Janet Iacobuzio
This is what the teachers at Blind Brook High School gave me.
Sara Simpson took us on a "total Spanish immersion weekend" to her apartment in Manhattan and let us all sleep over on the floor in sleeping bags.
Elaine Yellen, who lived in Scarsdale, if memory serves, told us in no uncertain terms that her husband was a professional panhandler - and quite good at it - with such utter seriousness and conviction that we all believed her. Later, we learned he was the head of ear, nose and throat surgery at a NYC hospital. She was a great French teacher.
Madame Toulouse taught me how to correctly make a noun masculine or feminine by saying in a sort of scary, horror-movie announcer voice: "Eet ees what ees PO-SSESSED!"
Peter Tarshis put me in a one act play called The Man Who Turned Into A Dog. We wore white make-up like mimes and hooded sweatshirts. On opening night, I dropped a line which then caused the rest of the cast to drop half the play. I didn't sleep all night out of guilt and humiliation and waited for him by the front doors the next morning to apologize. When I did, he smiled, put his arm around me and said: "Are you kidding? Let it go."
Gary Cialfi patiently taught me the guitar even though I was awful at it, every week. He let us bring in our own sheet music to learn songs we liked. I brought in something by The Eagles. Someone else brought in "Squeeze Box" by The Who and Gary confided to me: "It's the worst song I have ever heard in my entire life!!" And he still let the kid learn it.
Miss Hurley taught me how to love and read The New York Times.
Doris Patrao taught me how to never accept halfway with anything.
And I haven't even begun to talk about the math department! Tom Reistetter (the marble notebooks with proofs), Jim Alloy, who made me get Algebra, kicking and screaming. And lovely Mr. Mills who I wanted to kiss when I got a "cigar" on an exam: 45/45. Me. Because he made me think I could.
Sue Tarshis absolutely, positively convinced me not to go near drugs without any help from Nancy Reagan. She also was the first person who explained what a "test tube baby" was and showed us the cover of Newsweek when the first in vitro baby, I think in Great Britain, was born. She also had a daughter who was my camp counselor when I was about 10. I think her name was Amy and she was also amazing.
Daphne Dewey unflinchingly taught me how to write critically and she didn't take shit off of anyone.
Tom Pandiscio amazed me. He always looked like he had just rolled out of bed but after half a cup of coffee, he was on fire and shouting down Bil next door. Or trying to .
Steve Jones told me I wasn't a storm, but a cloud with a silver lining. He also let me make a movie about suicide and SHOW IT IN CLASS. Emerson, Lake and Palmer soundtrack that I played on an LP while he let me run the movie on a projector. Introduced me to Herman Hesse.
Bil Johnson made American History matter. He made me care about my country, he was a passionate speaker and he was beyond cool. Also, after I took the AP History exam in the spring of junior year, I was walking down Ridge Street to my summer babysitting job and he was driving by in some green car - a Ford? And he rolled down the window, beamed at me, gave me a literal (and very enthusiastic) thumbs-up and said he'd just seen the scores and was SO happy I got a 4 (out of 5). I floated to my job. I still have the books he put on his summer syllabus.
Del Shortliffe was my 9th grade English teacher and it is because of Del that I am a working writer. I never had him again after that class, which seems impossible, but it's because of Del that I knew I could tell stories, that I felt like someone wanted to read them and that he'd have my back. Maybe not literally, but any time I've felt less-than as a writer, I see Del asking me to read my short story to the class and then handing out copies of it to everyone. Never forgot it. Will never forget him. Oh, and he'd been to India and I thought that was AMAZING.
George Trautwein singled me out. I hate being singled out. But I didn't when he did it. I joined choir because my friends did and then he put me in consort choir in senior year and it was, and is, one of the most precious memories I have. I think of him all the time. I was afraid of him but I knew he supported me. I wanted to sing better for him, but he never told me to, except the time he smelled cigarette smoke on me before a rehearsal, said nothing about it, but thrust some sheet music at me and said: "Do better". It was about the smoking, not the singing.
From what I've been reading here, George and Michael had an astonishing 47 years together. I'm so sorry the last years of that time were polluted with a horrible disease that I am sure he railed against silently. He was brave before his time. He was brave after it. And even though I know he'd tell us all to move on, I am lingering here for as long as I can and remembering as much as I can so I can keep it with me for the rest of my life. I love this page. And I love all of you, even the yous I've never met. xo
Photo of George conducting:
Janet Iacobuzio
This photo is in Harrogate. I loved how funny he was, how volatile, how full of life and passion. But I really loved when he was still, as in the last seconds of silence after he finished conducting a piece and he seemed to be looking each of us directly in the eyes. One of the best men I've ever known.
Leslie Perlman Reiff
What a beautiful photo, depicting a truly beautiful human being.
Cynthia Mesh
Janet - exactly! Every time I'm at a performance of anything, I hope for those last moments of stillness before the audience feels compelled to clap. He was a genius at holding the space.
Kimberly Auslander Englert
Yes, I remember that too. Isn't that amazing? We remember his stillness.
Joann Alperstein Abdoo
Again wishing I could click like more than once. Isnt it amazing that you have no idea why you do something until you hear something like this??? I get so annoyed when people clap too early....
Janet Iacobuzio
For me, over the last few days, and all of these amazing remembrances, I keep thinking of him ending a piece, his hands in front of him, held still in the air, until the last note sung was really, truly, over and all that remained was the silence until he released us...usually with a very tiny nod of his head as if to say: "Nice job." I don't know, for me, that was so intimate and I keep thinking of how many hundreds of times between rehearsals and performances, I got to experience it, and how much I would give to have it happen one more time. But that wouldn't be enough. Or, maybe, it would.
Andrea Ferreira DiMichele
I think when something is done THIS SHOULD BE THE PICTURE. It says it all and so simple and sweet and most of all he looks like he is still WATCHING OVER US ALL and we will never walk alone.
This is what the teachers at Blind Brook High School gave me.
Sara Simpson took us on a "total Spanish immersion weekend" to her apartment in Manhattan and let us all sleep over on the floor in sleeping bags.
Elaine Yellen, who lived in Scarsdale, if memory serves, told us in no uncertain terms that her husband was a professional panhandler - and quite good at it - with such utter seriousness and conviction that we all believed her. Later, we learned he was the head of ear, nose and throat surgery at a NYC hospital. She was a great French teacher.
Madame Toulouse taught me how to correctly make a noun masculine or feminine by saying in a sort of scary, horror-movie announcer voice: "Eet ees what ees PO-SSESSED!"
Peter Tarshis put me in a one act play called The Man Who Turned Into A Dog. We wore white make-up like mimes and hooded sweatshirts. On opening night, I dropped a line which then caused the rest of the cast to drop half the play. I didn't sleep all night out of guilt and humiliation and waited for him by the front doors the next morning to apologize. When I did, he smiled, put his arm around me and said: "Are you kidding? Let it go."
Gary Cialfi patiently taught me the guitar even though I was awful at it, every week. He let us bring in our own sheet music to learn songs we liked. I brought in something by The Eagles. Someone else brought in "Squeeze Box" by The Who and Gary confided to me: "It's the worst song I have ever heard in my entire life!!" And he still let the kid learn it.
Miss Hurley taught me how to love and read The New York Times.
Doris Patrao taught me how to never accept halfway with anything.
And I haven't even begun to talk about the math department! Tom Reistetter (the marble notebooks with proofs), Jim Alloy, who made me get Algebra, kicking and screaming. And lovely Mr. Mills who I wanted to kiss when I got a "cigar" on an exam: 45/45. Me. Because he made me think I could.
Sue Tarshis absolutely, positively convinced me not to go near drugs without any help from Nancy Reagan. She also was the first person who explained what a "test tube baby" was and showed us the cover of Newsweek when the first in vitro baby, I think in Great Britain, was born. She also had a daughter who was my camp counselor when I was about 10. I think her name was Amy and she was also amazing.
Daphne Dewey unflinchingly taught me how to write critically and she didn't take shit off of anyone.
Tom Pandiscio amazed me. He always looked like he had just rolled out of bed but after half a cup of coffee, he was on fire and shouting down Bil next door. Or trying to .
Steve Jones told me I wasn't a storm, but a cloud with a silver lining. He also let me make a movie about suicide and SHOW IT IN CLASS. Emerson, Lake and Palmer soundtrack that I played on an LP while he let me run the movie on a projector. Introduced me to Herman Hesse.
Bil Johnson made American History matter. He made me care about my country, he was a passionate speaker and he was beyond cool. Also, after I took the AP History exam in the spring of junior year, I was walking down Ridge Street to my summer babysitting job and he was driving by in some green car - a Ford? And he rolled down the window, beamed at me, gave me a literal (and very enthusiastic) thumbs-up and said he'd just seen the scores and was SO happy I got a 4 (out of 5). I floated to my job. I still have the books he put on his summer syllabus.
Del Shortliffe was my 9th grade English teacher and it is because of Del that I am a working writer. I never had him again after that class, which seems impossible, but it's because of Del that I knew I could tell stories, that I felt like someone wanted to read them and that he'd have my back. Maybe not literally, but any time I've felt less-than as a writer, I see Del asking me to read my short story to the class and then handing out copies of it to everyone. Never forgot it. Will never forget him. Oh, and he'd been to India and I thought that was AMAZING.
George Trautwein singled me out. I hate being singled out. But I didn't when he did it. I joined choir because my friends did and then he put me in consort choir in senior year and it was, and is, one of the most precious memories I have. I think of him all the time. I was afraid of him but I knew he supported me. I wanted to sing better for him, but he never told me to, except the time he smelled cigarette smoke on me before a rehearsal, said nothing about it, but thrust some sheet music at me and said: "Do better". It was about the smoking, not the singing.
From what I've been reading here, George and Michael had an astonishing 47 years together. I'm so sorry the last years of that time were polluted with a horrible disease that I am sure he railed against silently. He was brave before his time. He was brave after it. And even though I know he'd tell us all to move on, I am lingering here for as long as I can and remembering as much as I can so I can keep it with me for the rest of my life. I love this page. And I love all of you, even the yous I've never met. xo
Photo of George conducting:
Janet Iacobuzio
This photo is in Harrogate. I loved how funny he was, how volatile, how full of life and passion. But I really loved when he was still, as in the last seconds of silence after he finished conducting a piece and he seemed to be looking each of us directly in the eyes. One of the best men I've ever known.
Leslie Perlman Reiff
What a beautiful photo, depicting a truly beautiful human being.
Cynthia Mesh
Janet - exactly! Every time I'm at a performance of anything, I hope for those last moments of stillness before the audience feels compelled to clap. He was a genius at holding the space.
Kimberly Auslander Englert
Yes, I remember that too. Isn't that amazing? We remember his stillness.
Joann Alperstein Abdoo
Again wishing I could click like more than once. Isnt it amazing that you have no idea why you do something until you hear something like this??? I get so annoyed when people clap too early....
Janet Iacobuzio
For me, over the last few days, and all of these amazing remembrances, I keep thinking of him ending a piece, his hands in front of him, held still in the air, until the last note sung was really, truly, over and all that remained was the silence until he released us...usually with a very tiny nod of his head as if to say: "Nice job." I don't know, for me, that was so intimate and I keep thinking of how many hundreds of times between rehearsals and performances, I got to experience it, and how much I would give to have it happen one more time. But that wouldn't be enough. Or, maybe, it would.
Andrea Ferreira DiMichele
I think when something is done THIS SHOULD BE THE PICTURE. It says it all and so simple and sweet and most of all he looks like he is still WATCHING OVER US ALL and we will never walk alone.
