February 24, 2007--Saturday Story: Found On Staten Island--Part Two

In Part One, Lloyd Zazlo finds his way to Staten Island by a circuitous route. In desperate need of a job, any job, he contemplates becoming a advertising copy writer and even comes up with a few sample jingles of his own; but, fortunately, before he is embarrassed by any of them seeing the light of day, he learns about a “radical” educator, William Birenberg, president of Staten Island Community College, through a book of his that makes a powerful case that universities need to be of the city and serve social purposes. After writing what can only be described as an obsequious fan letter to Birenberg, he is invited to meet him. Zazlo, though, as he approaches SICC notices that the college is situated not in the city but just down the road from the stone mansion where The Godfather was filmed and thus, in Part Two, begins to wonder . . .

It took some time to find a place to park but I finally did in a spot marked Presidential Visitors Only. And from there I was directed up the steps to Birenberg’s office on the second and top floor of the proletarian-named A Building. That felt more like what I had been expecting from the college of a socially-conscious author and CEO—no Hamilton Halls here. Though the walls of the corridors even outside the presidential suite were of high-gloss painted cinderblocks, another sign that I had entered a people’s college, once in Birenberg’s outer office these plebian walls were replaced by wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling mahogany panels and all the furniture was of carved wood and sumptuous leather.

One of his assistants told me to sit, that Dr. B would be with me in a minute—he was on the phone with the editor of the Staten Island Advance, the local paper, and she said, with a conspiratorial wink, that Dr. B was trying to “get him off his back.” They were editorializing about the College’s upcoming Italian Culture Festival, claiming that Birenberg, through it, was attempting to patronize the Italian-American community by pretending it was to show his respect for them though he had been overheard on numerous occasions referring to Staten Islanders as “Yahoos.”

Needless to say, this information, much more than I would have expected to receive considering the purpose of my visit, did not help me to relax. What after all was I getting into here? Hadn’t I just been invited to see Dr. B so we could talk about his book?

While pondering all that I had seen in the neighborhood surrounding the college, the fenced-in college itself, and now this about his apparent struggles with the local community, while wondering if I might simply slip away, his assistant returned and told me he was ready to see me and would I take this with me into his office. The “this” was a tall cut crystal tumbler filled with ice cubes.

On automatic pilot, with the glass in my left hand I was ushered through the door into his immense office. From twenty feet away, Birenberg sprang from his desk chair and seemed for a moment to disappear behind it. As he came around I realized that this was because he was, how to put this, so short—perhaps no more than five-four—and was, while standing, dwarfed by the huge desk and chair.

As he approached me, wearing unpresidential well-worn jeans, a black tee shirt that revealed he was in excellent shape, and Franciscan-style sandals, I reached out to take his offered hand but he ignored it, reaching instead to pull the tumbler from my other, trembling hand.

I stammered, “Sorry, I didn’t know. I thought that . . . “

Dismissively waiving off my attempted apology, he said curtly, “It’s not important what you thought.” And with that, leaving me standing there with my hand still extended, he turned his back to me and retreated behind his desk where he hopped up onto his chair which, because it was cranked up to its highest position, and I suspected included a pillow or booster on the seat, allowed him to appear to be a tiny giant, if that is oxymoronically possible.

He bounced in his seat once or twice to balance himself on his perch and, by grasping hold of the edge of the desktop, pulled his chair and himself forward . And from amidst the clutter of his desk top which included stacks of unread newspapers, a typewriter, books, and inexplicably what looked like a length of rusted chain, he retrieved a bottle of Cutty Sark, which he uncorked, and from it filled the glass I had been instructed to bring to him entirely with Scotch.

“I know, Lloyd, what happened to you at Queens College and I understand why you did not write about that in your letter to me. But though I understand why you were pretending to still be employed at that awful place it is still disappointing to me that you did not have the self-confidence to mention that and reflect on the meaning of the experience, no matter how difficult and painful. While writing about the book of course. You could have made all of that coherent if you had been honest and clever.” He took a long drink, watching for my reaction over the top of the glass. I think I managed not to reveal my unease. He therefore continued in the same vane, seemingly eager to provoke me, “This does make me wonder about your delivery capacity.” To this I must have shown a look of confusion and so he added, “Delivery capacity is what this work is all about. I didn’t come to this absurd place just to play games with Yahoos.” So, I thought, the editor was right. “I came here to transform lives and institutions.” He gestured to take in his plush surroundings, perhaps to indicate this was one of the institutions he was engaged in transforming or perhaps to indicate that he was planning to redecorate. “And so when I want you to work with me, you note I did not say ‘for me,’ I will expect you to deliver.”

From that I did in fact react, “Did I hear that you are offering me a job? I must admit, to try to be honest here, that I’m a little nervous and maybe I misheard what . . . “

He cut me off again with another wave of his hand. The same one that was holding the Scotch, which caused some of it to splash out onto his desk. “To be my Director of Community Education. Actually I think I’ll make you an assistant dean. That will impress them. ‘Dean Zimmerman’—how does that sound to you Lloyd?”

In spite of my leaping excitement, I tried to pretend to be calm. I smiled back at him, and wanted to seem casual when I said, “It would actually sound better if it were ‘Dean Zazlo,’ since that’s my name.”

“‘Zimmerman,’ ‘Zazlo,’ what’s the difference? You’ll still be a dean and I assume that’s what you really care about. You’re here for a job, correct? The book aside.” But before I could get myself mobilized to even begin to appear to contradict him, though I was thrilled by his offer, or thank him, though I couldn’t begin to imagine what the job would actually involve, he said, “Of course you will not have an office. I have already spoken with my dean of administration about that. Nor will you have an assigned parking space on campus.” He noticed my puzzled look, “That’s because I want you out in the community, not wasting your time here with the other deans, a sad lot they are. It’s all about delivery capacity, and in your case that will be among the people of this miserable island. I cannot, as I should, yet tear down this place, and I mean that literally, and rebuild it as a true college in and of the community,” that was a phrase now quite familiar to me.

Again he swept the room with a grand gesture which this time came to rest behind him on an architectural model that covered the entire surface of his massive conference table. “That was designed by Paul Rudolph, a friend,” he said, not facing me, “who as you know is the dean at Yale, and eventually that will be the new college here. It is a brilliant conception and will prove to be the template for other socially-engaged colleges in America and worldwide. In fact, to signal that, since it will take some years to convince the Neanderthals here to let me build this—notice how the buildings are set in grids, just like the city into which they will effortlessly blend.” At that I did wonder how that would work on gridless Staten Island which near his campus was more rural than urban, but I did not interject.

By flailing his arms and gyrating his body he twisted himself back from the cardboard model to face me. By this I was reminded that he was too short to turn his chair in the conventional way with his feet. But with no self-consciousness about that or anything he picked up where he had left off, “Yes, I wanted to create a title for you that would express my global aspirations for a new kind of responsive institution. You were to be Le Directeur Pour L’Éducation Permanent. There is such a position at the Sorbonne. Isn’t that an extraordinary concept, those French, to think of education as lifelong, as permanent. That’s what the title translates to mean. But you knew that.” For the first time he smiled and I for the first time felt the beginnings of colleagueship, though I was happy not to have to have that title. Not there on Staten island. Or, for that matter, anywhere in the U.S. “And wouldn’t it have been something,” he added, “to have that magnificent title on your business card.” Actually that’s precisely what I was happy not to have to deal with.

”Those gavones who live up on that hill,” he pressed on and, though Todt Hill was visible through the expansive window behind him, President Birenberg resisted making another grand gesture, “They didn’t want a college here in the first place. Any kind of college. They want to keep control of their children, especially their daughters, to see them married and having babies. They feel threatened by any form of education, particularly a liberal education. That it will infect the minds of their sons and daughters who might come home asking questions about complicated and embarrassing subjects. Their world would be threatened.” He paused and then laughed, “And of course they are right.

“And you can only imagine what they think about me—a big-eared Jewboy from Omaha.” He saw the look on my face, misinterpreting its meaning, though he did have protruding wrestler’s ears, which may have explained his blocky body, “Yes they do have people of our faith in Nebraska. But not that many here on Staten Island, much less running this college which is right in their backyard. I will tell you, as I am about to launch you into their midst, that they will not like who you are either, in spite of your American title. They came here in the first place to get away from people like us.”

His tone had changed; it had softened, coming from deeper within him, “And from Black folks as well. They welcomed them as slaves but when that was ‘unfortunately’ ended,” he made quotation marks in the air with his fingers, “they wanted to send them back from where they came. Staten Island, some evidence shows, wished to side with the Confederacy during the Civil War. Did you know that? So we are still living with that today.”

He paused again to take another long swallow and noticing that the glass was now nearly empty, bellowed, “Patty! Ice. More ice!” In a second the door to his office popped open and I assumed it was Patty who appeared with an identical glass filled to the top with ice cubes. Dr. B poured himself another drink, emptying the bottle of Cutty. Patty by then had found another full bottle in his lateral file cabinet and placed it on his desk. He stared at it for a moment as if to think what to do with it. He then opened the horizontal desk drawer where one usually kept pens and scissors and slid the empty bottle, on its side, into it. I could hear it rolling back and forth as he slid the drawer closed. The three of us, as if transfixed, silently listened to that hollow rattling sound.

When the bottle finally came to rest Patty slipped out and Birenberg picked up where he had left off. “We live today with that history of racism. And we, by that I mean you and I, we are going to be dealing with that. We will be confronting it directly.” He glared at me, adding with considerable emphasis, “I mean all day every day.” He paused to allow that imperative to sink in, to have its effect on me. I understood from that why I would have neither an office nor a parking space. I would be out in the community on the front lines with him. Though I also knew that he did have both an office and a parking space reserved for him right by the entrance to the A Building. But I did need a job and he certainly was fascinating, not in any way the usual university administrator, and I had learned to deal with issues of race at Queens. I thus felt ready and qualified to take on his challenge to help build his university in the city. I even managed to chuckle to myself—I sure have the scars to prove it.

“So here’s the deal,” he said, snapping me out of my reflections, “You start on Monday and will have that dean title. I know your last Queens College salary and I’ll double that. I assume you will not be unhappy about that. But for it I expect you to work days and nights because much of what you will be having to do will occur after normal college hours. Are you all right with this so far?” I had barely heard anything after the doubling-of-the-salary part, and he took my stunned silence as evidence of agreement. “You will be my agent, in and of the community. Also, my eyes and ears. I know those Mafioso up in those hills hate me as do many of their working-class ilk. Bigots that they are. But they are nonetheless our community and you have to win them over to our agenda. An agenda they will not like because I plan to integrate this place. The face of this campus is going to change. It already has in the first eighteen months of my presidency. Walk around. Talk to people. You’ll see many black faces. But that’s just a beginning. Before I’m done with this place the fences will have been taken down and the windows broken to allow fresh ideas to blow through. (I’m of course speaking metaphorically.) And you will be in the vanguard. Are you understanding me?” He peered at me with his black eyes with such penetrating intensity that I felt he could see and feel my flaming soul. In spite of all the contradictions and inconsistencies that were only too evident at the college and in the community, he had gotten to me. It had become more than about a job or the doubled salary. I couldn’t wait to get stated. Monday, just four days away, felt like an eternity. Perhaps the Revolution might still be possible. And here of all the unlikely places!

“I do not want to see you here. As I said, you will work exclusively in the field. We will meet monthly at the bar of the Staten Island Rathskeller. A terrible place but they serve honest drinks. At those time you will report to me about what you have learned and accomplished. What you have delivered.” He smiled broadly at that. “Do we have a deal?”

But again, before I could respond that I did have the delivery capacity he was seeking and that we did indeed have a deal, he again slid off his chair. With his hips he shoved the chair back and it rolled off the plastic carpet shield, crashing into the conference table and jarring the flimsy architectural model. He reached forward, brushing aside the newspapers and books, some fell to the floor, and grabbed hold of the old chain. Holding it gingerly as if it were fragile, he carried it, more he cradled it, and brought it around to the front of the desk where I was seated and stood with it, now extending it toward me like an offering, and asked, “Do you know what this is?” I shook my head. “I wouldn’t think so. These are leg irons. This one was actually worn by a slave. On the passge from Africa. A man who was brought here as chattel, in chains. I brought it back with me from Senegal, from Goré Island just off shore from Dakar. Do you know about Goré?” I didn’t move. “From the 15th to the 19th centuries, it is the point from which perhaps 20 million African slaves were shipped to the Americas. Twenty million. Do you understand the meaning of that number?” Still I did not move. I just stared back at him with unwavering eyes. “Helene and I, my wife, went out to that island and we walked among the ruins. But one building is still preserved. It was the place where the men and women were kept before being loaded, in chains like these, onto the boats. And when that time came they were hauled through a doorway that forever thereafter was known as The Door of No Return because after passing through it there would be no turning back. It is said that not one of those millions even looked back as they were marched to the dock.”

I thought I saw tears forming in his eyes, but he shook his head to clear them and continued, “And of those that survived, and millions didn’t, some, a few came here. Right to here. To this island. To work the fields. There were French Hugonauts and Dutch settlers here and they were known to be very cruel. If anyone, any slave escaped and swan across the Kill Van Kull to what is now New Jersey, they would track them down, every one of them, and force them to return. Punishing them so severely that many of the runaway slaves died from the lashings.”

He moved closer to me and raised the leg irons so that they were in our mutual line of sight. I looked at them and tried to imagine what it had been like to be shackled in them. “And now,” Birenberg continued, “some of those slaves who survived have great-grandchildren living here. Many on Jersey Street, as you will come to know. But before I send you on your way I want you to do one thing.”

“Anything,” I replied. He owned me now in more than a few ways.

“Put these on.” He pressed the leg irons into my hands.

“What?” I cried and jumped back away from him as if seared.

“You need to know what they experienced before you go to work among them.”

“But you said,” I stammered, “that I would be working with their descendents. I’m not sure I want to do this.” Saying this to him felt like a big risk. Would he be so angry with me that he would take back his offer?

“So you are not ready for this. I understand. I really do,” he withdrew the leg irons, “You have much to achieve. Much more to become. I knew that when I read your letter. And yet I invited you here to see me. I can be patient. But not very. There is work to be done and you need to get to it.”

And with that he trotted over to the sofa behind his conference table, threw himself onto it, and, I could not believe my eyes, clamped the leg irons around his own ankles.

Thus shackled, he struggled to pull himself up from the deep cushions. With considerable effort he managed to, and began to shuffle back toward where I remained seated. Because he had such short legs one might have imagined he would have been able to make good progress, but he was clearly having difficulty propelling himself forward. The chain rattled dully with each stumbling step. I wondered that maybe all the Scotch was also having an effect on his balance. But hobbling he finally he reached me and, with his hands on his hips and out of breath he said, grinning, “You see it is possible. Perhaps for you, next time?”

I said to him, “Perhaps,” and to myself, I hope this works.

“First thing,” he said, back to business, “is that fucking Italian Festival. Those illiterates at the Staten Island Advance are calling it the Backlash Festival, claiming I’m organizing it to only to patronize the Italian community—you know, we’ll sell zeppolis and meatballs on campus and that will make up for bringing in the ‘Niggers and the Spics.’” Even though Birenberg again formed quotation marks in the air, I thought this was beginning to sound entirely too much like Joe Murphy, my ex-policeman boss at Queens College. I was having second thoughts about my decision, such as it was.

“Well let them wait to see what we do here. In fact, what you do here because I’m putting you in charge of it. The festival.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I managed to say, “I’ve never done anything like that before. I mean run a festival.”

“You’ll be fine. Everything is planned. Yes, we will have sausages to make them happy, but we’re also borrowing from Bloomingdales examples of the latest Milanese furniture designs and my wife, who works at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, has arranged for them to loan us a dozen Italian Renaissance paintings and drawings.” I was stunned by this and he said that there would be no Titians, of course, just works of lesser figures. “We have to insure them and have 24-hour security, but to the people from this island they’ll all look like real masterpieces. They’ll talk about it for years.”

“So what is there for me to do?”

“Hand holding.”

“What?”

“The Italian Club . . .”

“The what?”

“. . . of Staten Island. They’ve been around forever and incredibly wield a lot of power here. The president is Al Maniscalco, former borough president. I’ve arranged for the college to have an ex officio seat on the Club’s board and I am assigning you to it.”

“Really? After what you just said about them not liking our kind shouldn’t you name an Italian?” I made my own version of quotation marks with my hands. “There must be some on your faculty.”

“No. I mean there are. Of course. This is Staten Island after all. But I don’t trust them. That’s why you will do it. You will gain their confidence and represent to them the real interests of the college. Diplomatically of course. And you tell me everything you learn about them and what they are up to. At our lunches.”

“Well . . . “

“Remember—it’s all about delivery capacity.” He was grinning.

And I thought, At least I have a job.

To be continued . . .