Circa ’69, by Seven Dhar

6 Aug

 
Seven Dhar seeks to push the limits of language, East and West, performing in Sanskrit and Gaelic, Spanish and the awed tongue of mystics; Buddhist, yogi with SoCal Native American roots; graduate of UC Berkeley and UCLA, who also studied at Oxford and Yale. Among many other accomplishments, he was a Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2015 winner of the San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival chapbook contest. Seven is a poet from a bygone era enmeshed in our own, who combines the excesses of the Western canon with Buddhist, yogic, and Sanskrit sensibilities, Spanish revelry, urban shamanism, and playful mysticism.

*Read much more of Seven’s philosophy and accomplishments at the end of this blog post.

 

We left Twentynine Palms in the life of summer, headed toward the distant smoke signal L.A. under low flickering skies that turned black and exploded and cleared just long enough for us to realize… we had yet to crank the ignition.

 

 

 

 

 

We sat stationed on the shoulder. Yet, the road moved — the wind whipping our faces, crackling across the desert, kicking up grit and scented straw in the wake of the semi speeding by, its bowels a holocaust of cows.

The wind turned a mill in the valley, pinwheel, iridescent and wobbling — Play-Doh comic peel, mirror images of ourselves as ink, lifted and warped, funhouse distorted.

The driver turned, his eyes drooping, to ask: “What do you want them to say about you at your funeral?”

“Start the car.”

“‘Start the car‘?” he echoed me with surprise.

“Yes, start it. Crank it. I’ll tell you about my funeral when we get going.”

He shifted, lurching forward, unaccustomed to working the gears in an altered state.

 

 

 

 

The cat in our catapult, Freedom the Hitchhiker, piped up from the back seat. This wildflower, picked at the edge of Joshua Tree National Monument, had provided the day’s sustenance. (We should’ve asked what it was before chasing it with the last of the Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill). She enthused, “At my funeral I want them to say, ‘She was kind. And beautiful! She lived fast, died young, and left behind this gorgeous corpse'” and purred.

 


 

The driver wrestled it into fifth as he pondered loudly, “As for me, I want them to say, ‘He was wise. Look how long he lived! The last survivor, the gentleman-scholar, who left an exhausted cadaver, well worn with the good use of years.'”

 We dodged a gauntlet of trucks, then fell behind a battalion of reinforced American models, eyes leering from windshields quizzically poring over us in our convertible, the contents of which were being jettisoned and scattering across the highway in our wake.

“What about you?”

“What? Those papers? Who needs them?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

                Drawing by Ralph Steadman

“No, no, what do you want them to say about you at your funeral?”

I paused — as if thinking a great deal, but there was no thinking, only a swirl of throbbing tail lights as brilliant as the velvet lining of my future coffin.

What Freedom had against those typed pages, we only later discovered when we reached L.A. empty manuscript holder in hand. Until then I had to content myself to guess, never for a moment imagining it had anything to do with the thing in her purse: “The title,” I intuited, “its angular, irregular lines contorting, growing awful in the Etch A Sketch of a mind lost.” It’s hard to imagine our Merry Prankster had glanced at anything more than the title before her artful dodging in response, carefree littering, a favor to save us in the desert. That manuscript, after all, was a typed confession, a litany of aberrant consumption and hedonism.

“Well?!”

“Well what?”

“What do you want them to say,” Freedom inquired.

“About you — at your funeral?” the driver added.

Freedom leaned forward as if to stand, ready to step over the sofa seat and join us as we swerved across lanes. A sudden burst of acceleration held her back. She instead settled her head on the seat askew, leered at me with pupils as large as mirage pools of oozing asphalt, slick with the sheen of searing heat.

They stared, no attention giving to the road, they stared, no time for time its arm beating on, they stared, mouths agape, eaglets in an eagle’s nest about to be raided.

“Well?!!” they insisted/

“I want them to say,” I swallowed to clear my throat, dry with wit about to be uttered ever so wryly, “I want them to say, ‘Look, he’s moving!'”

Then came the sirens like wailing desert birds. We sat up, pushed bottles and other pieces of incriminating evidence beneath the seat with our heels. Freedom vaulted — the flicker of a purse strap like a lash behind her — showed them something, and we were soon on our way again.

 

Drawing by Ralph Steadman

*More about Seven Dhar:

Seven believes that “If your mother informs you you’re part Irish, you had better live up to some form of Gaelic lyricism and merge it with the playful wonderment of Lewis Carroll while remaining true to your indigenous Southern California (Tongva/Kizh) roots, capital of this neck of the universe.” It’s not enough to emulate Shakespeare, Coleridge, or Poe, but we laud our forebears best when we laud them loudly or at least a bit ironically. Crisscrossing Europe and Asia in search of a voice is no way to live — sage, minstrel, piper Seven discovered. Thus have I heard: words alone are likely to survive. Whether studying at Berkeley or UCLA, Oxford or Yale, it comes down to this: There may be many heres, but there’s only one now. So what does it really mean to explore the possibilities of language?From the Himalayas down to the plains, from the planes up into space, from space back down to Earth by way of Mt. Sumeru, arriving where no one knew words could reach — the transcendent in the decadent, enlightenment in the Age of Kali.

Seven Dhar was also winner of the 2015 Emerging Urban PoetsSan Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly Chapbook Contest; 2015 San Gabriel Valley Poetry Festival Broadside Contest; both Los Angeles Poet Societys 2015 National Womens Month Poetry Contests (lapoetsociety.org). Published in various anthologies: The Coiled Serpent: Poets Arising from the Cultural Quakes and Shifts of Los Angeles (tiachucha.org); Altadena Poetry Review (Editor Thelma Reyna, Altadena Library); San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, Spectrum (Editor Don Kingfisher Campbell); The Border Crossed Us (Vagabond Books); Yay! LA Literary Magazine (yaylamag.com); The Stone Bird (Eagle Rock Branch Library, LAPL); LAWS Review (Los Angeles Word Salon); Poetry & Cookies; Heartbreak Anthology I and II (Editor Karineh Mahdessian, La Palabra, Avenue 50 Studio); Hometown Pasadena (hometown-pasadena.com). He is a featured reader at many venues across the county and beyond including Pasadena LitFest, L.A. Lit Crawl (NoHo), and the L.A. Shakespeare Fest (Celebrity Centre, Hollywood). He is the recipient of various and sundry academic distinctions.

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A Trip to Remember, by Sandra Maxwell

4 Aug

Author, historian and teacher, Sandra Maxwell has spent her life attempting to understand the human condition. Urged by many of her teachers to either teach or write, Sandra chose writing because it puts into one place all of the elements she is interested in. She can study history, explore human behavior, and teach — all at the same time.  She lives happily with her husband Robert in a Victorian cottage and gardens in Southern California called “The Havens.”

 

Late in 1969, my writing partner and best friend Lucy and I were heading back to Los Angeles from Illinois. We had stolen a few days to go back home to visit family, but a meeting with the story editor of a TV show made us hurry back.

Lucy’s parents had given her a brand new Dodge van. It replaced the rather unreliable Chevy Malibu we’d been driving. The van had a snub nose with the engine mounted between the front seats. It took a while to get used to not having a front end, and I always put my foot on the fantasy brake on the passenger side whenever Lucy pulled up behind another vehicle.

Everything was perfect except for one fact. Illinois had failed to get us our license plates in time for our trip. Some mix-up in Springfield. Lucy called them to find out what to do since we couldn’t afford to miss our appointment. Illinois said not to worry, just keep all the papers proving she owned the van. If we were stopped, they would check with Illinois to verify we actually did have plates coming. It would all be fine.

As we drove back to LA, we discussed ways to make the van more comfortable, what to do with all the space in the back, should we go science fiction, maybe cushions on the cold steel floor, or keep it practical? Lucy decided we should call the van “Critter.” Seemed reasonable to me.

On a Sunday afternoon we pulled into Tulsa, Oklahoma. Suddenly the engine began to make horrible noises. Lucy pulled over at the nearest exit. That’s when I noticed the state patrol car following and exiting with us.

I opened the glove compartment. “We have the State Patrol behind us. I’ll take care of this while you see about the van.” I pulled out all the paperwork, confident that at least one problem would be easily solved as we pulled into a gas station. It was the van’s engine that worried me.

Now, you need to know that Lucy and I did not look like hippies. We kept our hair styled, used makeup when we went to meetings and wore business clothes to the studios. For the drive we were wearing jeans and blouses. Our hair was a bit windblown and there was no reason to wear makeup, but no long hair, no leather fringe, no beads, no large sunglasses. Those items were back in LA.

I barely glanced at the patrolman as he walked up to the van window, but the moment I handed him the paperwork, I noticed his demeanor. His small, wiry stature bristled with anger. He had short red hair, and his blue eyes glared at me as I explained what Illinois had told us to do under the circumstances. He snatched the papers from me and went back to his car. I still felt confident that things would work out and waited for Lucy to return. She was gone for an uncomfortable amount of time and the state policeman was still in his patrol car. I began to worry that we could be stuck here while the van was being fixed.

Last June I had seen “Easy Rider,” and visions of shotguns and murderous mayhem flew through my mind. Memories of the Freedom Riders who were jailed or murdered in the early 60s haunted me. Young people were still mysteriously disappearing in the South. I jumped when Lucy opened the van door and vaulted into the driver’s seat.

It’s Sunday. No mechanic but the guy in the gas station said it sounded like we’ve blown some seals in the engine.”

What can we do? We can’t stay here. We’ll miss our meeting.”

He said we could buy oil, water and transmission fluid and just keep everything filled until we can get it fixed. It’s still under warranty.” Lucy reached for the key.

Wait. The state trooper still has our paperwork. He’s been back there all the time you were gone.”

Lucy gave me a puzzled look. I shrugged. We waited. My imagination brought even more horrifying pictures of people disappearing on the highways. We were two young girls, easy targets. I tried to rationalize: This was Oklahoma, not the Deep South.

I looked around when I heard a car door slam. I almost laughed in spite of the horrors my mind had unearthed. The patrolman hiked his pants and marched toward our van on slightly bowed legs. He struck me as the stereotype you’d see in bad TV shows that made fun of Southern lawmen. I bit my lip and kept a straight face.

He came up to the window on Lucy’s side and glared at us. “I tried to get you on Oklahoma law, but I couldn’t,” he drawled. “So I tried to get you on Illinois law, but I couldn’t.” He took a deep breath. “But if you’re not out of the state of Oklahoma by midnight, I’ll get ya for something.” He threw our papers at Lucy and stomped back to his patrol car.

Lucy handed me the papers to put back in the glove box. “Were we just in a bad movie or was that for real?” she chuckled.

Thing is, we can’t risk not taking him seriously. He has all our information and could track us the entire way. Maybe send any of his buddies out to get us.”

Lucy groaned, “I’ll get some oil and transmission fluid here. Let’s fill up on water, too. We can stop for more as we go.”

We took off for the Oklahoma border and kept below the speed limit. Every time something rattled in the engine, I raised the lid beside me and poured in the appropriate liquid. We were out of the state just before midnight and made it all the way to LA like that. At a Dodge Dealer we got things fixed on the warranty. Critter lived to be over ten years old before we had to put him down.

I’m actually proud I was thrown out of the State of Oklahoma. Seems a fitting tribute to the life and times of young people trying to make their way through the sixties and seventies. I do realize how lucky we were now that I look back, and my youthful view that nothing bad could really happen is gone. But I still smile at the image of the little red-headed, cock-sure, bowlegged patrolman strutting up to our van to threaten two young “hippies” from the North who had to be there with trouble on their minds, no doubt about it. All he accomplished was to make me fight harder against mindless prejudice in days to come. I’m still fighting even now.

Honeymoon Story, by Mira Mataric

1 Aug

Dr. Mira N. Mataric has 42 books (poetry, short stories, novels, memoirs and translations), published in two languages, with numerous citations in publications of Europe, America, Asia and Australia. Her works have been translated into several languages, and she is the recipient of over 20 international awards, including five presidential medals for volunteer work in education.  

She has taught world literature, creative writing, and foreign languages to youth and seniors for many years, edited a literary magazine, and founded and chaired Women in the Arts, Inc., a non-profit organization (for 20 years). She is active as a public speaker, a facilitator of workshops and at public poetry readings.

You can read more about Mira at:  https://coloradoboulevard.net/mapping-artist-mira-n-mataric/

 

It is the autumn of 1961, bright and mild, with the sun and the rest of the world caringly smiling upon the two of us, a newly married couple. We packed full our little Fiat 600 and took our honeymoon drive through the most beautiful sceneries our country of Yugoslavia could offer. Right now we are in Slovenia enjoying the serene beauty of the glacial Lake Bled. Somebody told me not to miss visiting the tiny isle in the middle of the Lake, with a church that has a rare power: it will fulfill one wish. I will ask for a good marriage, of course.

The lake is peaceful and sunlit, like a mirror reflecting the blueness of the skies and endless greenery of the surrounding mountains and grassy turf. We already visited the church, and now I am walking around the Lake, picking wild flowers that are more beautiful here than ever before. I have always loved wild flowers, but these are special. Everything is special. I have never been on a honeymoon. My husband is behind me, taking pictures. All of nature is observing us with a benevolent smile. Everything is perfect, in harmony with my state of mind.

I bend over to pick a unique blue flower and hear a man’s voice call and laugh. Not my husband’s. I turn quickly and quite unexpectedly see a big black convertible passing by—a car that was nowhere to be seen a second ago. In it is a man in a light-colored hat and another man, bigger, hatless and almost hairless, but with a huge smile, waving and shouting at me.

I am stunned and breathless because we were completely alone with nature a second ago; now, suddenly, the Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev is smiling friendly and waving at me, and next to him the president of Yugoslavia, Marshal Tito. Tito has a villa here, I remember later—much later—when I recover and start thinking reasonably. And yes, Khrushchev was scheduled to visit, but we had forgotten it due to our own important events.

Suddenly realizing who is who, my husband takes a quick photo, by that time catching the car and people only from behind. I stand speechless, regretting not throwing the bouquet toward the guest. He showed hot appreciation of Serbian women through just one specimen and with limited data: just legs, partially. My new husband saw it as a compliment to Serbian men for their good taste. Once we had time to discuss the unexpected experience, we had zillions of additional versions and possibilities that Khrushchev might have enjoyed, since he seemed happy with so little.

For years we laughed and wondered about the other part of the story, the one we could not know: Tito’s and Khrushchev’s.

Could it be that the little church, having so many demands, somehow made a mistake, fulfilling my wishes a bit flippantly? Destiny is as blind and prone to mistakes as humans.

Meeting Tupolev at Pugwash, by Mira N. Mataric

16 Jul

Dr. Mira N. Mataric has 42 books (poetry, short stories, novels, memoirs and translations), published in two languages, with numerous citations in publications of Europe, America, Asia and Australia. Her works have been translated into several languages, and she is the recipient of over 20 international awards, including five presidential medals for volunteer work in education.  

She has taught world literature, creative writing, and foreign languages to youth and seniors for many years, edited a literary magazine, and founded and chaired Women in the Arts, Inc., a non-profit organization (for 20 years). She is active as a public speaker, a facilitator of workshops and at public poetry readings.

 

September 1963, Belgrade, in the now non-existent Yugoslavia. Clear, sunny autumn day. I am on the bus, filled to capacity, standing, not having to worry that I may fall—there is nowhere to fall. We are like sardines in a can transported to our daily work. Finally, the bus stops at the most beautiful and famous spot, Kalemegdan Park with a Fortress on the high hill and a view of the two rivers’ magnificent confluence. The Sava flows all the way from Slovenia and joins the Danube, the second longest European river after “Mother Volga” (as it’s called by Russians). The Danube comes from the Black Forest in Germany. By the time it pours its waters into the Black Sea, it passes through nine countries: Germany, Austria, Slovakia, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria, Romania, Moldova and Ukraine, and through four capital cities: Vienna (Austria), Bratislava (Czekia), Budapest(Hungary) and Belgrade (Serbia). The Danube is 2,860 km long (1,780 miles) when it finally, at the widespread delta, mixes its water with the salty water of the Black Sea.

Every inch of soil and water here is pure history and old culture, from the Neolithic era of Vinča (near Belgrade), to Roman, Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires, all worth studying through the plentiful archeological findings. To this day, valuable remains are found unexpectedly during the building of new sites.

I am one of young librarians, proud to work here during the re-birth of a new National Library of Serbia, whose staff in the past involved famous writers and intellectuals. The old building of the Library is at the end of Knez Mihailova (Prince Michael’s) Street (lovingly known as the Bond Street of Belgrade). The street is filled with ornate 19th century edifices, museums, galleries, the Serbian Academy of Science, elegant stores and famous restaurants, some with a long history, like this one, once a fine restaurant and night club, facing Kalemegdan Park. Its popularity included the fact that the King of Serbia used to play chess and billiards there. Now it is the National Library of Serbia but we hope that is only temporary. The original Library was burned and leveled in the merciless bombings announcing the beginning of the German “Blitz Krieg” invasion of Yugoslavia on Easter morning of April 1942.

At work an unusual surprise waits for me. The director of the Library, Čedomir Minderović 1, calls me to his office. He is a renowned writer and poet, ex-diplomat, in his youth a partisan fighter during the Second World War.

I sometimes write his business letters in English (though he speaks good English). He usually gallantly adds, “You will do it better than I,” then spends time talking about literature, which we both prefer doing. I actually enjoy writing letters to the Library of Congress, British Museum Library, Bibliotheque National in Paris, and others. Now he is sending me, as a translator of English and Russian, to Dubrovnik for the International Pugwash Conference on the Peaceful Use of Atomic Energy.

Dubrovnik?! One of the most beautiful historical Mediterranean cities and year- round, prime international resort. Wow! The President of Yugoslavia, Marshal Josip Broz Tito, has a villa there. Like other people, there I enjoy summer vacations with my family. Pleasant memories of the Adriatic Sea with its clear waters ranging from azure to turquoise to deep navy blue, transparent for over 45 meters in depth immediately surface.  The romantic Mediterranean nights filled with cicada-symphonies and lavender fragrance splash over me in waves.

But atoms? What do I know about atoms except small size and big power? I am not an expert in that field. I can translate literature on the spot, any time, but for speeches and papers of internationally renowned scientists and engineers, my brother would have been a much better choice.

I try to explain it to the director, but he knows it already. His wife is also a translator and interpreter of English. With a friendly smile, he tells me: “I know you will do your best. That will be enough.” That calms me temporarily. I love challenges. He wishes me a good trip and I go back to my room planning what I need to pack.

Now in Dubrovnik, greeted with mild September sunshine, I confirm that the Sea is cold and no one swimming. Hotels are filled with participants of the Pugwash Conference. That’s why they are here. You too, I remind myself.

In a tiny cubicle, a cell useless for anything but focusing on atoms in two languages, none of which is my mother tongue, I am hot, my head hotter and after a while aching. Who ever thought this was an easy job? My colleagues in the Library now envy me. I am in Dubrovnik, they at work. We forget, things are not what they seem to be.

At the end of the day, tired and numb, we gather at a common table for dinner and a friendly chat. I am sitting next to a short, chunky man, far from young yet looking strong like a hippopotamus. He smiles and introduces himself, but I am barely listening. I do that often, then during the conversation regret but dare not ask again for the name. Tonight, all I want is to go to bed. Suddenly, I turn to him ”Tupolev2 ? Did you say Tupolev? “I cannot believe it. My brother and his colleagues, aeronautical engineers, pronounce his name with respect like Nikola Tesla’s.3.  This is the most famous Soviet aircraft designer and a high officer in the Air Force!

Now I regret not knowing at least something about him. All I can do is smile my noncommittal smile and listen more carefully from now on. I feel like a ditzy blond smiling because it’s all she knows how to do.

Luckily, he is not even mentioning airplanes or atomic energy; he’s chatting about things that interest me too. What a man—a gentleman, in fact. He is more than double and plus my age but has energy and good manners to entertain a woman whom he knows he will never see again.

Now I notice more. There is another, tall, slender, good looking man, thirtyish or so, standing close to him. They came together, but this man does not sit with us, or talk to anyone. He just stands like a post, a statue. Very strange.

First, I talk to Tupolev in English but change to Russian as soon as I realize who he is. He answers brilliantly in both languages. When I drop in a Serbian word here and there, he understands. I am impressed. He is making this evening comfortable and relaxing, instead of my doing it for him, as a guest. This other man is just here, not really looking as if he hears or understands. Like a portrait. His face stays the same. Expressionless. I wonder, would he change expression if I pulled his nose? Would he smile, laugh, be surprised, participate, be with us?

He has to be a Russian. An outstandingly good-looking man. I do not want to say that he is a waste of good material, yet Russians usually like to talk, sing, even dance Kozachok4 if you ask them—especially if they drink first. I would prefer to sing, maybe Podmoskovskie vechera, Ryabinushka or Ochi Chornie. I believe all of the people around us, tired and just eating, would sing at least E-ey uhnyem, which is almost an international expression of hard toil and working together. Music is an international language, like numbers—we could all be happy together before we go back to our rooms and never see each other again.

I am not happy with myself. Tupolev was so nice with me. I could not reciprocate on his level. I wish my brother were here. They would have enjoyed talking about airplanes, propulsions, and such. The dinner is finished and I will never see this fine man again. Famous people are usually so full of themselves they do not notice anything else. Not pleasant to others at all. This man designs airplanes. For him the skies are not too big, too high or unknown. What a perspective!

But we get up, smile and leave with a few nice words. The two Russians leave together.

But, oh, it is not the end yet! More surprises tonight! Their room is next to mine! What a coincidence, I think. Then, finally in bed, I sink into a deep sleep.

Early, too early, in the morning, something strange wakes me up. Muted and hushed but active. In the room next to mine. Scraping little sounds and dull thumps like a body pulled on the floor. It is not stopping, but becoming stronger and stronger. I am listening and all the dark movies I have ever seen come to mind. What are those strange sounds—and why so hushed? I do not like it. It is not stopping. I cannot take it anymore. Should I call the desk or the Police? Better to apologize for a silly mistake than regret not calling before it is too late. Hamlet’s tragic flaw was thinking too much, not acting enough. I will call now.

Just a second  for a quick look from the balcony outside. The Sea is quiet. Nobody around. It is still dark and everybody asleep. But, oh, down there, two dim silhouettes come out from the hotel and quickly run to the Sea: one short and stocky, the other tall and slim. They jump into the water and swim together as fast as possible. Where? They swim and swim, fast, becoming smaller and smaller in the cold early morning, until they reach the open sea where big ships pass. I remember, sharks always follow them, their tails sharp like an always ready guillotine because the ships throw a lot of food overboard, a real feast for all of them.

The two swimmers now are two tiny needle heads far, far away. They don’t seem to be afraid. Are they unaware of the sharks? Have they seen them, as I have, always following ships with a good reason? They better start swimming back soon. Such a huge distance will take some time. It is not safe. However, I cannot believe how strong and fit they are. One of them is not young at all. How do they do it? What gives them such energy?

Then,  it dawns on me. Yoga. The hushed noise in the room, exercise with chairs, deep breathing, movements on the floor. That is why they can run and swim fast and the water is not cold for them. That is why Tupolev’s age does not stop him from enjoying a full life. What a lesson!

I never saw them again. Andrei Tupolev died in Moscow, December 23, 1972. His bodyguard is now old if still alive. I am a not-that-young, ridiculously naïve girl myself, but old as Tupolev then, but without his greatness and fame.

The world has changed, too. Soviet Union is Russia and there is no Yugoslavia. I live in the Serbian diaspora in the U.S.A. My memories are my capital and I am rich with them.

 

NOTES AND PHOTOGRAPHS

  1. Čedomir Minderović (Belgrade 1912) , a revolutionary poet and fighter against fascism, imprisoned and tortured as a high school student at age 18,  as a “danger to the State” in 1930. Wrote diaries about his life with the partisans during WWII and revolutionary poems that became popular hymns (after  1945). After the war he became a popular poet and writer, Yugoslav diplomat in India, and Director of the National Library of Serbia until his death in India in 1966. Here Minderovic is with Indian writer Amrita Pritam (1919-2005

 

  1.  “Andrei Nikolayevich Tupolev (Russian: Андрей Николаевич Туполев; November 10, 1888 – December 23, 1972) was a pioneering Soviet aircraft designer.

“During his career, he designed and oversaw the design of more than 100 types of aircraft, some of which set 78 world records.

“In 1911, Tupolev was accused of taking part in revolutionary activities, including demonstrations and distribution of subversive literature, and was arrested. He was later released on condition that he return to his family home in Pustomazovo and was only allowed to return to IMTU in 1914. He completed his studies in 1918 and was awarded the degree of Engineer-Mechanic when he presented his thesis on the development of seaplanes.

“On October 21, 1937, Tupolev was arrested together with Vladimir Petlyakov and the entire directorate of the TsAGI and EDO on trumped up charges of sabotage, espionage and of aiding the Russian Fascist Party. Many of his colleagues were executed. In 1939, Tupolev was moved from a prison to an NKVD sharashka for aircraft designers in Bolshevo near Moscow, where many ex-TsAGI people had already been sent to work. The sharashka soon moved to Moscow and was dubbed “Tupolevka” after its most eminent inmate. Tupolev was tried and convicted in 1940 with a ten-year sentence. During this time he developed the Tupolev Tu-2,[6] He was released in July 1941 “to conduct important defence work.” (He was not rehabilitated fully until two years after Joseph Stalin‘s death in 1953.)

“Tupolev headed the major project of reverse engineering the American Boeing B-29 strategic bomber, which was the world’s first nuclear delivery platform.

“By the time of his rehabilitation in 1955, Tupolev had designed and was about to start testing his unique turboprop strategic bomber, the Tu-95.

“At about the same time, Tupolev introduced into service the world’s second jet airliner, the Tu-104. The aeroplane was the first jet transport to stay in uninterrupted service.

“After Khruschev’s removal from office in late 1964, the ageing Tupolev gradually lost positions at the centres of power to rivals.” [Source: Wikipedia]

 

  1. Nikola Tesla (Serbian Cyrillic: Никола Тесла; 10 July 1856 – 7 January 1943) was a Serbian-American[2][3][4] inventor, electrical engineer, mechanical engineer, physicist, and futurist who is best known for his contributions to the design of the modern alternating current (AC) electricity supply system.” [Source: Wikipedia]

 

 

 

 

  1. Kozachok is a Ukrainian and Russian folk dance.

5. Erih Koš (pronounced Kosh) is the fifth from left (in a swimsuit). Vida Marković sits next to him (fourth from left). She was (Mira’s) University professor of literature. An outstanding scholar and writer, Kos was a member of the Serbian Academy of Science and Arts, poet, writer. They both were in the Pugwash Committee in charge of the organization. The list of all  participants is available online.

 

 

 

The text and some  notes by Mira N. Mataric aka Mirjana N. Radovanov Mataric

August 1969, a poem by G.T. Foster

1 Jun

G.T. Foster spent his childhood in the Central San Joaquin Valley. He attended U.C.R. and taught 25 years for the Los Angeles Unified School District. A Vietnam era veteran, G.T. began his exploration into poetry in the ‘60s. He is currently writing his first novel, The Butt Naked and the Been Dead, and his poetry has been published in The Pasadena Weekly, the San Gabriel Valley Quarterly, Spectrum, and the Altadena Poetry Review.

Hip to the Gyve is his chapbook, in which this poem appears.

 

                                              August 1969

 

Her Afro was so big and mini-skirt so short it was like watching Sandro

Botticelli’s Venus walk up and down Telegraph Avenue dripping wet draped

in a single sea shell while selling Little Red Books   So you watched

 

Power to the peep hole sister   Power to the people, brother

Where the broom does not reach the dust will not vanish of its own accord

Buy a Red Book and come to the meeting

Will you be there?   Right On.   Then right on then!

And before you knew you were an agent of change

Right on…right on…right now

 

But she was a demi-goddess

bound to a petite demagogue

who espoused Power to the People

but whose soul believed the masses

were irredeemably benighted asses

He argued power should rest in hands of intellectually best a small

politically correct central committee of three then promptly pronounced

himself its Leading Cadre

He loved her knot

She’d long been fully involved in the fray

Seen Bunchy Carter gunned-down at UCLA

Anti-Nixon anti-War Black Panthers Pink Panthers Brown Beret

For her and me it was philosophy and championing the common cause

Hippies Blippies Street People’s Rights and for all anti-capitalist laws

 

For him it was sheer power He’d sung,

Dialectically and materialistically I stand

following the Marxist anti-capitalist plan

of V Lenin Joe Stalin and Mao Tse Tung

His vision for a second American Revolution was dashed

by lapse of time and lame lipped excuses

for freshly disclosed Red Guard abuses

Dogmatic and adventurous strategies that clashed

with my own but more importantly too many others

who were also forward thinking sisters and brothers

 

Black Student Unions SDS  Radical Union Core

Freedom Riders SNIC and Veterans Against the War

No way!  It was an iron-on-patch too foreign to hatch

even in Babylonian Berkeley

 

But back to her or was it me at whom she flaunted sexuality

Answering the door in a sheer negligee

without bra nor pantie down under

Repeatedly toying taunting enticing

neophytic me to make political blunder

Her poised to vanquish the wandering eye

with a barrage of anti-male chauvinist thunder

 

It was sexual gratification revolution delayed

although revolutionary musical bed later played

 

Shortly after the glass-jawed movement

hit the brick wall in seventy-two

she’d had enough to tell him after two dogs

and two babies   We’re through

Truth be told he’d forced her hand

having taken a steel pipe to kill a man

 

For all legal fees and her loved one’s life

she vowed to become the barrister’s wife

Divorced her husband married his attorney

and thus did end her revolutionary journey

Occasionally seen haunting the East Bay

poor chap remains delusional to this day

He recognized and confronted me to say

I alone revolutionary remain!

Was it the truth or is he insane?

 

Was so long ago a distant Shangri La it seems

those hopes now most dust lost Utopian dreams

Chance at true social revolution never so real

as the cold hard pipe used my angry hands to kill

 

 

 

A Day in the Park with Mary Jane, by Sandra Maxwell

30 Apr

 

Author, historian and teacher, Sandra Maxwell has spent her life attempting to understand the human condition. Urged by many of her teachers to either teach or write, Sandra chose writing because it puts into one place all of the elements she is interested in. She can study history, explore human behavior, and teach — all at the same time.  She lives happily with her husband Robert in a Victorian cottage and gardens in Southern California called “The Havens.”

 

I moved from a small town in Illinois to Los Angeles in 1968.  I was twenty, naïve to a fault and eager for adventure. I found part-time work while pursuing my real passion, writing for television.  The man I worked for was a professional writer. He encouraged me to stand up for my rights and the rights of those around me. He had marched with Martin Luther King in Selma, receiving a broken arm for his dedication to Equal Rights. He had protested against other unjust practices over the years as well.

Armed with a business card he gave me with the name of an attorney who specialized in helping unfortunate protestors who found themselves behind bars, I marched for women’s rights, against the Viet Nam war, against police brutality, and for the legalization of marijuana. Which is what this story is about. Now the saying, “If you remember the 60’s and 70’s, you weren’t really there,” is quite true. But I will nevertheless do my best to relate this little tale.

The sun was bright, the temperature pleasant — in short, another beautiful day in LA.  My husband, our friend Don, and I had spent the night passing joints and talking about the rally today for legalization of marijuana. We were tired but determined to lend our support as we arrived at the rally that was being held in a lovely park in L.A. There were to be speakers and musicians there. I don’t remember who any of them were now. I only know that many were well-known, either in the entertainment industry or as mover and shakers in the current atmosphere of protesting.  I do remember being vigilant about where to sit in case of police intervention. I again checked the leather pouch hung around my waist for that attorney’s business card.

My husband, a musician, wanted to sit close to the stage. I reminded him of the recent demonstration at Venice Beach where someone threw a bottle at a policeman. The “police intervention” from that one act led to bloody beatings and several arrests. We began to search for a tree nearer to the edge of the crowd — just in case.

Our friend, Don, had been quiet until we began our search. A veteran of Viet Nam, he had gotten addicted to amphetamines while on duty over there. All he could think of was his need. All we heard as we tried to find the best spot was how he wished he could find someone selling speed. He’d give anything for some speed. Right now!

I was getting nervous. I took my demonstrating seriously and had an inbred sense of responsibility from growing up in Illinois. All we needed was for a cop to see Don buying drugs and we’d all land in jail for sure. I looked up and took in a sharp breath. The grounds were slightly bowl-shaped and around the rim, shoulder to shoulder, stood L.A.’s finest in riot gear.

“Here! We have to sit here,” Don whispered urgently .

My husband and I turned to Don with puzzled looks.

“Just put the blanket here. I’ll explain after we sit down.”

It was a reasonable spot and under a tree, so we laid the blanket down and settled in for the rally.

Don had a goofy grin on his face as he reached under the blanket. He pulled out a small packet of “whites,” then raised his eyes to the heavens. “Thanks.” Someone had accidentally dropped his stash of speed.

I had to laugh. I couldn’t judge. I wanted to make the world a better place, not persecute people for whatever was currently thought a sin. If history taught me anything it was that perceptions of how to live, and what was wrong or right, changed over time.

Nothing happened to provoke the police that lovely day in the park. It was just a tiny moment in time that hopefully brought a smile to some faces.

It took almost three decades to see marijuana legalized. When the bill passed this last election, all I could think of was the goofy grin on Don’s face that day long ago, in the park, sitting on a blanket, waiting to sign yet another petition.

 

 

Long-time Activist by Anonymous

10 Nov

I was born and grew up in Los Angeles, more precisely, in the South Bay, a post-WWII suburb of mainly aerospace workers—the “white collar” of the “blue collar” workers who strongly identified with the patriotically conservative, non-political, hysterically anti-communist 1950’s “Leave It to Beaver” image of a white picket fence, two-car garage America.  My parents were the absolute antithesis: children of Communists who grew up in the depression and the radical ‘30s.  Although my schools were racially mixed, my little neighborhood was Caucasian, except for the family of a Mexican-American doctor who, at any rate, lived in the adjacent area of the cheaper, “flat-roof” slab houses.

Because my parents were very involved in the anti-war and civil rights movements, I had a number of African-American (at that time, the politically-correct terminology was “Negro”) friends.  I had to walk over to their neighborhood to play with them—they did not feel comfortable coming to my house as it meant being stared at as they walked through the streets of my White neighborhood.

I felt more at ease with my non-Caucasian friends because I felt I could be more myself with them – I didn’t have to hide my parent’s political views like I had to with my (White) neighbors who lived closer to me – although I still didn’t feel that I could acknowledge my parents Marxist beliefs with my non-Caucasian friends—that I had to hold in check until the weekends, when we either went to visit my relatives (and their friends) in the bohemian (and by my era, hippie) neighborhood of Venice, or to visit the children of friends of my parents who lived in the city of Los Angeles and who were also “fellow travelers”.

The racial disparity became even more apparent starting in middle school—what was then termed Junior High School.  The classes were divided according to IQ test, and in my grade, there was only one Black/African-American in the “smart” class. Due to this, and  because her mother, who ran the local Head Start program. was an acquaintance of my mother’s, she became one of my closest friends.

In June 1967, there was a large protest in Century City against the war in Vietnam.  My mother, who was involved in Women Strike for Peace, took me and my siblings.  At some point, the police started to break up the demonstration.  They yelled through megaphones to disperse—but nobody could understand what they were saying because the sound was so distorted.  They had their billy clubs out and were indiscriminately swinging them at anyone in their path.  They almost hit my gentle, diminutive, grey-haired mother, and they did get one of my brothers, although he wasn’t seriously hurt.  I was so incensed by this—even more so than not allowing a legitimate, legal demonstration to take place—because the police were so stupid that they were shouting dispersal instructions which no one could understand through these ridiculous bullhorns.

By the time I got to high school, I was totally alienated from all but one or two of my neighbors and longed to go to an LAUSD high school where there were identifiable groups of student anti-Vietnam war activists.  So I got out of there as soon as I could, skipping my last year of high school and going to Cuba on the Venceremos Brigade in the fall of 1970.  We traveled in a cross-county bus, headed to Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada, where we would sail to Cuba. This was at the time that Angela Davis had gone underground, when she was on the FBI’s most-wanted list.  Angela’s sister Fania was with us, which gave the police an excuse to continually harass us and stop the bus to haul her out—each time insisting that she was actually Angela in disguise.  The FBI disseminated all sorts of rumors and negative publicity to the local population in the towns we went/traveled through, stoking McCarthy-like panic.  By the time we got to Bangor, Maine, the hysteria was so frenzied that our bus was attacked—shades of Peekskill!

We boarded an old Cuban cargo ship that had been specially retro-fitted for us by slinging hammocks down in the bottom deck for us to sleep—separated into women’s and men’s sections.  It was hurricane season and we sailed through some rough seas—everyone, i.e., the Brigadistas (not the Cuban  sailors), got seasick and for a few days, the only food we could hold down was a few bites of hardtack.  The only relief was from a Brigidista, a gay guy from New York, who led us in mindful meditation.  Lying stretched out on the battered deck, his hypnotic voice led us–or at least me–into a euphoric state in which I actually felt that I was floating above it all.  It was such a soothing feeling which I continue to replay in my mind even now.

We were supposed to help in the Cuban campaign for the “Zafra de Los Diez Milliones”, but by the time we arrived, sugar cane season was over, so we were sent to the Isla de Juventud to pick citrus.  When we were done, Fidel Castro came to personally shake each of our hands in thanks for our solidarity against the blockade. In addition, we were toured all over the country, and as it was also the anniversary of “El Camino del Che”, we hiked through the mountains in the footsteps of that long march.

On the cross-country bus trip back from Canada, I decided to not return to Southern California, so had the bus drop me off in San Francisco.  I had the address of an acquaintance of my parents, a nurse who had gone to Spain to drive an ambulance in the fight in their civil war against fascism.  She lived at the very top of Portreo Hill.  I didn’t have any money so I trudged all the way up those steep streets, dragging my heavy duffle bag, only to find out when I finally got up there that she wasn’t home, but out on Alcatraz, as a nurse volunteer in the Native American occupation of the Island.  I hitchhiked back over the Bay Bridge and found a place to stay in a communal-living house on Channing Avenue in Berkeley, a few blocks from the water.  It was not a particularly safe neighborhood in general for a naïve teenage girl, but I quickly found out that I didn’t have to worry because it was around the corner from the West Berkeley Black Panther headquarters, which had the neighborhood kids marching around military-style, patrolling the streets.  I liked to watch them, dressed in army fatigues with their red-capped berets covering their Afro-styled hair, shouting out their revolutionary slogans as they paraded by in formation.

I needed to find work, but there was a recession on, so after days of systematically walking down the commercial streets, one after the other, knocking on the door of each and every establishment asking for a job, I finally managed to get hired at the MacDonald’s in East Oakland, on Hegenberger Road.  Also not a safe neighborhood, but I had become very friendly with a Venceremos Brigade member from New York, a Borrinqueno leader of the Young Lords—it turned out that his cousin, quite co-incidentally, was one of my customers, and as he was in the local gang, he looked out for my welfare.  The supervisor at McDonalds was intrigued because I had gone to Cuba illegally, and he tried to recruit me into training for their management program—go figure!  I barely made enough money to get by but the manager let me take home the food that was left over at closing.  As my roommates were vegetarians, we usually fed the hamburger meat to the dog.

One day, I was with a roommate at the Berkeley Co-Op (Consumers’ Cooperative of Berkeley) supermarket, and she took a piece of fruit while we were in the store and offered me a bite.  The store had two-way mirrors all around, up at the top of the walls, to catch shop-lifters.  They saw this happen, accused us of stealing, and called the police.  They let my friend go but because I was underage, they arrested me and I was sent to juvenile detention.  I was in jail two days. There were some pretty rough girls in there and at the beginning I had some trepidation. But after hearing how I had had the bad luck to be so stupidly arrested and was being shipped back to my parents against my wishes, they became sympathetic and friendly and we passed the time chatting. My parents had to pay the $10 it cost to fly me back–that was a day’s wage for me—but as a consequence of my sudden departure, all my things were left behind, including my most prized possession: a bust of Marx carved by a comrade from a bar of Ivory soap.

Now being back in L.A at my parent’s house, I was visited regularly by the FBI as a result of going on the Brigade.  My bedroom was adjacent to the front porch, so whenever there was an early Saturday morning knock—which was always when they came–I peered through the curtains of my window to see who it was before answering the door.  If I saw two young men dressed in suits, I knew it was agents and not Jehovah Witnesses –who always came with at least one woman–so I’d yell at them to go away.  For years after I moved out, they continued to hassle my parents about me, although more sporadically.

Although I consorted with various political groups, my favorite was the Young Workers Liberation League (YWLL, or “the League”).  I thought they had the best “revolutionary line” because not only were they affiliated with the CPUSA and therefore multi-national and determinedly anti-racist, but a number of the members were also in the Black Panthers, which gave them considerable cachet to my way of thinking.  Most importantly, besides the serious stuff like classes on Marxism, the League knew how to go out and have fun—plus, they held the best Soul Train-style dance parties!  I still remember how to do the Funky Chicken!!

The local YWLL organizer had a contact in a factory near my parent’s house that made “Hot Pants” for New York’s haute couture fashion industry.  Me and three other YWLLers got a job there.  Most of the workers were undocumented women from Thailand.  They didn’t speak much English, so I ended up learning some basic Thai.  They were very concerned that I wasn’t married, and were constantly trying to get me to come to their cultural events so that I could meet an “eligible” man. They even taught me some of the traditional arm and hand movements of traditional Thai dance.  Occasionally there wasn’t a lot of work coming in, so the company owner, wanting to save on labor costs, would announce that the INS was going to make a raid, which scared those workers who were undocumented, so they would not come in for a few days.  It would always be a lie!  The International Ladies Garment Workers Union (ILGWU or “the ILG”) was trying to organize the shop, so we were supposedly helping with that.  However, I didn’t like some of the ways the ILG was conducting its campaign.  The female workers had the lowest-paying, menial jobs, while the male workers had the higher-paying jobs as “pressers” and “cutters”.  The Union officials were all men and this disparity didn’t concern them.  It was what they were used to in the industry and they didn’t want to hear my complaints about it.  As the union struggle intensified, the four of us were eventually “outed” and subsequently fired.  I remained in touch with a few of the women for many years, so I was able to practice the Thai phrases that I had learned.

I worked in various other factory jobs after that–assembling disc brake pad kits (until the manger’s sexual harassment got too much to bear, so I quit), at the Papermate factory in Santa Monica doing quality control of Bic pens on the midnight shift, and then, finally, a better-paying union job as an International “O” Operator for Ma Bell (AT&T).  I worked a split shift, which I really liked because I could do political work in between.  But the union, the Communication Workers of America (CWA) was not a very progressive organization—at least not in Los Angeles at that time.  The supervisors were all men, and we had to raise our hands and wait to be acknowledged if we needed to take a bathroom break.  It was not the most exciting work, so I would take “Black Beauties” to help me focus.  I’d arrange my switchboard so that the telephone cords were all nicely positioned, precise and straight, which the supervisor would praise me for–clueless that it was only due to the effect of the speed pills!  I took pride in being able to get a call through in an emergency, such as a hurricane—even routing the calls through other countries if necessary.  Because I worked near the city of Gardena, at that time a predominantly Japanese community, I learned rudimentary Japanese in order to place my calls more effectively.  I remember one intriguing co-worker who lived in South Central but was originally from New Orleans.  She had a side business raising rabbits in her backyard, peddling the meat out of her house but would occasionally bring some to work to sell out of an ice chest.  She would cook the rabbit southern-style and share with me at lunch.

At this time I was living near Banning Park–in Wilmas13 territory, so the rent was lower than in other areas—but it was still 50% of my salary.  I would hear occasional gunshots, and to get home I’d have to walk by a bunch of young men hanging out along my back fence, but they pretty much left me alone.  I had an open dirt space in the backyard, where I tried to plant vegetables, although the only thing that grew was corn, but it was delicious and sweet–it could be eaten raw, right off the cob. It also attracted mice; I’d see them sticking their noses up out of the gas rings in my stove top.  The landlord just told me to buy traps, but I wouldn’t.

I was volunteering at what is now the Southern California Library for Social Studies and Research but strongly disliked the way that the proprietor treated his spouse, so I decided I wanted a change. Having been awarded $100 because an elderly man rear-ended my car, it was enough to buy a ticket to fly overseas. I didn’t return to Los Angeles for some years.