dog and the cat reading the first of the Trollope Palliser novels on my Kindle with a micro-light. Cozy, but I was still uneasy until my family returned safely. And they drove into the storm so I wouldn't be alone in the house.

It was the tail of the Hurricane, a tornado-strength wind—that caused the most damage just as the power line crews were beginning to get to work the following afternoon. Of course, we knew this wind was coming but it was hard to imagine how strong it would be so far inland.

Fortunately, the damage on the property was minimal, and no one got hurt. Only one chicken died when a large branch fell onto one of the coops. Others in the area were not as lucky.

I am now back in the city after a six hour journey in a convoy—two SUV’s and two excellent GPS’s--with two savvy self-confident Canadian women. I left my small Honda upstate knowing I wouldn’t be able to get through water or over downed branches. I was also feeling skittish and did not want to travel alone. One of the by-products of natural and man-made disasters, I find, is that community coheres instantly.

I think we crossed the Hudson River three times in search of clear roads though we eventually lost track. Towards the end, we passed through Bear Mountain State Park which looked untouched, as did the city.  Read More 

I have moved into my (second) childhood neighborhood. I have not thought about it very much because I have been so busy, but Sunday morning, on the way to the gym, I walked down West End Avenue and saw the apartment building—895—where I lived from the age of 4 until I entered junior high school. We lived in the high-ceilinged first floor apartment where my mother, an obstetrician-gynecologist, also had her office. We occupied the back bedrooms and the living/dining area. Our maid had a small room off the kitchen. Of course there were several such maids/housekeepers/nannies to look after us while my mother and step-father worked. It was unusual in those days; most moms were stay-at-home moms. My refugee parents never had the luxury. Nor do parents today.

I walked slowly and then snapped an iphone picture which I immediately posted onto Facebook with a short caption. But, unexpectedly, there was more to say, more to write about: This is where I lived when I was a child. This is where I played handball, roller skated, jumped rope and played jacks. My friend, Diana, lived next door at 885. Her mother did not work and she lived in an extended family—grandmother, aunt, cousins—while her father worked. I thought the set-up sublime and ate lunch there whenever I could. And so on.

So this may be the beginning of another memoir. It certainly feels as though it is. And though I have writing plans for the next month—the fifth novella in a new collection—I may take a detour, it’s hard to say. It is very pleasant to let the mind drift, to allow the images and ideas to surface, pen and paper (or computer) at the ready.

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I moved last Friday and, though today is only Wednesday, I am at my desk, in my new atelier, eager to write a blog or anything else that will elevate my brain out of boxes into other, more creative thoughts. In search of a café to sit and read, I missed my old, familiar neighborhood and retreated back to my apartment which is so high and bright and cool that I don’t really need to sit in a café to read. Except that when I am here, there is always something to do: a box to unpack, a picture to hang. Getting back to a project after an enforced hiatus is, therefore, a matter of discipline. So I went to a yoga class this morning at my new gym, picked up some lunch, ate the lunch with my husband, discussed the dimensions of a kitchen table we need to buy, and got to work, sort of.

First things first, email. Then more gadgets for my iGoogle. Then I hung another painting, lay down on the bed to read, and fell asleep. Now I am back at the computer writing this blog, a warm up, I suppose. I added the New York Review of Books to my gadgets and read an article about postcards which was well written and interesting. I have tossed away every postcard I have ever received except for one which I have in front of me now. It’s hand painted, a detailed, delicate color drawing of Sarajevo circa 1908, before bombs shattered the city. It was sent to me by a relief worker friend after the most recent war had come to an end, and two mutual relief worker friends returned to the city to get married. Carefully written in a steady hand, it tells a story in twelve succinct lines about the occasion and the city itself, quite different than when the writer was last there. I cannot remember the last time I wrote a postcard. Oh, yes, I can. It was two years ago when I traveled to Alaska. I will not be traveling this summer and I have not, as yet, received a postcard from other travelers. Of course, I have received emails and Facebook postings. In their distillations, they are similar to postcards, and environmentally correct, no? Please advise.

For anyone interested, here’s the New York Review article by Charles Simic, a fine poet:

http://www.nybooks.com/blogs/nyrblog/2011/aug/02/what-ever-happened-summer-postcards/

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There is always noise in New York, even on a holiday weekend. But today the noise is mostly in my head. I’m in the city, having just been upstate—a respite—for three days, and returning next week for a short visit, probably the last before my move at the end of July. I’ve been reading a lot, but not writing anything except for the occasional entry into my notebook, and this blog. At least there’s that. Still, I’m uneasy. My head is full of dimensions and lists. What to give away, what to sell, what to buy, when to begin the change of address emails. And the only activity that seems to shift the “moving” thoughts is swimming and poetry. I recite what I have already memorized—I just finished “The Second Coming,” by William Butler Yeats—and am casting around for a new poem. My mother asked me the other day why I am memorizing poems and my answer was: for the pleasure of it and, more specifically, a writer’s pleasure. It’s like tracing. You get to know the poem well, and to study the poet’s choices. Why this word and not another? Why the line break here and not there? What is this poem about?

My private students are on hiatus also, although I’ve had one long manuscript to read for a rendezvous next week. Another former student called yesterday about an academic paper he’s writing that’s been rejected twice. Would I work with him privately? The more manuscripts, the happier I am. Like everyone else, I have to keep the cash flow going, but, as important, studying a manuscript closely keeps my writing muscle supple. While reading, I am also writing. I know exactly what I’ll be working on as soon as I move, and then for months afterward. The only interruption once I’m settled into my new apartment will be the sale of my revised literary murder mystery. Then there will be more “to do” lists—editing, publicity— more poems to memorize, and more laps to swim.

What do writers do when they are not writing? They live their lives, garden, fall in and out of love, swim, memorize poems, have dinner parties, move.  Read More 

I have just relinquished my very large Webster Dictionary. It was chunkier than two phone books, another anachronism. More often than not these past few years, I have looked words up on the internet, and received definitions and etymologies—instantly.

This particular dictionary of which I speak today, and which I relinquished the day before yesterday and already miss, was published by Barnes & Noble ten years ago or so and when an erudite friend of mine told me about it—it was on sale—I rushed out to buy it. Not that there was a rush on dictionaries, but I get excited about dictionaries and the words therein, words I might one day make use of in my writings. So I bought the dictionary, a dictionary of the American English language, which complemented the very large two volume Oxford English Dictionary bequeathed to me by my stepfather, an immigrant who learned English as a Second Language and spoke it with depth and distinction.

I have no idea how or when the Webster will arrive in Mongolia, where it is headed. A former colleague, who taught English there for two years, sends boxes of resource materials to a small village school. Maybe by the time the tome arrives, the villagers will have internet service and they can use the dictionary as a door stop or winter fuel. They might or might not have a memory of the Oxford tomes, which I donated several years ago. To follow the path of these donations would be an interesting adventure, into the past, which is just a few steps behind us.  Read More 

We are a country at war sending out a volunteer army of mostly young men and women. This post is dedicated to our fighting forces and to all the returning soldiers, may they live with ease. If they are able to speak when they return, they have stories. I have tried to gather a few of them, and it has not been easy. I abandoned a book proposal a year ago, though I may return to it. A soldier’s story surfaces in dreams or it is held in silence, too awful to be told. I am on the look-out for soldiers and their loved ones every day. I want to talk to them, thank them, and console them. On Friday, I encountered one such story as I was checking out at Trader Joe’s. The young man scanning my groceries was a soldier and I cannot even say he is a former soldier because he may be deployed again. He has already been in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Libya. He scanned my groceries, lining them up neatly, packing them carefully, thoughtfully. He had tattoos all over his arms and what I could see of his chest above the line of his tee-shirt and onto his hands and slender fingers. The tattoos were hard to decipher against his brown sugar skin so I asked them what they were about, what they meant, and every one of them was a story about men and women he loved. And the tattoos I couldn’t see were about peace and love with a dove of peace on his left chest below his heart. “Love conquers all,” he said. “I don’t want to fight again.”

“What will you do if you are re-deployed?”

“I will go again and fight in a senseless war. All the soldiers know what’s on the ground if only our commanders and politicians asked us. But they don’t.”

The line was forming behind me, people waiting to be served. I could have stayed talking to this young, polite, earnest man all day. It was touching the way he spoke to me and asked how I would like my groceries packed, and then packed them carefully so that the eggs would not crack and neither bag would be too heavy.

I wanted to hear more about his tattoos and I wanted our politicians to hear his stories.

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I just opened a Twitter account and, dear reader, have no idea what I am doing just yet. I think it’s free advertising, no? Or a running commentary on whatever we choose to comment upon. Do people tweet more than once a day, every hour, every minute? Is this like texting? Do people write back to one another? Is this, in fact, writing, sound byting, or a new form of poetry?

One of my students suggested I begin tweeting at the end of last term. I looked her up—Lara Salahi, she works at ABC—and sure enough she was there and I have elected and selected to “follow her.” She’s an interesting person, she writes well, so I am sure I will be interested in what she has to say. She had mentioned that a print out of her Twitter tweets gathered together onto one page reads like a narrative. That was good news and spurred me on during this week I’m having of solidifying and updating my social networks. I’ve also made some changes on my Amazon Author Central page. And now I am resting as I write this blog, and doing my laundry. What else do writers do all day?

If you would like to follow me, here's my address:

bergman_carol

Any suggestions for tweeting are welcome.

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…and more than a month since I have written a blog. Why? Because I am moving. What does a writer do when her writing life is disrupted? Lament. So, this is a lamentation of sorts, though it won’t go on too long, dear reader. In fact, much has been accomplished since the end of term: the notebooks continue, a revision of a book has been submitted to my agent, and I still have time to read a lot. I read all the time, more so now that I have a Kindle application on my new iPhone. This is good for short reads on the bus or standing in line. I’m mesmerized by the technology that syncs the iPhone Kindle app to the Kindle.

But enough of that techno talk. Technologies are tools and what matters is how we use them. Which brings me to FB of which I have written twice on this blog. I am now an aficionado for all the obvious geo-political reasons, but also because, as a writer, I have found a way to distill interesting thoughts into Haikus. I sometimes write longer status reports or put up links to articles, but, mostly, I distill. And this is a writing exercise. Yesterday: “My mother is losing her memory. She has had it for nearly a century.”
That got a lot of heartfelt responses.

I also realize how much I have missed book stores and so my status report on FB today will be just that: I miss bookstores. The other day I spent too much time at The Strand, and bought two books. I could have come away with fifty. It was delicious, truly.  Read More