Famous Father Girl

by Jamie Bernstein

  If so, I was the poster child for life beginning at fifty.

  * * *

  One evening back in the ’90s, Michael Barrett and I were walking home from dinner with our spouses when we ran into Michael’s friend, the actor Eric Stoltz. “So, what are you up to these days?” Michael asked him on the street corner. Eric began his long list: a film shoot in Canada, a TV taping in LA, a play in Chicago . . . “Man, you are the giggin’-est!” Michael marveled.

  I stood on the sidewalk thinking about that: about being the giggin’-est. It seemed like a lovely, remote fantasy: to be so full of work, so on the loose. The wistful thought drifted through my mind: Boy, I sure wish I could be the giggin’-est . . .

  And one day, a quarter century later, it occurred to me that my wish had come true. The concert narrations, the screenings of my film, the performances of Bernstein works I attended all over the world, the conferences and lectures and interviews . . . my nonstop activities kept me on the run full time.

  Of course, it was Daddy himself who had really been the giggin’est. But it turned out I had an energy and appetite similar to my father’s—not just for sharing the joys of music with audiences, but also for travel, people, intense work, intense play. It took a while, but I’d found my own way to cobble such a life together.

  I’d noticed for some time that I wasn’t fretting anymore about the LB connection; if anything, it was something interesting to share, but it didn’t feel like a burden. When had my father stopped being a burden?

  Part of it, I had to admit, was that he was easier to deal with as a posthumous entity. But there was another, crucial reason: I’d stopped fretting about the LB comparisons when I stopped trying to be a musician myself.

  It turned out that if I just refrained from making music with my own body, I was much calmer. Oh, the fits I used to have playing music: the worms and spiders spilling out of my fingers onto the keyboard, my scarf bouncing in rhythm to my thudding heart, the dead-chicken-itis crippling my hands. But I could talk about music all day, without a tremor. After all, there was no instrument to fumble on, talking presented no pitch problems, and all my words were on a page in front of me. What was there to panic about?

  At home, I have a framed student government infraction slip that was served on me in high school: “Offense: talking in assembly.” Like Dumbo and his oversized ears, I had eventually found a way to turn my liability into my asset. Loud and obnoxious wins!

  It was a good trade-off: I was leading a musician’s life minus the music-making part. There were the long, intense rehearsals; the adrenaline of the performance; the fascinating exchanges with audience members afterward. Then the late-night hang with the gang at the hotel bar—trading jokes, gossip, airport horror stories. I’d stumbled into a pretty good compromise; instead of being an accomplished musician, I’d become an accomplished . . . fan.

  Yes, there was a sadness within it. I’d given up something I loved, that I’d devoted decades of my life to achieve. But making music with my own body had mostly made me a mess. I remembered my long-ago journal entry, about crying because I couldn’t be a musician. Well, I wasn’t crying anymore. It was okay. I had let the ailing limb atrophy and drop off so that the rest of the organism could thrive.

  * * *

  You really know you’re a grownup when you start losing the grownups. We lost Adolph and Betty, and Dick Avedon. Nanny Helen died at ninety-two. Grandma died at the age of ninety-four, outliving her firstborn son by two years. And it was very painful to lose Shirley. She had a blood disorder that gradually diminished her over the years. When she died I was next to her, on that bed where I’d spent so much time in my teens. As her breathing dwindled, I whispered “Me laudü” in her ear—“I love you” in Rybernian. Without the clangor of Shirley’s laugh, our Fairfield dinner table felt eerily subdued. It took us a while to regain the decibels—but they did return. It’s hard to keep a Bernstein quiet for long.

  Most recently, we lost Uncle BB: that antic, adored non-grownup of my childhood. As Daddy’s thirteen-years-younger sibling, he never seemed old to us. But he was eighty-five when he died. Not until he was gone did I realize that he’d been my crucial buffer; in his absence, I have achieved the unwanted status of the eldest Bernstein.

  Losing Julia was seismic. For five decades, she had been a complex and indisputable member of the family: raising my siblings and me, seeing our parents through their respective deaths—and, later, doting on our own children. The Dome still reverberates with her former presence—but we simply had to give up on the matzoh ball soup course at our seder.

  Everyone clings to a keepsake or a talisman to evoke the people they love and lose. When Shirley died in 1998, we clung to her bathrobes and face creams, and cousin Karen made the felicitous discovery that Shirley’s bras fit her perfectly. After we lost Julia in 2009, we couldn’t bear to throw away her paring knife with the cracked black handle, or the big, cream-colored teacup stained inside by her oversteeped Lipton tea bags. In Fairfield, we continue to surround ourselves with Mummy’s handiwork: her paintings and needlepoint pillows, her hand-restored lamps, her wicker chairs picked clean with dental instruments. But our favorite way to keep Mummy close—and Julia, too—is through the regular use of their most characteristic Spanish phrases. For Alexander, Nina, and me, Spanish serves the same purpose that Rybernian served for Daddy and his siblings: we’ve adapted it into our own secret, self-referential language. And we still use Rybernian, too; the Three-Headed Monster is trilingual.

  When it comes to remembering Daddy, we cling to silly things: a bottle of German Robitussin on the bathroom shelf that says “Hustensaft” on the label (expiration date: 1987); a ceramic ashtray with an image of Mount Fuji; a cornflower blue djellaba, still hanging in the closet, that he wore on summer evenings with nothing on underneath.

  I also feel Daddy’s presence when I have WQXR on in my house or in the car. Not only does it make me smile whenever his name comes up in the back announcements, but also the sound of classical radio gives me the same sense of safety I felt as a kid, lying on someone’s lap in the back seat of the car, watching the tops of the trees flash by, the station drifting in and out of reception as we sped under the highway overpasses. My own two kids have no particular interest in classical music, but I wonder whether, after I’m gone, they, too, may gravitate to it for the comfort of their own childhood sounds.

  As Alexander, Nina, and I go about sharing the official legacy of Leonard Bernstein, we cling all the harder to the father we lived with: the Daddy who scrubbed his ears so vigorously that the twin mounds of soapsuds slid down his shoulders; the Daddy who sucked the last green morsel out of a lobster thorax; the Daddy who taught us the “rubber balloons” routine, played the “Moldy Man” game with us in the hammock, and recited Lewis Carroll on the pool floater.

  LB in his cornflower blue djellaba.

  But nothing conveys Daddy’s deepest essence better than his own music. The notes he strung together are as uniquely, identifiably him as a fingerprint. We listen to the wrenching violin solo in the slow movement from Serenade, the rollicking “Profanation” from the Jeremiah Symphony, or the jagged, propulsive “Rumble” from West Side Story, and there he is—in all his tenderness, his raunchiness, his intellectual panache, his agonizing over God, his despair over humanity, his cautious but dogged hope that we’re all getting somewhere. When we listen to that music, it’s the next best thing to getting a hug from Daddy himself.

  Except, damn it all: we still miss the too-tight squeeze that made us yelp, the nicotine-y breath, the scratchy brown bathrobe.

  Acknowledgments

  I begin my litany of gratitude, as most writers seem to do, with my editor, Jonathan Jao. No one in my whole long life ever pushed me quite as hard as he did, and it turned out I liked being pushed. His talented colleague Sofia Groopman was the “good cop”; her sunny ways cushioned many a blow.

  I genuflect to my copy editor, Mary Beth Constant, whose name I didn’t eve
n learn until long after she’d swung her scythe. I thought I was good at catching grammatical errors and maintaining consistency of style; Mary Beth taught me how unreliable I actually was. I’m humbled, but grateful.

  Enormous thanks to Toby Greenberg, who wrangled the photo credits on a tight deadline—a daunting task.

  Then there’s my literary agent, Michael Carlisle. He was the one who said, several years ago: You can do this and I can help you. He was the one who pushed the “go” button. I am forever grateful for that crucial first vote of confidence—and I’m grateful as well to Michael’s colleague at Inkwell Management, William Callahan, who edited most intelligently those early chapters in preparation for their first exposure to the harsh light of day.

  When it came to researching the facts of my father’s life and locating documents and photographs, I would have been rudderless without the wisdom and enthusiasm of Mark Horowitz at the Library of Congress, where the Leonard Bernstein Archive resides. Also indispensable was Barbara Haws, archivist of the New York Philharmonic; her brain is an extraordinary repository of facts, all of them brightly illuminated by her enthusiasm and dry Midwestern wit.

  The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts was also very helpful, as were the archivists at the Boston Symphony Orchestra.

  But I give particular thanks to Humphrey Burton, whose ambitious biography of my father became a kind of bible to me for checking facts and chronology. (His wife, Christina, has been an invaluable photo resource as well.) My copy of Humphrey’s book is splayed, smudged, and infested with Post-its; those pages, like its author, have been a faithful friend.

  Various other books on Bernstein were very helpful—especially Nigel Simeone’s collection of my father’s letters; Barry Seldes’s book about my father and politics; Jonathan Cott’s Dinner with Lenny; and Allen Shawn’s fine book about my father from a few years ago. Also invaluable was Alex Ross’s article in the New Yorker about my father’s FBI file.

  It will be clear to anyone who reads these pages that I depend on my family for my existence and my sanity. I profoundly thank my siblings, Alexander and Nina, for reading several versions of this story, and for giving me permission to say what I had to say. With all my heart I thank my daughter, Frankie Jay Thomas, for being the most rigorous reader I know; I almost didn’t write the book, so anxious was I about her opinion. I’m forever grateful for her encouragement after she read the early, clumsy version. I also salute her husband, Dr. Ian Tattersall, for his felicitous brain-heart balance. And I thank my son, Evan, for having put up with me on a daily basis while I was writing, and for walking the dog late at night: a precious gift.

  And I embrace my siblings’ respective families: Nina’s husband, Rudd, and their daughter, Anna Felicia; and Alexander and Elizabeth’s daughter, Anya Micaela. Those two nieces, my “A-girls,” are hope and joy incarnate.

  I send warm greetings to the family of David Thomas, including his sisters Marilyn and Lisa, and their respective broods.

  Deep thanks and hugs to my cousins Karen and Michael, who lost both of their parents, Ellen Ball and Burton “Uncle BB” Bernstein, while I was writing these pages. I was so terrified of my uncle BB’s judgment that I didn’t tell him for over a year that I was writing this book—and then he was simply gone. His lifelong, near-monastic devotion to the craft of writing left me in awe. I send love to his surviving wife, Jane.

  I salute my mother’s side of the family in Chile: cousins Patricia, Arturo, Magdalena, and Francisca, and all their copious brood. I hold them close, even with the thousands of miles in between.

  Very much in the family category, I add my profound thanks and love to Patty Pulliam and Serge Boyce in Fairfield, Connecticut; they pour honey on our collective soul.

  Various longtime family friends have been warm and supportive. Phyllis Newman Green kept an open ear and a ready smile, despite her own maladies. Cynthia O’Neal has been a reliable source of encouragement and hilarity. Beloved family friend Ofra Bikel was always there, and saw it all. Shirley Perle has been an extraordinary presence in my life: sharp, incisive, and full of heart. Amy Greene has remained a direct line to our mother, all these decades hence. Harold Prince and his family have been guardian angels. And “Decorator Gail” Jacobs believed I could do this book thing before I even knew it was a thing. Everyone in this world should have a Gail Jacobs cheering section.

  They should also be so lucky as to have a David Pack cheering section. David’s devotion and enthusiasm over the years fall into a category all their own. Thanks, Dave.

  I send especially grateful hugs to Marjorie David and family, and to Susanna Styron and all her family. And yet more hugs to the families of David Oppenheim, Sid Ramin, and Lukas Foss.

  Although he may not realize it, Steve Sondheim has been a steady and loving presence, more precious to me every day. Steve is not famous for warm fuzziness, but by golly, he’s been warm and fuzzy to me, and I’m grateful as hell.

  I owe an incalculable debt to my English teachers at the Brearley School. All that drill, drill, drilling on grammar; those crushingly lengthy summer reading lists; the papers that came back spider-webbed with red ink—it all added up. Brearley gave me some invaluable skills, such as making outlines, constructing coherent sentences, and keeping my butt in the chair. Thank you, Brearley—and thanks to all my beloved classmates who refrained from tearing me limb from limb when I was “loud and obnoxious.” A special thanks to Ann Siegel, Tonne Goodman (and her sisters), Irene Dische, Margot Bradley, and Lucy Watson—each of whom has been helpful in ways they don’t even know. And a big shout-out to Lisa Morrison, who will be forever mortified that her second grade teasing provided the title to this book.

  They no longer walk among us, but I continue to give deep thanks for all the love from Adolph Green, Betty Comden, Mike Nichols, Betty Bacall, Dick Avedon, Mary Rodgers Guettel, Mendy Wager, Martha Gellhorn, Mike Mindlin, Rosamond Bernier. And I send my love to all their family members.

  And all my love and gratitude to Julia Vega who, I realize in retrospect, became my second mother.

  More beloved friends who have been rah-rah-rah-ing on the sidelines: Margaret Mercer, Michael Barrett, Cindy Wright (and our lifesaving tennis game), my film co-conspirator Elizabeth Kling, her sister, Kathy Kling, Janis Siegel, Fred Hersch, Amanda Jacobs, Martine Singer, Leslie and Tanya Tomkins and their beautiful mother, Millicent, and George Steel and Sarah Fels with their anagrams games that preserve my sanity.

  Equally fervent thanks to Susan Lacy, Marthe Rowen, and Craig Barton and their terrific kids, Amy Burton and John Musto, Leslie Steifelman, Michael Boriskin and Elizabeth Dworkin, Mark Leno, Emily Mann and her sister, Carol Mann, Dennis Gibbens, Stephen Bogardus, the Pisar family, Peter Shapiro and his wife Bryna, James Capozzi, Jesse Ausubel, Susan Dickler, Brian Cullman, Katherine Mosby and Anne Griffin (and our life-affirming dinners), Jonathan Oppenheim, Glen Cortese, Stephen W. Zinsser and “the other Frankie” Faridany, Peter Kazaras, Norma Stevens, Judith Essien, Janis Susskind, Michele Areyzaga, Joy Horowitz, Martita Goshen, Steve Sherman, Jeff Himmel for getting me there and back, Geoffrey Colvin for attempting to explain the other side to me, Ed Schloth, Harold Chambers, Patty Birch, Steve Blier and his husband Jim Russell, Hank Rutter and Susan Fralick and the whole Moab gang—plus Lisa Halasz, Michele Sutter, John Corigliano and Mark Adamo, Jonathan Sheffer, Russ Titelman, Chris Layer, Steven Damron, Bart Gulley, Chuck Weinstock. And thanks to Nicole Mones for her encouragement, long ago.

  Extra love to Michael Tilson Thomas and Joshua Robison, who believed in me since the 1970s. And to the wonderfully supportive team at New World Symphony—especially Doug Merrilat, Ana Estevez, Adam Zeichner, and Clyde Scott—who regularly reinforced the illusion that I know what I’m doing.

  Special grateful mention to Jeffrey Stock, who put up with a lot.

  My discovery of El Sistema gave rise to a whole new crop of adored friends who have been part of the cheering section: Tricia Tunstall and Eric Booth, Norma Nuñez,
Rodrigo Guerrero, and Karen Zorn and Wayman Chin at Longy who led me to a salutary new connection to Leon Botstein. Also Anne Fitzgibbon, Jorge Soto and the Alvarez twins, Deborah Borda on both coasts, the YOLA gang, Leo Granados and his brother Marco, Perla Capriles, and my larger-than-life pal, Stanford Thompson. I send a cheerful wave to Gustavo Dudamel across the perpetually unbridgeable distance—and a sad but grateful wave to the late Maestro Jose Antonio Abreu, whose founding of El Sistema continues to bring life-affirming harmony to the lives of so many people around the world.

  Recent friends who have been unfailingly generous in their support include Eric Abraham, Howard Bragman, Carol Oja, Adam Gopnik and Martha Parker, Julie Desbordes, L. P. How, Elaine Lipcan and Sarah Gordon at Opus 3, Tom Angstadt and Nancy Kivelson, and Roxana Sedano and her Peruvian family, who keep my house (and therefore my brain) from descending into chaos, and give me the much-anticipated occasion to shoot the breeze in Spanish every two weeks.

  My body and my soul thank Claudio and his restaurant, Le Zie; let no one ever underestimate the healing powers of well-prepared broccoli rabe.

  Hey, what about the doctors! I thank them all for keeping body connected to soul—and especially I thank Doctors Dena Harris and Deborah Coady, who delivered my children; Doctors Jeffrey Gimbel and Bobby Cohen for the GP of it all; Doctors Hiram Cody and Larry Norton when the going got tough; and most of all, Dr. Sally Peterson, who has helped me through everything for the past quarter century.

  Finally and enormously, I send my deep gratitude to everyone in the Leonard Bernstein Office: Paul Epstein, Craig Urquhart, Mike Sbabo, Marie Carter, Garth Sunderland, Milka de Jesus, Jacob Slattery, Hannah Webster. Thank you for keeping the LB engine running, especially amid the global madness of the Bernstein centennial celebrations.