A little culture

In Bitter Herbs, a haunting little book I’m reading by Marga Mingo, one chapter is entitled, "The Stars." The family quietly sews yellow stars onto their clothing. There's no outrage, just cooperative, casual compliance. It's a slow, eroding of their freedom disguised as everyday, routine chores. 

I'm reminded of Anne Frank’s world- and how insidious and gradual the oppressions were that piled up on her family throughout time and that eventually led to their total and utter demise. And Anne Frank reminds me of the day my mother and I fervently went out of our way to see The Diary of Anne Frank at The Music Box Theater.

It had snowed the day before, and the streets of Elmhurst, Queens were still heavy with un-shoveled snow. Mom and I were bundled in layers, walking briskly (but trying not to slip) toward the footbridge that led to the Grand Avenue train station. The sun was out, but it offered little warmth. As we trudged up the hill leading to the bridge, half-jokingly she exclaimed, "Look at the lengths we go through to get some culture!"

I laughed, because it was true. We lived far enough from Manhattan that almost every outing to 'the city' felt like a trek. And though it wasn’t our culture in the direct sense, it was culture in the universal, human sense, and we wanted to bear witness.

I remember sitting behind a Jewish teenage girl who during intermission, commented that the show was "good for a little culture"- referring to her own heritage. While I respected that, I also felt how deeply my mother and I connected to it too, as outsiders looking in with reverence and empathy.

Natalie Portman played Anne. I remember her thick, studied accent, a contrast to how she sounded in interviews or in her breakout role in The Professional. She played Anne with a mix of playfulness, curiosity, and at times, a teen’s annoying persistence, especially with Peter Van Daan. One scene towards the end, involved a lighthearted water fight between the two, full of laughter and the kind of silliness only teenagers in confinement could muster. It was abruptly shattered by the shriek of sirens and the Gestapo. A world of mundane arguments, small crushes, and shared rations was swallowed whole in an instant.

Mom and I went to see this sometime towards the end of '97. She died of cancer in the middle of '98. The memory of us trudging up the hill to begin our cultural theater excursion that morning, is what I try to capture in this collage- the Playbill snippets, the warm and cool colors, bits of train schedules, and the hustling, haphazard rush of it all. It was Mom and I forging ahead to do what we set out to do that day. It is a memory I look back on fondly and truly cherish.