Remembering Hava Kane Dunn

My father phoned me yesterday to tell me that my aunt Hava had died. I think the first thing I said was, "Oh no." She was my mother's sister. And despite a history filled with sibling angst, unspoken disappointments in each other and in themselves, and the shared sadness and misplaced anger that resulted from them not knowing what to do with their complicated relationship and so leaving it untended - I know they loved each other deeply.

I shared none of those mixed feelings and loved my aunt in an uncomplicated way, with no worries about family loyalty or taking sides. Even though it would pain my mother to know, I was usually rooting for her sister, my underdog. Widowed at 35 with my cousin Benjamin and his sister Stephanie both still in diapers, Hava must have looked at my mother, my wonderful father, and my easy-going brother and my straight-A self and thought, "Why me?" Her life was a foil for ours - and I grew up acutely aware of being with the winning sister, who was thinner, prettier, and, it seemed to me, happier.

Which is why I loved her so much. I think I looked at my younger, golden-haired brother, my prettier half, who never had to work too hard to win friends, who let almost everything roll of his back, and who now has 2 golden-haired daughters - and I have thought, too, at times, "Why me?"

I related to Hava in so many other ways. A wonderfully gifted writer, she had encouraged me to write at a really early age and sat with me for hours telling me stories about a garden of statues coming to life at night. She was a teacher, beloved by her students. I remember going to one of her classes when I was really young and watching her class work on a project about The Wizard of Oz - they made figures resembling each character and little dioramas of Munchkin Land and Emerald City and I was just so in awe of my aunt. I never had a teacher who encouraged such creativity and such abandon, then or now.

Recently, when I told her I was going to be teaching at Johns Hopkins, I went over to her house and asked her for some tips. She had taught many teachers how to teach writing as part of her job history and she told me a story about showing a bunch of teachers the Mel Brooks short cartoon film, "The Critic," with the sound shut off. For a few minutes, all the teachers saw were a bunch of abstract shapes moving and morphing on screen. When the film ended, she asked the teachers what they thought the movie was about, and they all raised their hands and said pompous stuff and quoted Kant. Then, she played the same clip with the sound on and Brooks narrating and saying stuff like, "What the hell is this? It's a square. No wait, now it's something else. I don't understand this at all. Why am I sitting through this?" I think she enjoyed (playfully) cutting these teachers down to size. It's dangerous, I think she was telling them, for a teacher to elevate themselves so high they can no longer reach their students.

The last time I saw my aunt was September 7. She held a party in my honor at her house, when I was home in CT for a reading. I remember watching my mother and her stand side-by-side at her kitchen sink, cutting vegetables for the bagel platters and was so happy to finally have the family together under one roof. My cousin Steph had driven in from Maine to be there to celebrate and the four of us, buzzing around the kitchen, setting out food, popping Champagne, is a wonderfully lasting and happy memory for me to have.

I received an email from Hava on September 20th, the day she likely died. She asked if I'd consider coming home for Thanksgiving. If I did, she said, she's stay in West Hartford and we could all have one big party. I had meant to email her back and tell her how nice that sounded and that of course I'd be there. I never got to send that email.

I see you, can you see me?

Now that Dr. Phil is all high def, he has this new schtick he calls Web Watchers. Basically, about midway through the hour, one of his lucky home viewers, equipped with a web cam, gets in front of her computer and, sharing her thoughts about the day's topic, becomes a virtual part of the Dr. Phil audience (an audience that never gets to talk, actually).

At some point in the show, when Dr. Phil has exhausted the patience of his immediate surroundings, he'll say, "Let's go to one of our Web Watchers," and then some woman who has obviously cleaned up the patch of space behind her in the kitchen or living room will say something like, "I don't think a nine-year-old should being able to IM with anyone whose user name is Likemyung."

It's not the commentary that's interesting. It's the idea of peeking into a anonymous viewer's private world for just a few seconds. I wonder if Dr. Phil ever thinks, "So this is how my average viewer really lives. I would have thought she'd have better taste in drapes."

I'm going somewhere with this, in case you're wondering the purpose of this preamble. You see, I recently became a Web Watcher of sorts. When, using the miracle invention that is Skype, I was able to "attend" my sister-in-law Abby's book club in CT from the comfort of my drape-less home in DC. Ain't technology grand?

The first thing that happened was that I got really dizzy. Abby started swinging her lap top from person to person and making introductions. I had that weird perspective of looking up everyone's noses (as someone who is close to six feet, I am usually the one looking down on everyone's scalps.)

The next thing that happened was Karl had to leave the room and put on a head set so he wouldn't hear me answering the first question, which was, "How did you manage to have sex in your cubicle without anyone hearing you?" A sex question right out of the gate. These women don't mess around.

For the next hour I fielded some really insightful and probing questions - about the process of writing memoir, the role of my mother in shaping what went into the book and what was left out, the inherent sense of guilt in writing about family, the cubicle sex. It was just like being there, sitting on the couch with everyone - except, from the look of things, Abby had a better spread than my plate of Trader Joe drummettes.

Thanks to Amy, Julie, Jill, and Pauline for not only reading my book - but for considering it on a deeper level. And of course, thanks to the wonderful Abby, who invited me over to meet such smart and lovely women.

I had such a great time doing the book club, I'd like to offer my virtual self to any other book clubs out there. I'd be happy to sit on your couch for an hour and talk to your members about my book. Don't worry, I'll bring my own booze!

Just drop me an email at cathy@cathyalter.com if you'd like to coordinate schedules.

Pass the Remote

I am just back from New York, where I did a remote interview for Australia's Sunrise Morning Show - which is basically their version of our Today Show.

For those of you who have never experienced doing an interview by remote, it's like this: First, you sit down in an empty studio in front of a backdrop of some city scene (in this case, an aerial view of what looked like Fifth Avenue and 34th Street at night). Then, some young technician appears out of no where and puts an uncomfortably large (and hairstyle ruining) ear piece in your choice of ear canal and immediately leaves the room, but not before directing you to look at a Post-it Note with a smiley face scrawled on it that is stuck to a camera. (Again, in this case, the smiley face was just two dots and a semi-circle, with no outer circle denoting the face). Next, almost like listening to a bad transistor radio late at night, you start to hear the crackling and static of voices from far, far away. Finally, as you are sweating and panicking and trying to find the volume on the control switch next to your thigh, an even more faint is heard saying, "In 10, 9, 8..."

The sound quality coming through my right ear was so bad that I could barely make out actual words. I misheard one of the Sunrise host's names and called her Carly, instead of Kylie. (Granted, my slight may have been further complicated by the heavy Australian accent of the producer. Ask any of your Aussie friends to say "Kylie" and you will be surprised how much it sounds like "Carly.")

Meanwhile, during all this ill communication, there is a photo montage of random pictures of me playing out through most the interview. A few days prior to the show, a research assistant had requested I send her 8 photos showing me at various stages of my careening life. I had sent her photos with captions reading, "I believe I was on hallucinogens in this one," or "here's a photo from the New Year's Eve where I woke up with a black eye."

I had no idea what photos, if any, they actually used for the segment, but when I was through, I walked into the green room to find Karl doubled over laughing.

"Was I that bad?" I was extremely concerned that my rhythm had been entirely off and that I had answered questions that had been asked 4 questions ago.

"That was great!" he spurted.

"What was great?" I asked. "Me?"

"No!" he said, showing me his phone. He had tried to take photos from the television screen while the segment aired. "Those photos!"

"How many did they use?" Now I was concerned.

"ALL of them!" he said. "I was laughing so loud I was afraid you could hear me from where you were sitting!"

I had never actually considered that the photos I sent so quickly, just trying to cross another item off my to-do list, would actually be seen on camera. Similar to not considering that my father would be reading about me having sex in my cubicle.

"The one of you putting your face in a bowl of salad," he gasped, "was the best!"

I'm sure my father is relieved we have no relatives in Australia. And there is a joke in here about "remote" and "control" but I'm not sure what it is, yet.

Hometown Girl Makes Good

The last time I read for my parents (not counting reciting my wedding vows) was when I graduated from Johns Hopkins and regaled them with the part of my thesis that centered on The Museum of Menstruation. Looking out into the audience Friday night, I noticed that my mom and dad had the same concerned look on their faces. Like when my dad first heard the word "tampon" and even from up on the podium, I could see him turn to my mother and through gritted teeth say, "Did she just say tampon?"

It's hard enough knowing they read the book (well, my dad did anyway) but performing the book for them was pretty surreal. Eventually, my dad began to beam in the same way he did when he got used to hearing words like tampon and period. My mother never really loosened up, even though I assured her that I wouldn't be reading any parts about her.

But my parents were just part of the crowd. I also had to read for their friends, my sister-in-law's book club, and a few girls from my high school graduating class whom I haven't seen since graduating. Again, totally bizarre. Yet highly enjoyable.

Even though I was worried I'd just be reading for the Thanksgiving table, I managed to fill all the seats as well as the perimeter. And belt out 2 selections without the benefit of a microphone.

Later that weekend, my aunt Hava hosted a brunch for me, where I learned that my father's sister Gladys was totally horrified by the book's content. "I'm a Puritan," she told me.

Before we left for home, my mother hugged me and said, "I'm so proud of you." Which again reminded me of what a remarkable woman she is. Despite being profoundly uncomfortable with the book ("You have a selective memory," she said at one point during the weekend), she is 100% supportive, even calling a few editors at the Hartford Courant to drum up some attention.

Stay tuned for more updates. If my dad can figure out how to get photos from the reading off his camera, I'll post them. And, I leave for NYC Thursday to tape The Morning Show - Australia's version of GMA and The Today Show. Hope they don't throw me on the barbie!

West Hartford Freak Out

The media blitz continues (although, I'm afraid it's in the final death throes). But I will go out with a bang: I leave tomorrow for a reading in my hometown, West Hartford, CT - much to the immense anxiety of my mom and dad, who have no idea what will come out of my mouth as I take the podium at Blue Back Square's (ie: the second coming of retail) Barnes & Noble.

Immediately, I had to change one of my standard reading selections. There is no way I'm going to read from the November chapter, where I bring Karl home for Thanksgiving and cringe as my mother tells a story to the whole gathering about making a home movie with a bunch of her friends that ended with her going topless - TO HER FACE IN FRONT OF ALL HER FRIENDS. That is, if she invited any of her friends. I think she's really worried about my passive aggressive fantasies coming to life. Like I've been waiting all these years to FINALLY get her back for not letting me have my own phone line in high school.

But, that is not going to happen. Mostly because I have no passive aggressive fantasies. I think my mother would prefer to think she's not in the book at all (she has decided not to read it) and I'd prefer to extend her version of reality. (And actually, it was my mother who, in her words, "got me back for being such a bitch to her when I was in high school," by fixing me up on a blind date with a pimply faced loser who actually burst a zit into my salad over dinner and when I got home and yelled at her for sending me out on the town with such a freak show, laughed her head off in full and complete vengeance mode.)

Instead, I will be reading from the June chapter, where I used an article from Real Simple that detailed how to wrap things in Saran Wrap. Decidedly less volatile in subject matter.

But come out and see for yourself. Seriously. Please come out. Friday, September 5th, 7pm, Blue Back Square Barnes & Noble.