When I graduated from high school, I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to do with my life. I was working as a cashier at the women’s clothing store that my mother managed. I was planning on a career in the retail business, perhaps one day working my way up to manager myself. But, I hated the retail business and, after a year, I was ready for something else.

I had been drawing since I was a little kid, doodling little cartoons on any spare piece of paper I could get my hands on. I decided to look into enrolling in art school, to hone and refine my natural ability and possibly make a career of it… much to the consternation of my father. My father was a butcher. He had no concept of making a living with something as intangible as — gulp! — art! So, it was understood that if I wished to embark on this frivolous notion of making a living at being an artist, I would have to finance the education portion myself.

I got myself an interview at the Hussian School of Art, a respected establishment known throughout the small, commercial art trade in Philadelphia. I was given a brief tour of the facility — a small, cramped, loft-like area occupying three non-consecutive floors of a dilapidated building in one of the seedier sections of center city Philadelphia, situated between a multi-level adult bookstore and a homeless shelter. Afterwards,  I presented my thrown-together portfolio to Ron Dove, the president of the school. Although Mr. Dove perused my offerings (comprised mostly of projects from high school art classes) with nary a change in expression, I was accepted and welcomed to be a part of the freshman class beginning in the Fall of 1980.

The summer preceding my entrance into art school, I spent a week in Florida with some high school friends in one last fling of youth. I was about to enter the next stage of my life, a path towards responsibility and career goals and adulthood… as I tried to convince my parents and myself.

My first class of my first day of art school was “Graphics,” a sort of catch-all that would introduce printmaking through linoleum and woodcuts, metal etchings, silk-screening and other skills I would never, ever use. I sat at a long table, listening to a long-winded speech from the teacher, matronly Mrs. Spiro, when a guy (later I would know to be “John”) seated across from me asked if I knew the time. I glanced at my watch and answered. That was the first of many friendships I would make at Hussian, kindred spirits all with the same eventual goal.

My next class was “Drawing.” Now, we were talking. I could draw like nobody’s business. I placed my required newsprint pad on one of the many easels strewn haphazardly along the perimeter of the open studio. I selected a few slender sticks of charcoal from a box I had purchased as part of a list of mandatory supplies (including a forty dollar box of pastels that I don’t think I ever cracked the cellophane on). The teacher, a fierce little martinet named Mrs. Clement, arranged a bowl with fruit and flowers on a lacy tablecloth at the center of the room. The class collectively began to interpret the setting in charcoal. Mrs. Clement offered the harshest of criticism as she paraded around the room, weaving in and out of easels, careful not to leave any budding artist without at least one insult and proper discouragement. “Holy shit,” I thought, as Mrs. C. gleefully pointed out my artistic shortcomings, “is this what I signed up for?”

As the semester progressed and we began to fully understand the nature and actual encouraging powers of critique, the drawing class was introduced to the next phase of subject matter. On this day, we arrived for class as usual, setting out our materials and securing a place with a good view of the small riser at the room’s center. Only this time, there was no table, no bowl, no fruit and no lacy tablecloth. Mrs. Clement, instead, silently escorted a tall woman in a bathrobe to the riser. The woman was about the same age as the majority of my classmates. She wore her mousy brown hair pulled up in a loose bun at the top of her head, tied with a small piece of ribbon. With no warning, she dropped her robe and we saw that the ribbon was the only thing on her body she wasn’t born with. A few stifled coughs split the otherwise silent studio. The woman, expressionless, raised her arms above her head and intertwined her hands with her palms to the ceiling. She arched her back and extended one long leg behind her, elegantly pointing her toes. The class stood motionless. This was quite unexpected and quite a change from a bowl of fruit.

“She’ll be changing poses every three minutes,” Mrs. Clement barked, “so get drawing!”

Drawing? Oh, right! That’s why I was here.

We tried to remain as mature and adult as we possibly could, but for goodness sakes!, this woman was standing before us in all her nipples-and-pubic-hair glory, without blushing or batting an eye. Needless to say, there was a reasonable amount of squirming. True to our teacher’s word, she did, indeed, change poses every three minutes to the point where there wasn’t a square inch of that young lady’s body that we didn’t see and, eventually, draw. At one point, she seated herself in a ratty old chair and posed in some of the most immodest positions imaginable. (Didn’t your mother ever tell you “A lady crosses her legs at the ankles when seated.” Obviously, this woman had skipped finishing school.) Finally, we broke for lunch. The model put on her robe and walked to a small dressing (undressing?) room at the rear of the studio. Sue, one of my classmates, turned to me as she gathered up some of  her supplies and said “She’s very graceful, isn’t she?” I replied with a nervous, cockeyed smile… as though I had just been caught with a naked woman.

But, guess what? The naked female body is very difficult to draw, especially for someone like me, who is more comfortable doodling silly cartoon characters. As the time went on, naked women or not, I dreaded that class. Mrs. Clement was a tough and demanding instructor and the realistic drawing style that was expected of me proved very challenging. I equated it with another scenario in my life.

During the time I attended art school, I worked in the buffet room of a dinner theater. Prior to the evening’s performance, patrons would line up to fill their plates and stuff their faces with a wide array of food. Salads, vegetables, casseroles and roast beef — which was carved by yours truly. When dinner time concluded, we closed off the buffet room and began the task of cleaning up. Workers in the buffet were permitted to take as much of the leftover food before returning it to the kitchen. When I first got the job, it was a benefit to end all benefits! I piled a plate to overflowing capacity, as though I was a condemned man offered his last meal. And I did this every night. For a week. Until the novelty wore off and I never wanted to see or eat that shit again.

That’s how I came to feel about the nude models. What started out as “Oh my God!” soon became “Ugh! Not again!?”

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“I’ve been searchin’
So long
To find an answer”
— “I’ve Been Searching So Long” by Jimmy Pankow, as recorded by Chicago

In early 1974, I would go every Saturday afternoon to Art Levin’s apartment in Northeast Philadelphia for Bar Mitzvah lessons. Art was the son of the rabbi that married my parents in 1955. He was a cool guy. He wore bell-bottom jeans and he had long, thick sideburns like Tom Jones. Art had a cool apartment, too, with beads hanging from the ceiling, dividing the living room from the kitchen, thick green shag carpeting and multicolor posters on the walls. He also had the patience of a saint, because that Hebrew stuff just wasn’t clicking in my nearly thirteen-year-old brain.  I could sense his utter frustration when I tripped over the week’s lesson, mispronouncing words and chanting passages with the wrong tune. He tried his best to be kind but firm when he explained that I needed to concentrate and study if I was expected to be ready for my August Bar Mitzvah date. It was all he could do to keep himself from blurting out that I was fucked.

As August approached, my parents – the world’s worst managers of household income – sat me down and told me that they couldn’t afford a Bar Mitzvah on the level of my brother’s four years earlier. (My brother’s shindig was a full-blown, tuxedo-and-gown affair with color-coordinated tablecloths and napkins, a five-piece band, and an extended guest list that included everyone from relatives and neighbors to my father’s co-workers to my grandmother’s butcher.  It must have brought my parents’ bank account to its knees and, four years later, no sign of recovery was in sight.) As a consolation, they offered me a series of backyard barbecues – one each for Mom’s family and Dad’s family (never the twain shall meet), one for family friends and a “record hop” for my friends. My mom spun a plan of renting a small room in the rear of the local Baskin-Robbins ice cream store and hiring a DJ to spin records. I could invite all my friends from elementary school and those that I met in the awkward transition into seventh grade — and that included girls. As a bonus, I was relieved from delivering a portion of the Torah before God and the aforementioned groups. But, I’d still get presents, right? I had to confirm.

The night of my own, personal dance was electric. The DJ arrived early to set up his turntable and small light show in the cramped quarters of the Baskin-Robbins “Party Room.” The walls were festooned with twisted paper streamers and colorful balloons. My parents’ folding aluminum banquet table was camouflaged with a plastic tablecloth and laden with bowls of popcorn, pretzels and potato chips. A small assembly of Coke and root beer occupied its own corner, surrounded by stacks of waxed cups and a small ice bucket (possibly also my mother’s).

Soon guests arrived. They were initially greeted by my “I-think-I’m-hip” Aunt Claire, until my mom tactfully asked her to take a backseat. The music was welcoming and after a bit of uneasiness that relegated the sexes to opposite sides of the room, the mingling – and then dancing – began. The room was filled with the light rock of Elton John, Paul Simon and Loggins & Messina. As the evening wore on, the DJ got daring, introducing these sheltered Jewish youths to the sultry funk of Marvin Gaye and Billy Preston. In the dim light of the room, I could make out darting eyes and hesitant clutching during Barry White’s “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More, Baby.” Several times during the course of the party, the dancing was interrupted by some hokey games with prizes of albums awarded to the winners. To this day, I cannot figure out how my Aunt Claire ended up going home with a copy of Stevie Wonder’s Fulfillingness‘ First Finale.

After ice cream cake was served, everyone gathered around to watch me open my gifts. The first one I opened was a copy of Chicago VII. Now, I had been listening to all kinds of music from the time I was very young. I grew up on The Beatles and their subsequent solo efforts. By the time I was twelve, I was listening to the pop-rock sounds of Three Dog Night, Paul Revere and The Raiders and any number of radio-friendly one-hit wonders like Brewer and Shipley and Edison Lighthouse. I even had my interests piqued by the unholy seductive compositions of Mr. Alice Cooper. But, I never liked Chicago. Ever. You know who listened to Chicago? JAPs. That’s right — the young, snotty, entitled girls that we dismissed as “Jewish American Princesses.” For some reason, unknown to me, Chicago’s pseudo-jazz opuses appealed to the musical sensibilities of the elitist young Jewess. The endless waltz of “Colour My World” always drove me crazy. Trombones didn’t belong in rock music. What was wrong with these guys and what was it about their music that drove Jewish girls wild?

I tore the wrapping off of another gift. It was a sweater — one I would wear once, then hide in a bottom drawer of my bureau. I opened the next gift. It was another copy of Chicago VII.  At the end of the night, I had received four copies of Chicago VII and a copy of Chicago VI, the band’s release from the previous year. I suppose that guest had shopped after the previous four and was left with few options. It was probably someone named Stacy or Wendi (with an “I”). I knew a few of those.

In hindsight, I had a pretty good time. Five albums from a band you don’t like sure beats studying for your Bar Mitzvah.

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In 1973, I was in 6th grade and I thought I was hot shit. When I entered Watson T. Comly Elementary School as a lowly first grader, I was scared and intimidated by the upperclassmen. They were cool and, to my tiny, impressionable eyes, they were so… so… grown up. Some of the 6th grade boys and girls were even holding hands and sneaking kisses when the teacher was otherwise distracted. When I finally matriculated to the top grade in the school, I felt like I was on top of the world. I was fearless, cocky  and, yes, even cool. I looked at the little first graders as though they were infants.

Then I entered junior high school and the process started all over again. As a 7th grader, I was once again on the bottom rung of an impossibly high ladder of social confidence. But five years passed and, once again, I was in the upper of upperclasses — 12th grade — and, once again, I thought I was hot shit. I felt confident as I walked the hallways that I once walked as a frightened freshman (that is, when I actually showed up to  school). When my high school career ended in a massive graduation on the school’s football field (there were 1100 students George Washington High’s Class of 1979), I was ready to take on the adult world.

The day after graduation, my friend Alan and I visited our elementary school. I’m not sure why we chose to visit. Maybe we wanted to show our doubtful teachers that we turned out okay. In the days before stringent security at schools, we walked right in to the school and began wandering the halls. No one stopped us. The first thing we noticed was how small everything looked – the width of the halls, the size of the chairs. We were disoriented by the tiny auditorium that we, years ago, perceived as enormous. We peeked through the glass of each closed classroom door until we spotted a teacher we recognized. On a top floor, we saw Mr. Bonner pointing to the blackboard with a wooden yardstick, offering a lesson to his class. With the confidence of two new high school graduates, we opened the door and barged in unannounced. Mr. Bonner, as we had remembered from our days at Comly, was the cool teacher. He bore a striking resemblance to hunky Lyle Waggoner from The Carol Burnett Show — deeply tanned, coiffed disco hair with long thick (now grayed) sideburns, large knotted paisley necktie, bell-bottomed dress pants. Mr. Bonner welcomed us into his classroom with a wave and a chuckle. He introduced us to the class as former students from “many years ago.” We turned to look at the kids seated at their desks. They were tiny! Were we that little when we were in 6th grade? We were dumbfounded! Mr. Bonner leafed though the yearbooks we had brought with us, commenting inappropriately as he leered at some particularly buxom female students featured in some of the candid photos. He didn’t talk like that to us when we were enrolled here! But — hey! —we were his peers now!

My wife and I were at a family get-together. My wife’s cousin had her two children with her.  With a gun to my head, I could not tell you the ages of her two little boys. I have never been good at gauging the ages of kids. Someone asked the older boy his age and what grade he was in.

“I’m in 6th grade.,” he answered.

WHAT???? I was floored. He looks so little. So young. If pressed, I would have guessed he was…. oh, I don’t know, but I never would have guessed he was a 6th grade student.

Then, I came across some photos of myself from 1973. Jeez, I was little.

And now when I look in the mirror, I see my father looking back at me.

When did that happen?

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