Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Best Dressed

NOT BEST DRESSED
Another in a series of semi-informational treatises on life in Switzerland.

OK. Did that scare anybody off?!

Last night, Friday, March 23, 2001, I went to a FUNdraiser-auction for American Citizens Abroad. The event was held in the five-star Richemond Hotel in Geneva on an almost balmy night.
I was dressed appropriately – slacks and a short-sleeved sports shirt that almost matched the pants. All of my former wives would have been impressed. Those of you who have work with me would have considered me well-dressed. For those who have never seen me in the work environment, well, I have never subscribed to CQ.
I didn’t know too many people at this event. My friend was volunteering for the auction, so I was left pretty much on my own to mingle, introduce myself and try to blend in. Blend is something I do not do well. I made small talk with folks as white-uniformed waiters worked the room with trays of nibblies. OK, hors-d’oeuvres.
At one point, I found myself facing an elderly woman. At my age, I have to use the word elderly with discretion. She had white hair done up with a black ribbon and was dressed to show off money. She looked at me and said, “Are you an American?” I said, “Yes,” happy that I did not have to utilize my French lessons (Oui, je suis Americain. Je m’appelle Dave Rosso. Je suis journaliste).
“Where are you from,” she demanded.
“Washington, D.C.,” says I.
“Is that how they dress in Washington? Around here you wear a tie.”
“Oh, well, I don’t wear ties.”
“Well, you do here, baby. Look around you. You will never be a success if you don’t know how to dress.”
“I think, the way I dress won’t make much difference at this stage of the game for me,” I said, turning and walking away.
Shortly after that incident, the auction began. To warm up the audience, the MC-auctioneer made a few comments and introduced members of ACA and other organizations, as well as the U.S. ambassador to the U.N., who made some remarks.
My friend was introduced and she took the proffered microphone and made brief remarks. Then, to my utter surprise, I was introduced as the veteran United Press International journalist who had taken over as editor of the ACA newsletter. I sat there, in the front row, directly in front of the MC, who was holding the microphone towards – for benefit of those who prefer the Brit spelling) me. I stood up, took the microphone and faced the audience and stumbled out a few words. And there I was. Standing there. In my slacks and short-sleeved sports shirt, sans tie. Never to be a success.
I was very happy when my friend introduced me to a fellow journalist who writes for the International Herald Tribune, who was dressed in jeans, open sports shirt and weather-beaten jacket, note pads, pens and papers sticking out of his pockets. My kind of man!
It’s too bad my French teacher wasn‘t in the audience when I made my impromptu speech. She would have thought, “God, he can’t speak English any better than he speaks French.”
The lessons are coming along. I have actually spoken whole sentences in French. I got a laugh out of my teacher Thursday. The entire class time is conducted in French. So, when I have a question, it has to be asked in French. OY! But I did manage to get out my question in good enough French for her to understand enough to appreciate the humor I had intended. I asked why is it that the word for “problem” is masculine while the word for “solution” is feminine. She said something to the effect of, “But of course.”
Until next time.
Dave
PS: OK. A contest. Who can come up with the best parting shot to my fashion critic?

Saturday, May 14, 2011

Picking on the Jew

This is from my memoir from my school days at Manlius Military Academy 1956-1959. It was an eye-opener (that started with an eye-shutter)
Picking on the Jew
Interesting about ostracism. When I was a kid at military school I learned by my second year to make friends who then became part of our group. This was a natural boys school trait. There were joiners and outsiders. At that age it came down to personalities and character. A pecking order was quickly established that went beyond cadet rank that was worn on our shoulders.
My father ran the school's publicity, but he pulled no punches for me and I never went to him for special favors. I never made any rank either -- because that's the kind of guy I was.
I got in my share of fights on the hill behind the water tower. Our small group that was formed by me and my best friend consisted of other hell-raisers. None of them ever made any rank either.
Of course, when you have groups, those groups have to have others that are outside the group and, therefore, open to taunts and tricks. And I had a favorite target. Until one day another cadet came up to me and told me to leave him alone and blasted me alongside the head with a right hook that I never saw coming and the warning that he didn't like people picking on Jews.
Besides being physically stunned, I was also mentally stunned. Until that moment, I did not know what a Jew was. I did not know that certain names were Jewish names. Nor did I know that Jews were picked on.
Another cadet named Wertheimer was someone I had a tremendous amount of respect for because as I was a hell-raiser to buck authority, he did it calmly, quietly, cerebrally, and I thought he was so cool. But I never thought he was a cool Jew. He was just a cool guy.
As the right hook shut my eye, it opened my eyes to something I had never been aware of in my pretty sheltered life.
My parents taught me and my siblings that we should not discriminate. But that lesson was directed toward blacks. We were never, ever to use the N word (so I never got to advertise Dick Gregory's book).
Of the 360 cadets at the school, none was black. And that was the case during the three years I was there. I left Mr. Lerner alone, not because he was Jewish, but because I didn't want to get whomped alongside the head again. And I continued to respect Mr. Wertheimer, because he got under the cadet leaders' skin, quietly with his brains and passed with honors. And he always had this confident smug grin on his face.