Chautauqua, Part II: The password is Chicken Farm.

We knew that Chautauqua Institution's 's origins were Methodist. We also knew that Chautauqua Lake's far corner of upstate New York was way west of the old Jewish Catskills; far, even, from the more adventurous Adirondaks, where Ben and Jerry's has outposts in at least two towns. So far from our roots was Chautauqua that we heard about it from Connecticut Yankees, now related through marriage.  They assured us that there was a Jewish denominational house there, where maybe we could still book a place to stay. 

If we'd wanted.  But we didn't. We were more interested in rubbing shoulders with Christian fellow humanists than in bunking with our own kind, although we certainly did check in at the local branch.  The Everett Jewish Life Center, built in 2009, was beautiful, with the same lush hostas and hydrangeas and welcoming, wrap-around porches and rocking chairs as all the other denominational houses, only newer.  More horizontal Danish modern than Victorian gingerbread. And a schedule of films, talks and classes for all and any Chautauquans. I'm pretty sure I saw Rabbi Telushkin, a scheduled speaker, walk out of the place on his way somewhere.   

We booked a tiny efficiency in one of the Victorians on the streets between the town square and the lake. A bedroom not much bigger than the bed, a living room/kitchen by virtue of a couch, an end table and a wall-mounted TV, and half a little balcony with a partial view of the lake.   A sign on the door in our hall warned that an alarm would sound if opened; it clearly gave out into the other apartment that had been carved out of the third floor.  We saw and heard very little of our neighbors, who of course, turned out to be Jewish.  Fellow first-timers, the husband was a lawyer  from the DC area. The wife had heard of Chautauqua through her Hadassah group.  

And that's the way it went. We kept bumping into Jews, sometimes on purpose and sometimes not. Maybe it's because that week's theme was comedy, in collaboration with the National Comedy Center planned for the nearby city of Jamestown, birthplace of Lucille Ball (not Jewish).  Maybe because my husband has a clearly Jewish punim and I'm identifiable with just a little more Jewdar, I think, and a good ear.

We met a couple at a church basement supper; I was ready for an intercultural encounter until the husband told me how his dad had grown up on a south NJ chicken farm. Ah. A recognizably Jewish story; every Jew in Jersey knows someone whose grandparents raised chickens in Vineland.  These folks eating nice goyisch turkey with us lived around Raleigh. She had a southern accent, even, but was Jewish from birth, a retired teacher.  He, another lawyer, told me about the time he had a blurb published in The New Yorker.

Bennett ran into a couple in the ampitheater who had lived in Queens and used to go to the same smoked fish house as my father and uncle.

I did meet some non-Jews.  On Friday night a local pastor gave an outdoor tour of Palestine Park. Established by the original Methodist educators back in 1874, it is a lumpy, bumpy acre or so by the lake with a little water-filled ditch and puddles on two ends.  With a little imagination, the ditch is the Jordan River and the puddles the Sea of Galilee and the Dead Sea.  The bumps and some valleys are marked with plaster plates, for Jerusalem, Nazareth, Jaffa, Moab, Bethlehem and other sites of Christian interest. The hill formed by a hundred-year-old gasoline tank, for the motorboats, is Mt. Hermon.  Wikipedia relates that Chautauquans used to arrive by ferry across Chautauqua Lake (the Mediterranean) and so set foot first on a scale model pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

The pastor's talk was just historical and ecumenical enough for general, if not cynical, audiences. He gave everyone plastic shofars to blow at one stop, and put on a big talis at another. He gave us a sample of frankincense and myrrh to smell. I was good at translating whatever Hebrew words he gave us, but my Biblical knowledge was uneven, my New Testament absent. I spoke with him a little bit after his tour; enough to hear him wishing, in so many words, that Muslims and Jews in today's Palestine could better follow some of Jesus' teachings.

Among the Jews we met on purpose, I found ten by attending a Yiddish conversation bring-your-own bag-lunch at the Everett center.  We sat around the dining room table and had great fun speaking bad Yiddish.  Using rusty, home-grown vocabularies, none of them seemed to know their proper past participles. ( Ich bin gegangen instead of Ich hob gegangen.)  My relatively grammatical, college-learned Yiddish won kuvid.

The leader of the conversation group, a Buffalo woman of 82, told us that Jews first came to Chautauqua as musicians in the Chautauqua Symphony.  Before fair housing laws were passed in the sixties, restrictive covenants made owners agree in writing not to sell their homes to Jews or blacks. (My church basement brother told me that the Jewish influx had pulled Chautauqua left.  Certainly, if any Trump supporters were lurking on campus that week, they knew better than to say so out loud.  Mention of his name drew boos and hisses like Haman on Purim.  They could've given out groggers.)

 The Buffalo Yiddishist had been coming for generations.  I also learned that the 2017 rebuilding of the ampitheater, the hub of a Chautauqua week -- was financed in part through a Jewish hand sanitizer mogul.  

Also at the Yiddish lunch: an opthalmologist, a psychiatrist from New York, a young student, and an entomologist, 70-plus Lutheran widow of a prominent Jewish agnostic geneticist who nonetheless asked her to keep their kitchen kosher. She just came to hear the language spoken. It being Chautauqua, she fit right in.

Chautauqua: The liberal interfaith bubble on the lake.

A lot of my friends had heard of Chautauqua Institution, but I never had.  That's fairly unusual. Unless it has to do with Game of Thrones, I'm typically well informed.  Maybe it's because outside my Jewish bubble in the outer boroughs and northern Jersey, at least until recent years, most of my friends have been Catholic, and none have been musicians, opera singers or dancers.

Chautauqua Institution is a cultural, spiritual, intellectual, recreational and politically liberal utopia way out in the southwestern part of New York State, where Route 17 turns into 86 and falls off the edge of the earth. It occupies one and a half miles along the western shore of Lake Chautauqua, and typically numbers about 8,000 residents during its season.

Chautauqua lakeside, with bell tower.

It's been there since 1874, when John Heyl Vincent, a high-minded Methodist deacon, started it as a summer retreat and training ground for Sunday school teachers.  It comes out of this humanist mainstream Protestant tradition,  and started at the same time as other Methodist camp meeting grounds I'm more familiar with, like Mt. Tabor in Parsippany, NJ, and Ocean Grove down the shore.  It has since accumulated "demoninational (guest) houses" and interfaith programs with most other flavors of mainstream Protestants, as well as Catholics and, eventually, Jews. Today, even the odd Muslim or two.  Still, at least on week six, overwhelmingly white. Yes, they're aware. Yes, they're a little embarrassed. 

It's a place and a collection of nine separate week-long programs, organized around themes of current societal concerns. Week Five's theme was The Supreme Court: At a Tipping Point? Week Six's was Comedy and the Human Condition. Lewis Black, David Steinberg and W. Kamau Bell spoke on three separate mornings. Capital Steps performed one night.  

Susan Sparks, a former lawyer/Baptist minister/stand-up comedian, and Bob Alper, a rabbi/stand-up comedian, spoke to a packed Parthenon (the "Hall of Philosophy") in the afternoon and performed on two evenings in the parlor of the grand old hotel. Dean Obeidallah, an Italian/Palestinian/American lawyer with his own show on SiriusXM radio, packed another session.

At the same time, Chautauqua offers a whole college campus worth of classes  in anything you might put a good dent into within six days; pottery and robotics, for example.

To picture Chautauqua Institution, think of  narrow streets of closely spaced Victorian guest houses , studios, churches, a lakeside bell tower, a Parthenon-shaped meeting space and many denominational houses where you can also rent a room or attend a discussion. Add a day camp, sports center, sailing center, Victorian hotel, steamboat landing, and countless profusions of hydrangeas, cornflowers and black-eyed Susans. Also a 5,000-seat, roofed amphitheater, where mostly older Christian folks come in the morning to sing interdenominational hymns and hear the huge organ and the visiting preacher. (On Week Six, this was the stand-up Baptist preacher comedian Susan Sparks. We came, too, fitting the age demographic and sort of faking the rest.)  

It's also where you go to see ballet, or the resident symphony orchestra, or the headlining speakers, speaking on that week's scheduled theme. For those you scan in your weekly program pass; they sell for around $475.

All the hotels and guest houses, and private homes too, have porches and/or balconies, with wicker furniture and hanging flower baskets. Brick walks thread between the denominational houses and around the town green. 

Everyone is so pleasant and friendly, you'd think you were a little further north. In fact, many Chautauquans are Canadian; Canada must have had its Methodists and Toronto is much closer than NYC. Maple leaf flags fly from many of the porches and balconies, alongside the stars and stripes. The denominational houses all prominently post their schedules of services, talks and teas, and many front gardens feature these primitive statues of singers, lined together with outstretched arms and varied skin tones.

There's very little vehicular traffic, except for the shuttle buses that take you around and out to the off-campus parking lots.  People bicycle everywhere and not only don't they lock their bikes, they leave helmets hanging on the handlebars. The signature figure of a Chautauquan (we are all Chautauquans for the week, some for generations) is a sixty-something walking to his next thought-provoking lecture, seat cushion in hand.

Many years ago the heart of Chautauqua activity was moved uphill from the lakeshore to a town green a few blocks away. That's where you'll find the administrative offices, the interior visitors' center (the other one is on the road, before you scan in), the bookstore, convenience, tchotchke, and clothing stores, beauty salon,  cafe, ice cream parlor, and library.  There's a four-sided stele in the middle of a fountain in the middle of the green. Each side, with its own bas-relief figure, represents one of Chautauqua's four original purposes: Science, Art, Recreation, and Religion.  Art looks Roman or Greek. Religion must be Moses, carved in an ecumenical gesture holding the Ten Commandments, in Hebrew letters.  It's just that he looks less Moses-like than Charlton Heston; his face and hairstyle say Jesus.

There is something Disneyesque about Chautauqua; the architecture can bring Main Street, Magic Kingdom to mind. But it's a two-way street.  There is no visible merchandising; it's all tastefully soft-pedalled in the bookstore/gift shop. Chautauquans create their bubble as they experience it. They contribute to the ambiance with the way their children play there, they set up easels and paint, they enter a Harry Potter costume contest, they sit and chat on benches, or walk their bikes through. 

You can also pretend you're in the River City, Iowa time and place of The Music Man. The large brick library has the donor's name on it, right on the square. There's an annual parade of the current and past graduates of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle -- started over 100 years ago as a book club, a remote course of study with a summer residence and a way to spread Chautauqua's mission of lifelong learning. They carry the beautiful old fringed banners from every graduating class, going back to the twenties, and they're accompanied by a brass band.  

This can indeed remind you of the social betterment intended by the River City's ladies' auxiliary, forming living tableaux of Grecian urns.

But ... we don't want to make fun or burst the bubble. We only want to climb in.  And then because the ethos of the place is so world-embracing -- we want other peoples to want to climb in, too.  And be careful not to pop it.

x

NY2NJ boomer marches in DC

Well.  What kind of New Yorker, boomer, Jew, chronicler and most of all Hunter Girl – from our all-girls high school years -- would I be if I hadn’t gone to the Women’s March yesterday? 

I even went to the DC one, after three different girlfriends considered the trip and changed their minds, opting for local marches instead.  But, in fairness, I had an extra inducement; my daughter and her fiancé live there.  I could also spend a couple days with them.  And I had a free place to stay – combining activism and cheap getaway. 

So I get to say I was a part of the mother march in Washington. I got to buy the t-shirt, carry the sign, and show off pictures on Facebook.  I got to feel the climbing excitement and shared purpose, from the first sight of pussyhat wearers getting out of cars on my daughter’s quiet, Connecticut Avenue side street, to the jammed Metro trains at the station, to the converging streams of people – young, old, male, female, straight, gay, white, black, Asian, some pushing walkers, some strollers – heading from the downtown station to the Mall. 

The crowds were too large to find room on the train where I entered; I had to go north three stations to find room to go south.  They were also too large to let us off at Judiciary Square, the closest station to the march’s starting point; we surfaced somewhere on seventh street, near Chinatown.

I had three other friends who were going from NJ, by different ways, but as we kind of expected, we never met up. The crowds were too large to get cell signals to communicate, and just getting from point A to B was frequently impossible.  What’s amazing is how mellow the crowd stayed, when other people packed so densely might have panicked and started a stampede.  It’s made the news that anywhere from half a million to a million or more people there managed to generate zero arrests.   I’ve seen nothing to compare that with since the Simon and Garfunkel concert in Central Park; 1981, right?

I appear to have aged out of some of the shortcuts to the rally,

People were helping each other over this wall, but they all seemed 

20 and 30-something.

There was also zero visible security; no bag checks, no metal detectors to go anywhere but inside the museums.  March publicity warned people not to bring backpacks, but I saw several.  March organizers and guides were sparse, and bullhorns moreso. 

No, mellowness prevailed, even though the underlying motivation for our coming was fury, anxiety, loss and disbelief at how such a psycho, know-nothing fraud had managed to become president, and more  --- replace such exceptional integrity and intelligence. There was comfort in just being among so many like-minded people, so ready to be seen and heard, carrying sentiments that were not only right, but correctly spelled.

More than mellowness; strangers were quick to help each other scale walls, navigate fences, and to share snacks and information.  It was cold and damp, but spirits were high and warm. Rivers of people just flowed, holding signs, wearing the hats, chanting chants, drumming drums, taking pictures.  Few of us could get close enough to even see a Jumbotron at one of the intersections to Independence Avenue, nevermind an actual speaker. 

I only managed to follow people to a fenced-in area by the Air and Space Museum facing Independence, to hear Michael Moore teaching us the number through which we could contact our congresspeople and senators – every day.  202-225-3121.  Some ground cover got trampled on; I bet Trump complains about that. We were pretty careful around the shrubs. There were many in the trees, just like the olden days in Bryant Park or Central Park.

The signs were frequently inspired.

Unable to meet up with friends, I started conversations with many friendly, like-minded strangers, from the family of four on the Metro, who’d traveled four days by train from Pacifica, Calif.,  to the two young women friends in the cafeteria of the Museum of American History, one white, from Brooklyn, one black, from suburban Maryland, to the Hispanic couple from Los Angeles in the same cafeteria, who liked my recommendation to take in the Newseum the next day, to the “Nasty Nine” Jewish women from Chicago who I caught up with in a gridlock near the Washington Monument, to the two fifty-something women in the Lebanese restaurant back near my daughter’s neighborhood that evening, who I clapped with whenever the TV screen showed the day’s crowds. All literate, riled-up people with working bullshit detectors. Many able to afford a plane or a train ride across country to join up and speak out. 

As marchers paraded past, several entertainers on the sidelines 

siphoned off afew for a few minutes of dancing or listening

At the American History Museum

I got to take a nostalgia break.

Post event, about 5 pm on the Elipse. A spirited drum circle and a ginormous display
of contributed/abandoned signs. Mine's the yellow one in Russian and English.
 Thank you Hannah for the quality translation. I could tell by the thumbs up who could read it.

A day later, we can read all the analysis and counts; we can feel a movement launching.  But now I need to know what tools we really have.  What our leverage really is, as Senate, House, and White House all start to carry out their “promises,” i.e., threats.  There are so many; the cabinet appointments alone fall into the three categories of useful idiot, unscrupulous opportunist, and reactionary. 

What can work?  Making sure the investigations into Trump’s Putin connection aren’t quashed by Trump himself, now that he’s in power?  (The lady in the Lebanese restaurant has it on good authority that there were Russians toasting each other in Trump Tower on election night, and that they’ve got him over a barrel,  somehow… just wait till the dots are connected.) Or the conflict of interest angle, starting the impeachment process via emoluments violations?

We must quickly get past the understandable pride of knitting pussy hats and attending mass demonstrations and recognize this event for what it is: a kickoff.  Then we have to make more history, and in this kind of effort, it just possibly may take more time, energy and guts than anyone born after 1952 has ever had to summon before.