Kathryn Krase

The Privilege of Choice: Public Schools in New York City

October 11, 2022 By Kathryn Krase Filed Under: Community

If you haven’t seen the news, the New York City council approved a budget that drastically slashed public schools funds for the 2022-2023 school year. Mayor Adams claims the cuts were necessary due to declining enrollment in the system. But, those of us with vested interest in these schools know the budget has never been adequate. Teachers and parents are suing to force a restoration of funds. The Council and our Comptroller are trying to find other ways to get the money back to our schools. In the meantime, parents continue to make choices to ensure their children have access to the best public education possible. Everybody wants the best education for their child. But, the best isn’t always a choice to be made. Sometimes it’s luck. Sometimes it’s more than luck. And sometimes, the best options just aren’t even made available to you.

My son hit the lottery when he was three. Well, in a way. My wonderful and absolutely perfect three year old son, Jack, was one of 18 children selected, at random, to become a student in a full day, pre-kindergarten classroom at Brooklyn New School (“BNS”, aka PS 146) for the Fall of 2011. I was excited for so many reasons: 1) We could save a year’s worth of preschool tuition (cha-ching); 2) Jack would be attending the same school as two, soon to be three, of his cousins (multiplying drop-off and pick up options for a busy working mom); and, 3) I absolutely adored the open classroom, project based learning, diversity-focused, curriculum BNS touted. Twelve years ago this fall, Jack entered the New York City public school system that I, too, am a product of. However, my educational selections were designed around privilege, rather than luck.

Having graduated from the “penthouse” program at PS 107, then MS (formerly “JHS”) 51, and Midwood High School (at Brooklyn College) I’m not just a product of the NYC public schools; I am the product of the elite inner sanctum of NYC Board of Education offerings. I was an academically inclined student with no behavioral issues. I didn’t read books, I absorbed them. I haven’t taken a standardized test I couldn’t perform very well on. As a result, I was funneled into programs that provided me unique access to “enrichment” programs in math, science, art and music that could easily match, if not surpass, the suburban offerings of Long Island and Westchester. But, let’s be honest: these programs were largely reserved for upper middle class White kids, like myself.

The special offerings I was afforded in my experience as a NYC public school student were not available to every student who had academic abilities similar to mine. These special offerings were systematically designed to keep kids like me, from upper middle White class families like mine, in the public school system, especially after the “White Flight” out of New York City of similar families throughout the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s. The City needs a significant base of willing taxpayers in order to fund the largest public education system in the country. In response to dwindling enrollment into public schools, especially from certain neighborhoods, the “Board of Ed” designed programs, like the ones I attended, and other “magnet” and “gifted and talented” programs to satisfy savvy educational consumers, who demanded choices.

The amazing educational opportunities I was provided weren’t about luck. The system was rigged in my favor. And, nearly 40 years later, the system is still rigged for kids, like mine, though many of us try so hard to believe it’s not. We somehow think our kids “earn” the better opportunities they are afforded. If we extend that logic to the rest of the families in NYC who aren’t receiving these opportunities, are we saying those kids don’t “deserve” higher quality opportunities… because they didn’t “earn” it?

To explore the concept of kids “earning” great educational opportunities, take a gander at any social media platform parents’ discussion of NYC middle school or high school admissions, especially the day AFTER assignments are made in the spring. You’ll see streams of parents proudly announcing their child’s placement. For instance, they will be celebrating how their child’s “achievement” on a standardized test secured them a spot in a Specialized High School. A few years ago, some of those same parents likely opted their kids out of similar state exams, challenging their validity. But, once the test validates their child’s intelligence, it’s a different story. Other parents will tout how their child, identified for their extraordinary talent in music and/or art, will now walk the same high school halls as Oscar and Grammy winners. They, likely, won’t tout how much they spent on music lessons, arts camps, and portfolio/audition prep, though.

In those same feeds, on the same days, you’ll also see parents bemoaning disappointing admissions outcomes. Since there aren’t enough seats in the elite inner sanctum for everyone who wants one, some 10- 14 year olds who “worked so hard” won’t actually get the limited opportunity their parents are convinced they “deserve”. As a result, these parents often take last minute spots in the whitest charter programs they can find, or dip into college savings to fund private or religious school tuition. You’ll see comments that suggest these parents don’t believe there are acceptable options for their children amongst the other 500+ public high schools they didn’t put on their preference list that maxes out at a total of 12. Some parents admit they put fewer than 12 high school choices on their list… Those 500+ other offerings, however, are all that many of the 200,000+ NYC public high school kids, who are largely Black and Latinx, have available to them, because the system is not fair or equitable. Not everyone has a choice.

Public schools in rich, largely White, neighborhoods, like Park Slope, are highly sought after. So much so, that people hire consultants to help them figure out where to rent or purchase a home so that they’re “zoned” for the best kindergarten program in the District. These schools are “great”, by comparison, to other districts because rich, largely White, parents contribute significantly to PTA fundraisers in their kids’ schools. As a result, our schools have more teachers and more services. Our kids get special programming in the arts and sciences. Our kids have arts teachers and/or partnerships with cultural institutions, as if these are standard expectations in NYC public schools; they’re not. For instance, in 2014 ⅕ of NYC public schools didn’t have a full-time or part-time art teacher. Half of these schools were in the South Bronx and Central Brooklyn, with the highest proportion of Black or Latinx students. That’s not bad luck; it’s injustice.

In a system with limited resources (like the underfunded NYC public school system), if some kids get more, it means other kids get less; it’s economics. Having come to this realization over time, I am uncomfortable with the fact that the opportunities I was able to take advantage of as a child in NYC public schools were not made available to everyone. It’s particularly hard to swallow because I know, now, that even if I didn’t get all the “extras” I experienced, I would have, likely, been just as successful in life. It’s not fair that I got more than other students, who needed so much more than I did. So, I committed myself, as a parent, to not playing into the system. But, I’m not sure how effective my efforts have been.

Instead of playing the District 15 address game, we took our chances and played the pre-k lottery for BNS… and “won”. But, I wasn’t the only upper middle class White parent to play this game of chance. In fact, upper middle class, mostly White parents, are the most adept at playing these “games”. As a result, BNS, though committed to racial and economic diversity from conception, was Whiter for most of Jack’s seven wonderful years in the Henry Street building than in any of the previous 30 years of its existence. Recognizing this concerning dynamic, BNS committed early to the NYC “Diversity in Admissions” (DIA) program, holding ⅓ of lottery spots for children from families who are eligible for free or reduced-price lunch. As a result of their DIA participation, five years after Jack graduated, BNS now boasts nearly 60% BIPOC students. If Jack were to enter the BNS pre-k lottery again this year, chances are he wouldn’t be so lucky this time around. That would suck. But, the reality is that no matter where Jack ended up for pre-k through fifth grade, he’d be fine.

When Jack was in 5th grade, we chose to support the early efforts of District 15 to integrate their middle schools through the removal of academic and attendance screens. On Jack’s middle school application preference list, our top three schools all used lotteries for admission. We didn’t even put MS 51 on Jack’s list of 8 options. Jack got his second choice, MS442. But, we were never disappointed.

Then came high school admissions. Confident that Jack would succeed academically wherever he landed, it was most important that his high school would be able to engage him extracurricularly. He didn’t bother to take the SHSAT. With the exception of one program on his list (NYC iSchool), we only considered schools that had boys volleyball programs. We listed 12 schools on Jack’s high school application list. The first 3, and 8 of the total list of 12, were “lottery” schools. The 4th and 5th were Midwood programs (#goHornets). He didn’t get into Essex Street Academy (#1) or Harvest Collegiate (#2). He was placed in Park Slope Collegiate (#3). Walking distance from home, and with the best volleyball coaches ever, we were thrilled. Jack had a wonderful 9th grade experience at PSC, and he’s soooo ready to go back to school this fall.

Changes in the NYC public high school admissions process and resulting decisions created an uproar this past spring. The COVID pandemic destabilized the metrics previously used to evaluate student admission to academically “screened” high schools. Attendance during the COVID year(s) couldn’t be used, and standardized test grades from 7th grade weren’t available, either. High schools that wanted to “screen” their admissions were forced to rely on categories that grouped students by grades. With the statistical impossibility of discerning the relative worth of one kid with a 95 average from the thousands of other such kids, many “selective” high schools were forced to use lotteries in their admissions process for the first time. And guess what? This time the lotteries benefitted Black and Latinx kids!! NOT THE WHITE KIDS!! For instance, this past spring, 43% of offers at Park Slope’s own Millennium Brooklyn went to Black and Latinx students, an increase from 20% the year before. But, due to the scarcity of valued spots in the system, if BIPOC kids are benefitting from the change, this means that White kids are “losing out”. And White kids are more likely than others to leave the public school system as a result of not getting what they want. Why? Because they’re more likely to have other choices…

Over the coming school year, individual schools will need to make tough choices in the face of budget cuts. Individual teachers will need to make tough choices about how to spend their limited resources on classroom supplies in the face of record inflation. Individual families will, also, need to make tough choices about where to send their kids when they don’t get into their top pick for middle school or high school. If you’re one of these families, choose wisely, but please, acknowledge your choice is a privilege.

The Kids Need Coaches, Part 2: Coaching Over Time

July 14, 2022 By Kathryn Krase Filed Under: Sports

Parents are forewarned, often before becoming a parent: parenting a teenager is no joke. Just google “parenting a teenager” and you see tons of books, blog posts and YouTube videos about “surviving” this stage of your parenting experience. Parenting a teen is “daunting”, “challenging” and just plain “hard”. However, there are no resources out there for coaching teenagers in sports. I’m here to tell you, coaches of teenagers need help. Or at least I do.

Over the past eleven years, I have coached 12 recreational baseball teams for the Prospect Park Baseball Association. The 3 and 4 year olds I started coaching in 2011 are 14 and 15 years old, now. My first coaching experience, when the players were 3 and 4 playing t-ball, was akin to herding cats.

In our t-ball season, players were easily distracted. They would lie down in the field when they were supposed to be playing first base. When a ball was hit in the field, all the fielders would run after it, and usually end up in a pile on top of the ball, and on top of each other. At the plate, batters would often stand there bewildered about what to do after making solid contact with the bat on the ball. Coaches and parents would scream at them to “run, run, run!” When they finally got the message, they might drop the bat (or not), and they would run, but not always towards 1st base. Sometimes they would run towards 3rd base. Other times they would run towards the pitcher. Sometimes they would simply cross their arms in protest and sit down at home plate. T-ball practices and games were scheduled for one hour once a week; those 60 minutes seemed like an eternity, sometimes. Most player’s favorite part of the experience was snack time after the game was over.

Over the years, players gained a growing understanding about the rules of the game, and improved their skills. Every season we had a new “first” experience in baseball. I remember the first caught fly balls; the first successful plays in the field involving two players; the first double-play; the first triple-play; the first stolen base; the first runner picked-off the base. I loved preparing our players for those firsts and then processing the challenges and successes of the experience.

One of my favorite “firsts” was our first “player-pitched” game. After a few seasons of tball and then “coach pitched” games, we were ready for the first time our own players would pitch. In the Pony Division of the Prospect Park Baseball Association, players start to pitch to their own teammates. All our players were nervous. Our pitchers were afraid they would hit the batters, who were their friends. Our batters were afraid they would get hit by pitches. “The reality”, I explained to these 7 and 8 year olds, “is that each of you is going to get hit by a pitch at some point. It is likely going to hurt. But, you will not die. I promise”. I’m not sure if they believed me, or not. So, to break the tension and provide some levity, we all wore stick-on mustaches to that first game. Seriously. It worked. Some batters got hit, but there were many more smiles than hit batters that day.

As a coach for recreational, not “travel”, baseball teams, I always aim to make the experience fun, and not solely focus on the competition. In the early years, I gave out coloring sheets of famous baseball players from history, like Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson and Roberto Clemente. As the kids got older, I gave out 1980s/90s-era unopened baseball card packs at the end of each game. Many packs still had sticks of gum intact inside the wrapper. I provided a warning, and claimed no responsibility for any gastric-upset they might experience if they chewed the 30 year old gum. The players loved receiving these cards. They would jockey for the best spot in our huddle in order to choose the pack they most desired. While they were all hoping to score an invaluably rare rookie card (which never happened), they ended up learning about players and teams they never knew existed.

Each year, players learned more about the game of baseball. The rules we played under would adjust every two years or so to meet their changing developmental stage, both physically and cognitively. In the first season, in 2011, the t-ball field had 30 foot base paths. Every player batted every inning. Each batter got 10 swings to make solid contact with the ball. No walks or strikeouts. No score recorded. Over the years, the rules adjusted over each of the 6 subsequent levels of play. The fields got bigger and bigger, and the rules got more complicated. We started stealing bases 6 years ago. We started leading before the pitch 3 years ago. Last season it became real: We are, finally, playing “major league rules” on a real baseball field. 90 foot basepaths. 60 feet 6 inches from the tip of home plate to the front of the pitcher’s rubber. Infield fly rule applies. Balks called without warning. Our players are finally deemed developmentally ready to play “real” baseball. But, there are some developmental realities that I am not fully prepared for: adolescence of my players.

Search the internet for “signs of adolescent behavior” and you get a list that includes: moodiness and irritability, verbal aggression, lack of frustration tolerance, low impulse control, withdrawal, defiance and testing limits, concern about physical appearance, struggle with sense of identity, sleeping harder and longer, sexual experimentation, selfishness and abandoning commitments. With the exception of the sleep and sex issues, I’m seeing the rest on the baseball field, for kids on my team and in our competition.

The mood swings, and emotional challenges of adolescence definitely impacts my ability to effectively coach my players. Kids that once were so clear in what they wanted or didn’t want, and able to articulate their emotions (e.g. happy, excited, scared, sad or mad) are way more complicated now. A kid that was so confident in past years, could still be confident, but could just as likely become terrified, in the same at bat. As a result of their developmental changes, my ability to logically reason with players, especially with my inflection of humor, can be completely useless now. Younger kids that would nod their head in understanding and agreement, and resultantly make simple changes to their behavior a few years ago, might still nod their head and seem to listen, but are also just as likely to disagree with me or just plain ignore me. In the past, I could count on my understanding of who a particular player was. These days, I don’t know which personality of a given player I’m going to see on a particular day. All of this makes it really hard to prepare, or predict, skills that are central to the role of a coach.

Most central to my role of coach has always been my ability to help a player feel good about themselves. Players all present with different strengths and challenges, but everyone improves when they make the effort. In past years, I could rely upon my ability to support a kid through their emotional struggles by highlighting for them their improvement so far, and point to opportunities for continuing growth. This does not work with most teenage players. They’re more likely to be focused on what certain other kids think about them, or pretending they’re not focused on what certain other kids think about them. As a result, many players seem set on not looking like they care about the game, or how they’re playing, even if deep down they really do. For a coach, this is extremely frustrating.

As I reflect on the challenge I’m experiencing coaching teenagers, I’ve come to realize that I’m experiencing a sort of adolescent period of my own, as a coach. I’m definitely feeling moody and irritable. My inclination towards verbal aggression has never been stronger. I feel my frustration tolerance waning and my impulse control is on the fritz. I’m definitely struggling with my sense of identity. Even with all the challenges I’m experiencing in this phase of my development as a coach, I am not abandoning my commitments. Instead, I’m doubling-down and ready to own my maturity as an “adult” coach.

A simple internet search on the developmental tasks of adulthood highlight milestones of “achieving autonomy, establishing one’s identity and developing emotional stability”. After 12 years in this role, I think I can be the adult coach I want to be. To start, I can acknowledge that the most important part of being an “adult” coach of child athletes is recognizing that kids are kids, no matter what stage of development they are in. I am sure that I want my identity as a coach to be still centered on being “fun”. So, I just ordered more baseball card packs from the 1980s and 1990s to give out to players after the game this week. Some packs will likely have 30 year old gum sticks inside. Depending on how I feel after their performance, I’m not sure if I’ll provide my usual disclaimer, and warn them about the potential for gastric-upset if they choose to chew the gum. Maybe, I’m not as mature as I think I am. There’s always room for development.

The Kids Need Coaches

April 7, 2022 By Kathryn Krase Filed Under: Park Slope Life, Park Slope Reading

I spent a few hours this week emotionally preparing for the “draft”. It’s not the NFL, NBA, or MLB draft that had me sweating; it was the SFX Youth Sports, 2022 Spring Baseball Season, Grasshopper Division draft. This draft was important because I had actual skin in the game. I’m preparing for my 12th season as head coach of a coed youth baseball team in the Prospect Park Baseball Association, and it’s time for me to pick my team for the 12th time.

Near the start of each season I find myself reminiscing. Sometimes I think about the t-ball days, over a decade ago; I recall that experience less as “coaching” kids to play a sport I love, and more like “herding cats”. Other times, I reflect on the longevity of my relationship with many of my players; 2 have been on my team all 12 years (my son and nephew), 2 for 11 years, and a few more for 8, 9 and 10 years. As a result of these long relationships, we’re more a baseball “family”, than a baseball “team”. This year, in preparation for the draft and upcoming season, I ended up reflecting on an experience from before my coaching days, that I didn’t even think was related to coaching, but turns out it is.

Almost 15 years ago, I was a new mom and preparing my dissertation proposal. I was actually chugging along smoothly. Then, I received a suggestion from one of my committee members to add additional material to my theoretical perspective on how “social capital” theory relates to my dissertation topic. I had no idea how “social capital” related to school personnel notoriously over-reporting Black and Brown families to child protection services. However, as anyone with a PhD knows, if a dissertation committee member makes a suggestion, it’s better to just follow through with it, then ask too many questions. After all, I wanted to finish my program, not languish in it.

So, I asked the committee member for guidance on what source materials might help me best understand the context of this theory I never studied before. The answer: “read Bowling Alone, by Robert Putnam”. I assumed this recommended source was a journal article that I could access electronically through the library’s online system. But, alas, it was a book. A BOOK. My committee member wanted me to stop everything I was doing after submitting a full draft of my dissertation proposal, and read A BOOK?!? I had an infant at home! To make progress, so far, I had to figure out how to work on my dissertation proposal while regularly breastfeeding. I was making progress, so far, because I had been conceptualizing my proposal for 2 years before I got pregnant. But, I bought the book, and dug in.

The book ended up being fascinating, and well written; I was able to finish reading it in less than a week. What I learned was that social capital refers to “connections among individuals”. Social capital theory suggests that individuals form connections with other individuals and groups because these connections benefit their own interests. But, social capital in the United States is dwindling. Putnam provided evidence that Americans were disengaging from each other, and their communities, for various demographic and political reasons. As a result, there was a loss in civic engagement, and dwindling numbers of volunteers for community groups.

“What the heck does this have to do with bowling”, you ask? Well, even though more people (mathematically) were reporting bowling on a regular basis, fewer people were bowling in leagues. Therefore, people were more likely to be “Bowling Alone” (get it), than ever. There was less “togetherness” happening, even when it came to bowling. It took some brain energy to connect this concept to my dissertation topic. But I was able to do so competently enough for students to have to call me “Doctor Krase” for the past 13 years.

Bowling Alone, and social capital theory, came to mind a few weeks ago when I was talking with an old high school friend I recently reconnected with. He is the athletic director at a private school that is in constant need of coaches for their sports teams. He asked if I was interested in coaching for his program; for the record, I am. He explained how hard it is to find coaches because people are so busy, and coaching requires a certain level of commitment. He talked about spending years recruiting coaches from the ranks of local collegiate athletes, and how he’s lucky to get more than one year of service from such a recruit before they graduate, and move on. Then, he has to recruit and train a replacement. We’ll be talking later this spring about possibilities for me to join his coaching staff, and we’ll see what happens next year.

The difficulty finding coaches for youth sports teams is not unique to private schools, or any school for that matter. With school coaching gigs there is usually some level of monetary compensation, though not substantial. And the hours are complicated. Finding coaches is a constant struggle in volunteer circles, as well. While trying to problem-solve the vacuum of coaches, I found myself recalling Bowling Alone. How would Putnam’s perspective on social capital theory explain why it’s so hard to find coaches?

First there’s the demographics. American birth rates have been decreasing for half a century, but the actual number of kids in the country continues to grow, albeit more slowly. And, even though the rate of participation in sports is decreasing, the actual number of kids playing sports is increasing. There’s also a ton of sports to choose from. The “big three” (i.e. football, baseball, and basketball) are still popular, but so are soccer, track and field, tennis and volleyball. Some sports have seen a reduction in participation over time, namely tackle football. But the bottom line is, there are more kids, and more kids are playing sports; that means higher demand for coaches.

While there is a growing number of children, adults are less likely to be parents. Coaches, especially volunteer coaches, are most likely to be parents. So, with a declining share of the adult population choosing to become parents, or delaying parenthood until later in life, there is a smaller pool of adults likely willing to coach.

Then there’s the lifestyle changes for adults over time. The start of the 20th century saw a rapid expansion of leisure time for adults across socio-economic status as the 40 hour, five-day, work week became a standard. But by the early 21st century, adults reported feeling more rushed and busy, with growing demands for their time outside of work. A multitude of commitments for adults means less time available for them to serve as a coach.

And then there are the stresses of the coaching role, itself. I don’t think the stress of draft night is a major deterrent to recruiting volunteer coaches. So, what is stopping everyone?

Coaching isn’t just showing up at game time. There’s finding time in everyone’s schedules to practice, and also making space in the limited space of our evenings and weekends for games. Good coaches need time, and mental space, to identify skills in need of development in players, and then provide the opportunity for the players to learn such skills. Coaching involves figuring out logistical arrangements of players on the field or court, and making decisions about whether the goal is fairness amongst players of differing abilities, or capitalizing for the team’s competitive advantage, or a balance of both. And then there’s the need to effectively communicate all of this to children of various ages and developmental stages, and their parents.

Coaching isn’t easy, and it isn’t always fun. We’ve all seen media reports of the less-than-friendly reception coaches (and officials) get on the field from other coaches, spectating parents from all teams, and even their own child players. Coaches, and youth sports officials, unfortunately, get harassed and disrespected. I, myself, am no stranger to being called names or being cursed at on the field.

While there are a ton of reasons why there aren’t enough coaches, there are so many of us who have been in the role for a long time. On the video conference call that served as this year’s draft, I was greeted with many familiar faces from drafts of the past, as well as new faces. There was a time when I was the only woman in the draft room; now there are a handful of us. Why do people coach? And why do some of us keep coming back?

All the research shows the value of kids playing sports, especially team sports. There are major benefits to their physical, mental and emotional health. The lessons learned on the court, field, ice, etc. are transferable to situations kids face with school, work, friends, and family. And kids need coaches in order to reap these benefits.

While there isn’t the same type of research on how coaching impacts adults, I can say that even with the stress this role causes me, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. I LOVE COACHING! I love seeing the kids improve over short and long periods of time. I love seeing the kids cheer and support each other on and off the field. I love connecting with kids, their siblings, their parents, and extended family members. I love it when a player is excited to tell me who is watching them from the sidelines for that game. I love it when a player timidly inquires about whether they can try pitching, or play first base. I love it when a player beams with pride when they make solid contact between the ball and their bat and they watch it fly through the air, or the smile that engulfs their face when they realize the ball fell into their glove to catch a fly ball and they made an out on the field. I even love the feeling of stressing out before the draft; I love it because I know that after the draft, it’s only a matter of weeks before we’re back on the baseball field.

Social capital may be dwindling, but it’s not gone. There was plenty of social capital at the draft, and plenty of untapped social capital reading this article. I know you’re there… If anyone reading this article is considering coaching, even for a single season, but isn’t sure it’s worth the effort. IT IS! Do it! The kids need us… and maybe we need them, too.

Cars in Brooklyn are About Family

January 11, 2022 By Kathryn Krase Filed Under: Community, Park Slope Life

During my many rants on the Park Slope Together Facebook Group Page, I often challenge neighbors whose expressed interests in a safer community are ignorant to the fact that private automobile ownership provides safest transportation, especially during the COVID19 pandemic, to many of our most respected neighbors: older adults. I wasn’t talking about my own needs; I barely consider my 46-year old self a grown-up, let alone the appropriately titled “middle-aged”. I reflect, instead, the importance of having a car in supporting the productive and long lives my grandparents (and now, parents) enjoyed in Brooklyn.

While others, usually newer to Brooklyn than me and my family, seem to connect urban car use with disdain, the thought of cars in Brooklyn is more than nostalgia for me; cars are about family. My relationship to one of the closest people in the first 33 years of my life was built, largely, through car rides in and around Brooklyn. That person was my smart and complicated maternal grandfather, Anthony Charles “Nicky” Nicoletti (1912-2008).

If you had the pleasure to know my grandfather, you probably called him “Nicky”, “Nick”, “Big Daddy Nick”, or “Mo” (go figure). My sisters and I always called him “Nicky”. Though he had 10 grandchildren and 17 great-children when he died, “Grandpa” was never a term he accepted as endearment, due to his vanity. As little kids, if you wanted to get a rise out of Nicky, you would call him “Grandpa”, and run away laughing as he chased you around the dining room table with hands outstretched pretending a wicked fate would meet you, but giving tickles, when he caught you.

Nicky was born in Brooklyn, the son of Italian immigrants, Sabato Nicoletti and Anna Gregorio. He was the second of three sons. He was smart, quick-witted, and prideful. Similar to most of his first-generation peers, he didn’t attend college. But he boasted about graduating from Erasmus Hall (picture), a competitive public high school in his day, and would reminisce about his academic achievements: “Did you ever get 104 on a test?”, he would ask. “Well, I did…”, he’d continue after your answer, with a wink and a smile.

He was proud of being a retired officer of the New York Police Department (picture). At the time of his service, there were strict standards, largely set by Irish-Catholic leadership, and clearly designed to keep Italian-Americans off the force. One of these rules was a minimum height requirement. This rule, and many others, invalidated the applications of many (shorter) Italian-Americans of Nicky’s time, and then Puerto Rican and Black applicants through the early 1970’s. Since Nicky was strikingly tall for his generation, and a good test-taker (as evidenced by his achievements at Erasmus), his eligibility for entry into the NYPD was hard to ignore (and having a political boss as a father-in-law didn’t hurt, either).

By the time I was born in 1975, Nicky (then, 63 years old) was long retired from the NYPD, but still had many forms of employment, paid and unpaid. He and my grandmother, (Nana) Rose, owned a two-story, one-family, house on the corner of Maple Street and New York Avenue, in what was then called “Flatbush”, and now borders on Prospect Lefferts Garden. That three-bedroom, 1.5 bath home, with finished basement, had not just one, but FOUR garages.

They rented 3 of the garages on a monthly basis and retained one to facilitate one of Nicky’s side-businesses, car repair. He wasn’t a “mechanic”, but he could fix almost anything before cars relied on computers to function. The finished basement was once a great hang out for my mother and her brothers, with wood paneled walls, and a built-in stereo system. But, in my lifetime, it served as Nicky’s shop where he repaired tube televisions and radios, amongst other electronics and mechanical items. But, the garage was where he worked on cars; his car, his family’s cars, his friends’ cars, his neighbors’ cars, etc.

Nicky never drove fancy cars, or the big cars that many Italian-American men of his generation are often associated with, like Lincoln Continentals or Cadillacs. My sisters remember his Mercury sedan. In my lifetime, the car that I have the fondest memories of was his Datsun, 4-door, hatchback. That car was my favorite for one special reason: with a lot of help from Nicky, that car taught me how to drive a standard transmission, even when my feet didn’t reach the clutch.

Back in the days when children weren’t relegated to the back seat for fear of death in car crashes, I loved being Nicky’s co-pilot, cementing myself in the passenger seat whenever I could. This was a feat, since as the youngest of three girls I was not entitled to that position when my older sisters were anywhere near the car. When the three of us were in the car with Nicky, it was a competition between Kristin and Karen for the honor. Jousting for seats happened often in Nicky’s car because Nicky drove us ALL over Brooklyn, but mostly shuttling us from our house to his house, and back.

For the first 9 years of my life, we lived just a half a mile away from Nana and Nicky on Midwood Street near Flatbush Avenue in Prospect Lefferts Garden (PLG), but we rarely walked the distance; we didn’t have to. Nicky was retired, and he had guaranteed parking when he got home: my current Brooklyn dream! Many weekend mornings our phone would ring, but none of us would pick it up. It rang twice, and then fell silent. The signal was received. Nana was letting us know that Nicky was en route to pick us up. Our dog, Kwincy, recognizing the sound of Nicky’s car engine, would start barking long before we could see him pull up in front of the house. We’d get on our shoes and coats and head out the door. After jockeying for position, with me moping and resigned in the back seat, he’d drive us to his house, where Nana would be preparing us breakfast, and/or lunch, and definitely dessert. LOTS of dessert.

On Sundays, my parents would join us after the weekly WPIX showing of an Abbott & Costello movie, and we’d have an early dinner/late lunch. When these family Sundays coincided with an afternoon game for the NY Jets or Giants, that meant Nana would make her signature fried chicken, and macaroni salad, served with Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, and we’d all eat in the living room, the girls on the floor, by the console tv.

When we moved a few more miles away to Park Slope in the mid-80’s, we still kept up this routine, though more often than not, I was the only passenger. My sisters, then teenagers, had busier lives than I did on the weekends. Instead of a trip of 2 simple right turns connecting Nana & Nicky’s house to ours, the trip between PLG and Park Slope often involved driving through Prospect Park, from the 3^rd Street entrance around to Lincoln Rd, and back. Access to the park by motor vehicles was first limited in the late 1960s with “car-free” weekends. By the 1990s, car traffic in Prospect Park was limited to weekday “rush hours”, and then eventually banning car traffic all together in 2018. Every time I cross West Drive to coach my baseball team, I think fondly about my rides with Nicky through the park, knowing that on the other side there was good food and family waiting for me.

When it was just Nicky and me in the car, and my position as co-pilot was secured, he would share his musings about the mechanical nature of cars. If I was ever to be a decent driver, as most women weren’t in his eye, I needed to know how a transmission worked. He had a disdain for automatic transmissions. Anybody could drive them (“even women”, was implied). Automatic transmissions took the skill out of driving. “Who wants to drive a car, but not know how it works?”

My grandmother never learned to drive a car, but arguably, she didn’t have to. Nana was Nicky’s perennial passenger for 72 years of marriage. Every weekday, they ventured out into Brooklyn together in their car. Nicky at the wheel; Nana to his right. He would wait patiently in the car, reading his Daily News, and listening to 770AM, while Nana would get her hair colored and styled, later in life at Helen’s Beauty Salon on Coney Island Avenue and Cortelyou. They went to Landi’s meat market in Mill Basin for sausage. They went to the Sabrett’s outlet on Ralph Avenue for hotdogs. And, then the desserts: Ebingers in Flatbush for the original Brooklyn Blackout Cake, Leske’s Bakery in Bay Ridge for apple cake, Court Street Pastry for “dots”, and Lords Bakery at the “Junction” for Black and White cookies and seven layer cake. While Nicky never taught Nana the “ways of a standard transmission”, her lack of education in the area might have been by her choosing. Their relationship was challenging, to say the least. But, car rides in and around Brooklyn were central to their long, fruitful, if not perfect, marriage.

Thanks to Nicky, all three Krase girls, now women, proudly know how to drive a car with a standard transmission. My sisters remember the days of sitting in the front of Nicky’s Mercury sedan, but not in the front seat, exactly. They remember straddling the “bump” between the driver and passenger side seats. While driving, Nicky would direct them to shift the car into a particular gear, while he depressed the clutch. “First”. “Second”. “Third”. Even “neutral”. For me, similar memories are in his Datsun. My favorite times were when Nicky would depress the clutch and ask “which gear?”. When I made the right choice, to up-shift, or down-shift, depending on the traffic and the situation, he was pleased as punch, and so was I. It felt good to receive Nicky’s validation; such was not so easily achieved for most people.

Besides driving me to and from his house on the weekends, Nicky also picked me up from school to drive me to appointments. Weekly allergy shots in Sheepshead Bay. Monthly orthodontist visits in the Williamsburg Savings Bank building (now luxury condos across from the Brooklyn Apple Store and the new LIRR station). Choir practice at St. Francis Xavier. And of course, sports… Tennis lessons at Parade Grounds. Swimming practice at Brooklyn College. By the time I was in high school, multiple hours a week with Nicky in his car were an accepted part of my schedule; how else would I do everything that I did?

When I was a two-varsity sport student-athlete at Midwood High School at Brooklyn College from 1989-1993, Nicky and Nana Rose were in their late-70’s/early 80’s living in Park Slope, in the third-floor apartment of my parents’ Brownstone on 9^th Street. Sports were just as important to Nicky as his cars, and he hardly missed any of my games, home or away. He would drive around Brooklyn, Queens, even the Bronx, to watch me and my teammates play volleyball in the fall, or tennis in the spring.

While the volleyball team would travel to matches together on a bus, Nicky would meet us there, often with one or both of my parents in tow, to watch us play, and then drive me home. During NYC Public School Athletic League (PSAL) playoffs and the Mayor’s Cup tournament at the end of the tennis season in the spring, Nicky would transport 4 players (including me) from Midwood’s celebrated girls’ tennis team to the USTA Center at Flushing Meadows Corona Park to watch us in action. Nicky’s dedication to our tennis team, in particular, earned him a special award upon my graduation (picture).

Some of our greatest days together in the car were on our way home in celebration of doubles tournament wins with friend, and Park Slope neighbor, Olana Hirsch (Khan). But, there was that one time, in 1993, when Olana and I lost a match that we should have won in the finals of the PSAL tournament, and Nicky was our ride back to Park Slope. After the disappointing loss, Nicky was not waiting courtside to console us. Instead, he met us at the car, without saying a word. He, literally, did not utter a word to either of us, the entire ride home. I think it was days before he spoke to me again, and we lived in the same house. Winning our fourth consecutive Mayor’s Cup Tournament, just a few weeks later, helped ease the tension, but I’ll never forget that dismissal. Message received: achievement was celebrated; failure was not an option.

Nicky, himself, wasn’t perfect. He was complicated. Much like driving, and owning a car in Brooklyn. He often refused to wear a seatbelt, especially across his chest. The standard “3-point” seatbelt we rely on today was “new technology” in the late 1950’s. By then, Nicky had been driving for 20+ years, and wasn’t welcoming of change, especially if it was government mandated. He also had a special relationship with traffic lights. Green meant “go”; red meant “stop”; but yellow lights prompted Nicky to chant, “gonna make it, gonna make it”, as his foot came off the break, and sometimes lightly applied pressure to the gas.

By moving to Park Slope, Nicky gave up his repairman role, and almost all of his tools. And, while he lost his garages, he did NOT give up his car. He would still shuttle my grandmother for their daily shopping outings. He also added driving my mother to and from work at Brooklyn Hospital downtown on Dekalb Ave, or Caledonian Hospital on Parkside Ave. The man did not need Waze or Google Maps to tell him the best route or its alternatives. His entire lifetime on the roads of Brooklyn gave him all the direction he needed, coming from the depth of his soul. Though, if he saw the current state of rush hour traffic at Park (now P.O. Machate) Circle, by the Parade Grounds, he would be just as disgruntled as all other Brooklyn drivers.

As a result of his committed Brooklyn motorist role, most of his Park Slope days involved waiting for a parking spot. He was not one to circle the block, and find any spot he could a few blocks away from home. He would sit in his car, outside the house, waiting for a spot to open up. He would often stand by the car, chatting with neighbors and passersby. He would take these occasions as opportunity to clean his car, inside and out. It was, as a result, attractive and spotless, which undoubtedly prompted the many break-ins of his car. The stereo, for instance, was stolen on a few occasions; one such occasion my most valuable possession (a cassette soundtrack to “Beaches”) was taken along with the stereo.

These days, street parking is even harder to come by than in Nicky’s day. When anyone tries to raise the concern on Park Slope Together, or similar neighborhood fora, some neighbors insist car owners should suffer for the privilege of their eco-scourge. But, I can’t help but think about how Nicky’s car helped he and Nana live the “buy-local” lifestyle that those same current neighbors claim to ascribe to, while simultaneously accepting Amazon packages at WholeFoods, and scheduling their FreshDirect orders for delivery during daytime hours, as they work from the comfort of their homes during a pandemic.

Nicky gave up driving as he neared his 90^th birthday (pictured with me at his party at the Montauk Club). He lived another six years relegated to the passenger seat in any car ride he would take at that point. We drove our cars to his funeral at Greenwood Cemetery, and regularly drive there to visit his and Nana Rose’s graves, and those of 10 other deceased family members. They can all be found near the intersection of Vale Avenue and Primrose Path, if you’d like to join us for a visit.

Cars continue to be an important and vital part of my family’s lives. Driving, now, gives my father an alternative to biking when he has to teach at Brooklyn College on cold and/or rainy days, and means my mother can regularly and easily connect with long-time Brooklyn-born friends who made the move to Staten or Long Island. They can independently continue their own grocery shopping, and while they don’t spend their days shopping for local delicacies in all corners of Brooklyn, they continue to use their car to follow the sporting careers of their five Brooklyn-born, bred, and blooming grandchildren all over NYC and beyond.

I do not apologize for having a two car family in Brooklyn. My husband uses his car to transport himself and his tools as a carpenter and essential worker, rehabilitating units long-neglected due to being owned and operated by the New York City Housing Authority. Me, I’ve used my car to reverse-commute to Northern New Jersey to teach at Ramapo College, oftentimes carpooling with other Park Slope friends. I’ll admit, I also have driven the two miles to the faculty and staff parking garage at LIU Brooklyn on Dekalb Ave, across from where Nicky would drop my mother off to work. And, while I’m not willing to wait hours for a spot outside my house, my husband has been known to do so. These days, my car spends more days parked than moving. But, the way I see it, I’ve got a good 40 more years of driving (and parking) in Brooklyn, G-d willing/inshallah. So, in the meantime, I guess I’ll continue to practice my social media rants. I think Nicky would approve.

You Can Call Me Coach

July 24, 2021 By Kathryn Krase Filed Under: Community, Feature Tagged With: call me coach, kathryn krase, summer 2021

Frances Perkins was the first woman appointed to the cabinet of a US President. In 1933, Franklin Delano Roosevelt appointed Francis Perkins as the Secretary of Labor during the Great Depression. Perkins ushered in massive social reforms, leading the legislative efforts to institute Old Age, Survivors, Disability Insurance (aka “Social Security”), unemployment compensation, and workers compensation.

The first of her kind, the press was confused about what to call her other than “Secretary Perkins”. The Speaker of the House of Representatives, Henry Thomas Rainey (D-Ill), was called upon to clarify the appropriate honorific to use.

“When the Secretary of Labor is a lady, she should be addressed with the same general formalities as a secretary who was a gentleman. You call him Mr. Secretary. You will call her Madam Secretary.”

It’s not hard to show respect for women who take on roles that have long been held by men. Most times, you can simply call the woman by the same exact title as a man in the same position, like “Doctor” or “Vice President”. But for some people, finding a way to refer to women in positions that have been long dominated by men seems really difficult. This holds true on the baseball fields of Brooklyn.

In the depths of the Great Depression, President Franklin D. Roosevelt appointed Perkins as secretary of labor. Against overwhelming odds, she became the driving force behind Social Security, the 40-hour workweek, the eight‐hour workday, minimum wage, and unemployment compensation.

In the spring of 2010, I took to the artificial turf fields at the Dean Street Playground, near what would become the Barclays Center, as the head coach of the SFX Youthsports T-Ball team, the “Beetles”. My three year-old son, Jack, was excited to put on a uniform and enjoy the game that he saw his older cousins playing every spring. There was never a question about who would coach his team. It would be me.

For the five years before our first T-ball season, I served as an assistant coach to my nephews’ SFX recreational baseball teams, led by my brother-in-law, Coach John. In the spring of 2007, you could find me, visibly pregnant with Jack, coaching the runners at first base. For the first two springs of Jack’s life, a few times a week, he watched his uncle and his mom lead his nephews in practices in Prospect Park, and games all around Brooklyn. His Auntie Kristin, his Nana Sue, and his Daddy would keep an eye on Jack on the sidelines while John and I were busy on the field. I enjoyed my first Mother’s Day at the Parade Grounds, where Coach John helped coordinate coffee and donuts to celebrate the moms, like me, who made it to the game that morning.

For five years I was taking mental and physical notes about the kind of head coach I wanted to be when it was my turn. First and foremost, I wanted to instill a love of the game in my players. Just like John, it was important to me that the players knew the rules so they could understand the beauty of baseball. There was never a doubt in my mind that if the player could see how intertwined the physical and the psychological parts of the game were, that they would essentially find the spirituality of baseball, and fall in love.

Of course, this education had to be provided in an age-appropriate manner. Would you try to teach three and four-year-olds how to work a count for their own benefit and the batters behind them? Since there was no pitching in t-ball, such would be unnecessary, but also developmentally impossible. A success to be found in at-ball game was when a player would drop their bat before running, or more importantly, running to first base, instead of third. I’m still interested in the choice made by the baseball founders requiring baserunners to run counter-clockwise around the bases, instead of clockwise. I guess most three and four-year-olds feel the same way.

That first year as a head coach for the Beetles I didn’t feel out of place as a woman on the field. There were a few women leading t-ball teams that year, though we were definitely not close to a majority. There were also moms serving as assistant coaches, and moms helping coordinate the line-ups. There were moms helping with after-game snacks. Moms were everywhere. As the years went on, and the players got older, most moms moved back, away from the field, to enjoy their children’s participation on the field as a spectator. But not me. I was still there in the middle of the action, where I wanted to be.

After years of watching John, I was eager to coordinate my own team’s defense and offense. I was preparing pre-game and post-game team talks as I fell asleep at night. I got the butterflies every game day, out of excited energy.

This is 2012. That’s me sitting at first base. I generally coached from down there. 1) that way parents on the sidelines wouldn’t be obstructed by me. 2) I was at kid level, and 3) my adrenaline was so high I would shake… but, in this picture, you can also see 2 coaches/Dad’s from the other team behind me…

As we moved past the t-ball stage, and into Prospect Park as the kids turned five, my uniqueness as a female coach became more obvious. There were practically no other women wearing the collared SFX head coach shirt with the color-coordinated baseball cap that I wore each game with great pride. I guess my rarity as a female head coach helps explain why many fellow head coaches, men wearing the same collared shirt and hat as I, would literally miss my physical existence as we prepared for game time. Time and time again the opposing coach would walk up to a father on my team, not wearing a coach’s shirt or cap, to clarify which team was batting first, or what time our game would start. Time and time again the dads on my team would put their hands up and say something like, “oh, no. I’m not a coach. You have to talk to Coach Kathryn. She’s over there.” And there I was, wearing a matching outfit, setting up the field; putting the bases down, measuring the base paths with my retractable measuring tape. I thought I was ultra-visible in my uniqueness, but on those occasions I was invisible; the opposing coaches didn’t even know to look for me, though I was clearly there.

Not being seen is hard to take, but being seen and not respected is more difficult to swallow. A few glaring examples over the past decade come to mind. There was the father of a 5-year-old player on the opposing team who left his spot on the sidelines to tower over me, incensed that I was insisting an umpire apply the appropriate rules to his son’s at-bat. His voice raised, he kept referring to me as “ma’am” at the end of each of his sentences, but the inflection of his tone made it clear that he was not using it as a term of respect, but a reminder that I was the only woman on the field.

Then there is the use of “lady”. At least with “ma’am” the speaker can feign respect; when a man calls a woman “lady”, as in “what’s your problem, lady?”, it is quite clear that no civility is intended. I get “what’s your problem, lady?” at least once a year. Most often it comes from the sidelines, uttered by frustrated dads who seem to have trouble accepting their son will lose to a team coached by a woman. Sometimes it comes from opposing coaches, usually when I’ve caught them trying to skip past their weaker batters in the line-up when the score is really close. When Jack was nine, there was the middle-aged umpire, frustrated, and likely embarrassed, with my correcting him and our opposing coach on the rules of our level of play. As I turned away from our meeting behind home plate to return to my team’s dugout, he muttered within earshot, “whatever, lady”.

There is absolutely no reason to use the terms “ma’am” or “lady” on the baseball field. There is one term, and one term alone that should be used to refer to me, or any other woman leading their team on the baseball field, or any other sports field for that matter. You can call me “Coach”.

Nana Rose: Learning About My Grandmother by Living through a Pandemic

October 7, 2020 By Kathryn Krase Filed Under: Pandemic Diaries Tagged With: kathryn krase, nana rose

Nana Rose (far left in her black ribbon) stands with Josie and Sal (front middle) and step-sisters Rose and Connie, while Papa holds Baby Ann

If you met my grandmother, “Nana Rose”, chances are you can share a story about the experience. Chances are, she talked about you, too. My Nana had a “personality”, for sure. She appreciated personality in those she interacted with and was dismayed by the lack thereof. Of utmost importance to her was whether her partner in a moment could hold a conversation, keep her entertained, or make her laugh. That one was important. A laugh changed her life; I’ll save that story for another time.

Rose “Cinny” Jordan was born in Crown Heights, Brooklyn, on September 24, 1913, to Filomena Migliore and Anthony Jordan. Filomena was born in Chicago. Anthony (“Papa”) was born in Brooklyn. Papa was a plumber, who would develop into a political figure with significant influence in the Brooklyn democratic party, largely controlled by Italian-American men, like himself.

Rose was the eldest born child to her parents. She would soon have a brother, Sal, born in 1915, and a sister, Josie, born in 1917. Her mother died pregnant with Rose’s 3rd sibling that never was. Filomena didn’t perish during childbirth, like so many women of her time (700 women out of every 100,000 who gave birth in 1910 died in childbirth). Filomena succumbed to the Spanish flu in 1919, while pregnant.

Filomena was a young mother of 3 small children, when her unmarried uncle took ill with the flu and needed someone to tend to his symptoms and keep him comfortable. The responsibility fell on Filomena. She got sick, lost her pregnancy, and she died. She wasn’t alone. Research suggests that nearly ¼ of pregnant women died during the Spanish Flue Pandemic. The uncle lived, as did all three of Filomena’s children.

Filomena Migliore Jordan holds baby Josie, next to Anthony “Papa” Jordan, and his pals, outside his Brooklyn plumbing business, circa 1918

The loss of her mother was a defining moment in my grandmother’s early life. Papa would quickly remarry a woman, Frances, widowed by the pandemic herself, and with two daughters of her own. Anthony and Frances would have 3 children together; two more girls, and a son, Anthony.

Echoing Victorian mourning practice, Nana Rose was required to mark the sorrow of losing her mother by wearing a black ribbon in her hair for a prescribed period of time. (PHOTO) Recalling how this tradition made her feel sad, she would ask: “who would do such a thing to a child?”

If you had the pleasure of talking to Nana Rose on a handful of occasions, you would likely learn about her love of New York sports teams. She was both a Yankees AND a Mets fan, though you could say she “leaned” towards the Bronx. But in reality, she was an abandoned Dodger’s fan, just trying to fill a void in her heart by their move to L.A. The Dodgers retreat to the west coast was experienced as a personal affront to Nana Rose. The loss of her home-team was just one of many “tragedies” Nana Rose experienced, starting with the death of her mother. Things seemed to happen to her, specifically, or at least that’s how she experienced it.

The Great Depression happened to Nana Rose. She lived the rest of her almost 95 years, all in Brooklyn, clinging to depression-era practices aimed at saving and reusing everything she could. Rubber bands. Tin foil. Parchment paper. Our favorite: the cardboard insert that gave structure to the three-pack of Hostess’s Yankee Doodles. This simple piece of cardboard brought three young girls a lot of joy. It was often populated with a handwritten dinner order, for special nights when our grandparents would take me and my two sisters to the McDonald’s on Fort Hamilton Parkway, across the street from Greenwood Cemetery.

Other events happened to Nana Rose, too. Like Pearl Harbor and World War II, which saw her baby brother, Anthony, and two of her brother-in-laws sent overseas. All returned safely, though it was a scary few years.

JFK’s assassination happened to Nana Rose. She could tell you all about the day he was shot. The desperate minutes between hearing of the shooting and learning of JFK’s death. Keeping her radio on, and at the ready, even as she went food shopping in the neighborhood, Nana Rose didn’t want to miss anything. If you didn’t know, Nana Rose would tell you: JFK was killed in Dallas, Texas. As a result, Nana Rose always rooted against professional sports teams from Texas. When I dated a Cowboys fan, football season was not particularly comfortable.

My mother, sisters, and I would laugh off Nana Rose’s insistence that these world changing events happened TO HER. She was unable to conceptualize that these events happened, and she was simply in existence when they happened. We could argue that it wasn’t personal, or purposeful, but we found her insistence sort of comical, if not endearing. Until September 11, 2001.

Nana Rose and my grandfather were in their early 90’s and living in the top-floor apartment in my parent’s house Park Slope brownstone on 9/11. That morning, instead of going to work in lower Manhattan, I watched my newborn nephew, so that my sister, Kristin, could bring her 3 year-old to his first day of preschool. By the time I got to Kristin’s house, regular tv programming was interrupted with scenes of fire in the high floors of the North Tower at the World Trade Center. We watched together live on NY1 as Flight 175 hit the South Tower. We, along with the rest of the world, were terrified into silence as the South Tower, and then the North Tower, fell.

My mother, then an administrator at The Brooklyn Hospital Center in Downtown Brooklyn, would spend that long Tuesday, mobilized and at the ready to receive the overflow of patients from Manhattan that would never come. My father would come join us at Kristin’s, so we could be together for whatever happened next. Before he left his house, my father ascended the stairs to my grandparents’ apartment to close the windows, so that the debris that we so desperately wanted to think of as pieces of paper that were slowly blowing across the East River wouldn’t make it into their space. We asked our father about his decision to leave my grandparents alone. His response was something like: “would you want to spend your last minutes on earth with those two?” We knew what he meant. In her opinion, 9/11 happened to Nana Rose, not to the nearly 3000 people lost that day in New York, Pennsylvania and Virginia, and their surviving families.

I felt very close to my grandmother throughout our overlapping 35 years. Not just because we ate dinner with her every Wednesday and Sunday for the first 18 years of my life, and hundreds of other times. Not just because we would call each other after each Mets or Yankees playoff or World Series game, no matter what time it ended. Not just because she sent me three single dollar bills in a greeting card with a note that read “snack time” at least once a semester while I was in college.

Married women between 15-24 years of age had the highest mortality rate during the second wave of the Spanish Flu in NYC, 1918

I felt very close to my grandmother because I heard all of her stories, more than a few times. I felt close to my grandmother because I lived the most important days of my life with her, and I was there to comfort her after some of the toughest in hers, as she survived the loss of each of her six siblings, and then the loss of my grandfather.

I felt close to my grandmother. But until the COVID19 pandemic, I didn’t truly understand her. It didn’t take more than pop psychology to connect my grandmother’s unique “personality” to the loss of her mother at a young age. I listened to her stories about losing her mother and the sadness that echoed through black hair ribbons, over and over and over again. I knew that her nickname, “Cinny” came from a shortened version of “Rosanella”, but could just as easily come from the applicability of “Cinderella” to her life story. But, I never, for a moment, considered that the loss of her mother was so much more than that. She didn’t just lose her mother at a young age. She lost her mother during a pandemic.

Nana Rose’s loss was much larger than her mother’s death. She was a young child, who just lost her mother, as dead bodies lined the streets of NYC. Nana Rose was a young child, who just lost her mother, surrounded by a City full of sadness and uncertainty, beyond her personal loss.

While I appreciated how my grandmother’s life was impacted by her loss, I focused on that which I could empathize: her mother’s death and her father’s remarriage, specifically. I never considered how her life was impacted by loss, more generally, from living through a pandemic. Now, as I’m living in that same city during this pandemic, I have never felt more close to Nana Rose.