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Text
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FORBIDDEN THOUGHTS
I have been committed to equal rights for all for as long as I can remember. I have been an active advocate for minority rights, women’s rights, gay rights (now called LGBT rights), immigrant rights (also called undocumented rights), prisoner’s rights, rights of the disabled, the youth the elderly, etc. etc.
When I advocated for labor, I had forbidden thoughts about unions, their tactics and democracy.
When I advocated for civil rights, I had forbidden thoughts about inequities in some of the solutions put forward to end discrimination.
When I advocated for women’s rights, I had forbidden thoughts about some of the arguments put forward to demonstrate the sexism that women endured.
Unions tended to be narrowly focused. Preserve the job of its members, even if the industry is producing products harmful to both society, and in an environment harmful to its members. In its commitment to protect its members, it may be protecting some who do not deserve to be protected. Perhaps the charge of corruption and nepotism is correct in a few cases.
Women rightly demand a rightful place in our history books. But since sexism goes way back, women were not in a position to take leadership in government, or business, or religion, or science, or unions. What we see more of these days, is a revision of the history books, bringing the overlooked women to the fore. In government, Cleopatra, Catherine the Great, Queen Elizabeth (the Virgin Queen) and Queen Victoria, and in the US: Dolly Madison, Frances Perkins, Eleanor Roosevelt. In my unions, Clara Lemlich, Rose Schneiderman, Rose Pesotta, Bessie Hillman, Joyce Miller.
I keep my thoughts to myself. Articulate them and you give ammunition to the enemy. They will jump at anything you might say that will confirm their racist, anti-union, sexist or anti gay position.
Yes. Some unions were gangster-controlled. The mafia or its equivalent, had a hand in some locals of the Teamsters or the Longshoremen. Some were Communist dominated. Some were less than democratic. The officers saw their union as their candy store.
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application/msword
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Forbidden Thoughts
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Jacob Schlitt
Description
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I have been committed to equal rights for all for as long as I can remember. (Fragment)
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2015
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text
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en
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FORBIDDEN_THOUGHTS
Confessions
Fragment
Labor Movement
Politics
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Autobiographical writing
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
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HOW I HAVE BEEN OUTSMARTING EVERYBODY
Some time ago, I wrote a piece that I called “We Are Outliving Our Bodies.” I have been thinking about a similar piece, but a confessional, about how I have been outsmarting everybody. This is not a new thought. Perhaps it suggests a low opinion of myself, and a feeling that I have gone through life fooling people.
I have been successful at almost everything I have done, with a few exceptions (which must have been when I failed to fool someone.) As is my wont (what a phony phrase), I shall begin at the beginning, or at least my first memories of outsmarting folks.
School: From elementary school on, I saw it as a contest between the teacher and me-- the class struggle. The teacher was the boss and I was the worker. She (it was almost always she) gave us homework, which we had to do. I tried to do it as quickly as possible, listening to the radio at the same time. I turned in the homework, and most of the time I outsmarted the teacher, making her think I really learned the material. At the end of the term, I crammed and passed the final exams. I called it legitimate cheating. Of course, I listened, and participated in class, fooling everybody, including myself. There were subjects I liked, and teachers I liked, but I would never admit it. If I did, I would have been a traitor to my class (economic, not academic). This changed toward the end of high school.
In my senior year, it seemed that Stuyvesant was colluding with us, helping us prepare for the Regents Scholarship Exam. Exams are supposed to be a test of what you know. We were given lectures and material on lots of stuff we did not know, and engaged in cramming (legitimate cheating) to outsmart the exam. We were taught tricks on how to move through a multiple choice exam, which gave us an edge. I vividly remember handouts about literature. I learned about books I never read, but I was able to answer correctly questions about them as if I had read them. I was being taught “How to Outsmart Everybody” including the Regents Scholarship Exam.
My marks (not Marx) got me into CCNY, and I applied the lessons learned about outsmarting, over the next four years. Sure, I was smart. So was everyone else I knew. I had to be a little smarter to get a better grade, and I had to do it without cheating and without “brown-nosing.” So I did not make Magna or Summa. But I did get into the ILGWU Training Institute by outsmarting the Selection Committee, though I almost outsmarted myself. And I did get A in 29 credits out of 31, going for a Master’s in Education at CCNY while attending the Training Institute. By this time, I no longer saw the teacher as the boss. He (it was almost always a he) was also a worker, and was aware that I was carrying a double load. I actually missed class when I was out of state, organizing, and was given make-up assignments. I did not have to outsmart anyone.
Work. I feel as if I have been outsmarting people throughout my work life; as if I never was who I appeared to be. The years I spent with the ILGWU started in a yearlong class which was meant to turn us into the garment workers we were to organize and represent. True, the ‘50s were not the ‘20s and ‘30s, when the leaders and union staff rose up from the ranks. I was a college graduate, not a garment worker.
When I went to work for the Jewish Labor Committee, founded by Jewish, East European-born union leaders, I “outsmarted” my new employers into thinking I was “one of them.” Since I had worked for the ILGWU, and since the President of the ILGWU was David Dubinsky, who was the Treasurer of the JLC, I must be OK. I assume they assumed I was a YPSL, a member of the Young People’s Socialist League. I was not.
I learned “on the job.” I learned about the other “Jewish unions” and about the role the JLC played in rescuing Jews and Socialist labor leaders from the Holocaust. I became an authority on Jewish community relations, in the fight for equal rights and the role of minorities in unions. I fooled a lot of people. I edited the JLC’s publications, and represented the JLC at union conventions, outsmarting more people.
In my next job with the laundry workers, I outsmarted my new employer into thinking I was an expert in labor education. I even outsmarted myself. I continued to work with him in his role as chairman of the NY AFL-CIO Civil Rights Committee, but I also created classes for laundry workers and retirees, edited their newspaper and other publications, taught summer school programs, developed a scholarship program for children of laundry workers etc.
All this led to me being offered a job as Education Director of the American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Workers, by their new president, Jerry Wurf. I accepted, we moved to Washington DC, and within a year that job ended. Seems I wasn’t able to outsmart Jerry. As with everything I have already written and will still write, nothing is as simple as I make it sound, but it comes close.
With the help of a friend, I outsmarted the US Commission on Civil Rights, and managed to work for them for the next 21 years. One couldn’t ask for more job security than with a Federal job. Still, I managed to form a union among my fellow workers, perhaps outsmarting them into believing they needed a union to represent them. When the Commission decided to open a New England regional office, I outsmarted the agency’s director to appoint me to the position.
When our office was closed as a result of a major budget cut, I even outsmarted Governor Dukakis of Massachusetts (again, with the help of a friend) to appoint me to the Board of Review of the Department of Employment Security. I was not able to outsmart the new Governor (William Weld, a Republican). But for my final act of fooling people, I even outsmarted Attorney General Scott Harshbarger (or rather, his assistant) in hiring me as an Inspector in the Fair Labor and Business Practices Division, from which I retired, outsmarting the Commonwealth’s Retirement Board into providing me with a small pension.
Do I dare discuss my personal life? Was it a case of “outsmarting” Sylvia that led to our marriage, and did she finally figure me out, after 20 years, and decide that she will no longer be outsmarted? As I already said, nothing is as simple as I am making it.
Did I outsmart Fran, until fate outsmarted both of us? That is all I am going to say about my personal life. The wonderful thing about these pieces is that I can pick and choose what I want to reveal. Still, I maintain the premise: I have gone through life outsmarting most everybody.
11-15-14
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application/msword
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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How I Have Been Outsmarting Everybody
Creator
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Jacob Schlitt
Description
An account of the resource
"Some time ago, I wrote a piece that I called 'We Are Outliving Our Bodies.'"
Date
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2014-11-15
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application/pdf
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text
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en
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HOW_I_HAVE_BEEN_OUTSMARTING_EVERYBODY
AFSCME
Career
Childhood
City College (CCNY)
Confessions
Education
ILGWU
Jewish Labor Committee (JLC)
Marriage
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Autobiographical writing
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Text
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FEAR OF HAVING MADE A MISTAKE
I recently wrote a piece which I called “Fear of Heights.” For some time I have been thinking about another fear to which I have not given a name. It is really about Fran, and my fear that our marriage was a mistake, and that since neither of us will change, our marriage will continue to be a mistake. It is hard to say, after 33 years, “I am afraid that we made a mistake.”
For most people, when they realize that their marriage was a mistake, they separate or divorce. Sylvia concluded that our marriage was a mistake. Either I did not, or I chose not to believe it. At any rate, we separated. For Fran and me, we were older, we had David, and I suspect that we felt we can roll with it. Fran indicated that her therapist helped her stay in the marriage.
Original Format
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application/msword
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Fear of Having Made a Mistake
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Jacob Schlitt
Description
An account of the resource
"I recently wrote a piece which I called 'Fear of Heights.'" (Fragment)
Date
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2014
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application/pdf
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text
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FEAR_OF_HAVING_MADE_A_MISTAKE
Confessions
David
Fragment
Fran
Marriage
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Autobiographical writing
Text
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CONFESSING CONFUSION
There are terms I never seem to be able to get right. For years, I have been confused about the terms file and folder as it applies to computers. I can’t remember if a file goes into a folder or vice versa. I have a two drawer file cabinet next to my desk. And a four drawer file cabinet in the hall, and I put folders in them. Actually, I refer to the light cardboard 9 x 11 ¾ inch folded jobs that I put paper into as a file folder. And I have lots of them. Most of them are “third cut.” They have a projection at the top on which you can put labels.
The computer has a string of words at the top right after the apple: When I am writing, the first word is word. I guess that is because I am using Microsoft Word. That is followed by File. Aha! When I click on File, the first thing I get is “New Blank Document.” And when I click on New Blank Document, a new blank page appears, and I begin to write. When I finish writing, I tend to put it on my “Desk Top” and magically it appears there, looking like a page with the top right hand corner turned down, and DOCX appearing on the bottom, and below the page is the title that I gave to the piece of writing. I have been told that I should put all these new pieces in “Documents.” I leave them on the desktop.
What is really causing me confusion is the iphone. When cell phones appeared, we got cell phones. We flipped them open, punched in a number and talked. There were a few short cuts, which I have now forgotten, but it was simple enough. However, more and more people were getting iphones. And since I had an iMac computer, I was told they could be hooked up to one another. Everything that was on my iMac would be on my iphone. I went to the Apple store here, for $99 I could get instruction on both for a year.
Another area of confusion these days is about the terms Shia and Sunni. I can’t remember who the good guys are, or more accurately, who the less terrorist group is. I have recently developed the device of saying Sunni has an “n” and “n” stands for nasty. Shia sounds like you know what. The terrorists these days are ISIS or ISIL, Al Quada, Hezbolla, Hamas, and ? I can’t remember them any more. Who are in the majority in Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Iran, etc? I read and forget.
Even the term “term” has become confusing.
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application/msword
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Confessing Confusion
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Jacob Schlitt
Description
An account of the resource
"There are terms I never seem to be able to get right."
Date
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2014/2016
Format
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application/pdf
Type
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text
Language
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en
Identifier
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CONFESSING_CONFUSION
Aging
Confessions
Fragment
Observations
Technology
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Autobiographical writing
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Text
Any textual data included in the document
THE UNETHICIST
Some time ago, I wrote a couple of pieces called “Things of which I am ashamed.” It was a form of “Confession.” Jews don’t go to Confession, but on Yom Kippur we spend a large part of the day running through “Al Kheyts,” asking forgiveness for the many sins we have committed over the past year. I have been thinking of the many ways I have been unethical, dishonest, and have cheated, and taken advantage of various institutions.
When I was a kid and went to the movies with my mother, I would try to beat the movie house three ways: First, I would buy two tickets before the price changed at 5 pm, even though we would not go into the theatre until after 5 pm. In fact, my mother would not arrive at the Prospect Av. station until closer to 5:30 pm. Then we would go to the Prospect Cafeteria and have supper, which meant that we would not be entering the theatre until close to 6 pm. Second, we would take our own candy into the movie house, not buying it at the candy stand. And third, when we arrived home, I would try to glue the two stubs together, making it appear as if it were a whole ticket, which I would use at a later date. The fact that I never used the glued movie ticket is irrelevant. The thought and the act of gluing were wrong, and though it is 75 years later, I feel ashamed.
In college, in my late teens, I would, from time to time, do my homework at the 42nd Street library. When the library closed at 9 pm, I would walk over to Broadway and look for theatres which were breaking for intermission. The Theatre District was between Broadway and Eighth Avenue from 43rd Street to 50th Street. The curtain went up at 8:40 pm, and the end of the first act usually occurred between 9:15 and 9:30 pm. I would stroll up one street and down the other until I found an intermission crowd outside a theatre. I really did not care what the play was. I mingled with the crowd, and entered the theatre with them. Standing in the back of the theatre, I would pick up a Playbill. I would then figure out where there were empty seats, usually in the last few rows at the extreme left or right of the orchestra, sometimes in the boxes. I seldom bothered with the mezzanine or balcony.
The challenge was to figure out what took place during the first act after reading the Playbill, and from the first few minutes of second act dialogue. I claimed that I developed the skill because my mother insisted on listening to the 15 minute news, broadcast on the hour, depriving me of listening to my half hour programs from the beginning. I saw scores of second and third acts, and still have the Playbills. And I saw them from better seats than when I bought balcony tickets to the theatre. Though sneaking into the theatre was unethical, I was hardly troubled by it. I did not feel I was stealing anything.
I would take pens, pencils and stationery from my places of employment, from my first to my last jobs. I would also make personal calls, both local and long distance, from the phone on my desk. It was in the mid-70s, I was visiting a friend at another Federal agency, and as we were talking, a colleague of his came over to tell him he would be gone for a few minutes. When I asked him what that was about, he told me that he does not use his phone for personal calls, but goes down to the lobby to use the pay phone. Unbelievable!
More recently, I rented a car when Fran and I were on a trip. One morning, I decided to explore the area, and drove down a narrow road where there was a beautiful vista—a lake and a breathtaking view of the nearby mountains. I did not realize that some of the branches of trees rubbed against the rented car. When I returned to the main road, I was shocked to see that the branches left scratch marks on the car, a late model, black Ford. Realizing that if I saw it, so would the rental agent, I began thinking about ways to hide it. Rather than own up to having scratched the car, I, unethically, decided that I would go into town and buy some spray paint to cover the scratches. There was no hardware, paint store or auto supply store that carried what I wanted. When I passed a stationery store, I decided that a black marker might do the trick. I bought a “King Size Sharpie—Permanent Black Marker.” I carefully applied it to the scratches, and voila! They were gone, at least to the casual viewer. When I returned the car, nothing was said. I was not charged for the body damage, and I still have the marker to be used for its intended purpose.
Finally, I have even passed on my unethical behavior to my son David. A number of years ago, Fran and I obtained Senior T passes, which enable us to ride Boston’s public transportation system at a reduced rate. We add money to the pass, tap something, and it deducts the cost of the ride to seniors from the pass. Fran hardly ever uses her pass, so whenever David and I go someplace together, like to a Red Sox game, I give him Fran’s pass. I even encourage him to use her pass when we are not going someplace together. I realize, and I am sure David realizes, that we are cheating the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority, and it is unethical. Oh well.
Through this document, I confess my unethical behavior, but I am not going to promise that I will never do anything unethical again. It is too ingrained.
11-24-14 (updated)
Original Format
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
The Unethicist
Creator
An entity primarily responsible for making the resource
Jacob Schlitt
Description
An account of the resource
"Some time ago, I wrote a couple of pieces called 'Things of which I am ashamed.'"
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2014-11-24
Format
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application/pdf
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text
Language
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en
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THE_UNETHICIST
Adolescence
Childhood
Confessions
Money
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Petty Thievery: A Confession
This is a memoir I thought I would never have the courage to write. When writing memoirs, you are the one that is writing about you, and you choose what you are (or are not) going to write about. I have been troubled for a long time about having engaged in what I have labeled “petty thievery.” This memoir is therefore another in a series of “confessions.”
Childhood
Thinking back to my childhood, I can only remember three acts of petty thievery, or stealing. I am aware that many young people indulged in similar acts: First, taking chalk from school. It was so easy. As you walked out, you simply took the pieces of chalk sitting on the blackboard ledge. I used the chalk to draw on the sidewalk, to mark the lines for potsie, and, during elections, to urge my neighbors to vote for my candidate. At the age of nine in 1936, I persuaded every voter on Fox Street to VOTE FOR FDR.
Second, pilfering from FW Woolworth’s 5 and 10 cents store. My 5 and 10 was on Southern Blvd. near Hunts Point Avenue It was so inviting: Knick-knacks and candy bars lying there on the counter. Salespeople with their backs to you. Grab something, put it in your pocket and walk casually out the door. Who’s to know? Besides, it’s FW Woolworth, not a neighborhood storekeeper. (I was so nervous, I only did it once.)
However, there were a few times that I, and a few friends, stole from a neighborhood store. The third act of petty thievery. We swiped potatoes from the fruit and vegetable store on Longwood Avenue to roast “mickies.” Adding insult to injury, from the same store that gave us the wooden boxes which we used to make the fires in the street in the winter, and guns and scooters in the summer. That really was the extent of my stealing, as a child. However, there is another incident of a slightly different nature, from my childhood, that is etched in my memory, and troubles my conscience to this day:
I lived at 783 Fox Street, and our building had a lovely courtyard with bushes and a low rail enclosing the grassy area. In the summer, kids would play on the street, and very few would venture inside our courtyard. To make sure that kids who did not live in our building did not trespass, the landlord, Mr. Gordon, offered me and my friend Marvin, who was his nephew, five cents to report any trespasser to Jack, the superintendent. Day after day, we would stand guard. Kids walked by with no thought of entering. How can we make any money if nobody comes in? Out of desparation, I came up with an idea. I would invite in the next kid that came by, and then we would report him to Jack. When my friend Larry passed by, I called to him and he walked in. Marvin then called the superintendent, who told Larry sternly that since he didn’t live there he had no right to go into the courtyard. Larry left. Marvin and I got a nickel from Mr. Gordon. I felt lousy. We never did it again. Years later, it occurred to me that similar acts were done to innocent people, by law enforcement officials, with much more serious consequences. I believe it is called “entrapment.”
Another form of petty thievery, this time involving the New York City public transportation system: I mentioned elsewhere that as a small child I would accompany my mother on visits to relatives in the Bronx and Brooklyn. When we took the trolley, my mother would simply push me ahead of her and tell the conductor that I was five, and would not pay a fare for me. When we took the subway, my mother would have me go under the turnstile. This continued for many years beyond the age of five. Fares were five cents.
Young Adulthood
When we went to high school, I rode the subway, often with several friends. We would meet on the way to the subway, and being skinny teen-agers, we would occasionally push into the turnstile together, two rides for the price of one. Sometimes, when no one was looking, we would duck under the turnstile. The more athletic would vault over the turnstile. We never thought of it as stealing. We felt we could use the nickel more than the IRT. (I mentioned this to my son David, and he pointed out that I gave him and others my Senior T Pass, which is supposed to be non-transferable, depriving the MBTA of a full fare. Still undermining public transportation in my old age.)
My part-time job while going to high school was as a “page” with the Newspaper Division of the NY Public Library. I considered myself very lucky to have that job. It was close to school. The hours fit in perfectly with my school schedule, and it enabled me to read newspapers from all over the US and the world.
What petty thievery did I engage in? As all working teen-agers: I was a thief of time. When I was in the afternoon session in high school, I worked from 9 am to 12 noon. In the morning session, I was able to work from 1 pm to 5 pm. We did not have a time clock; we signed in. If no one was looking and I came in a few minutes late, I signed in at 9 am or 1 pm. (If I came in before 9 am or 1 pm, I wrote down the exact time, but did not get credit for it, the assumption being that we did not start work until 9 or 1.) Our boss, Mr. Fox, reviewed the time sheets and reprimanded us if he saw too many latenesses. If we came in more than 15 minutes late, we were to be docked. My starting salary was 37.5 cents an hour.
The job required us to get the bound volumes of the requested newspapers for the readers, and to return the volumes to the shelves when the readers were finished. The pages alternated getting the volumes, and shelving them. When we shelved them, we filled the carts with the volumes that had been read, and disappeared into the stacks . We were out of sight, and could read, do homework or even sleep. However, Mr. Fox was aware of this, and would constantly sneak around the stacks in rubber soled shoes trying to catch us.
Another activity for which the term petty thievery may be questionable relates to the coveted assignment of going to the 42nd Street Library at the end of the day. From time to time, a reader would request that a newspaper article be copied. Remember, this is 1942 to 1945. There were no Xerox machines or faxes. All we had were Photostats, and the Photostat machines were at the 42nd Street Library. Pages would vie for the assignment to take the volume with the page to be reproduced to 42nd Street. We would be able to leave a half hour earlier and be given carfare. The act of questionable petty thievery: keeping the carfare and walking from 25th Street to 42nd Street.
Now for the “biggie.” From time to time, people would send the N. Y. Public Library copies of newspapers that they owned and no longer wanted. The logical repository, they assumed, was the library. It turned out that the library had no need for them. It had all the newspapers it could use, and they were neatly preserved. When the library received them, they were sent to the Newspaper Division, and then they sat in a pile in the corner of Mr. Fox’s office, gathering dust.
On a day that Mr. Fox was out, I went through the pile and found newspapers from the Civil War and other historic periods. I took a few. I had been collecting newspapers that had historic significance since I was in elementary school: events in Europe leading up to, and the start of World War II, the reelection of FDR in 1940, Pearl Harbor, the first copy of the newspaper PM. I now was able to expand my collection. I knew I was taking something that didn’t belong to me. I knew if I asked if I could have it, I would have been looked at strangely and told no. I rationalized that I wasn’t hurting anybody. It was almost the same as if someone threw it away, and I picked it up. It wasn’t as if I was taking a book from the library without checking it out, or a newspaper from a news stand without paying for it. There was no record that the newspapers were there. But it was taking something that did not belong to me, and it was wrong.
I engaged in no more job-related petty thievery while in high school or college. I worked as a clerk in a stationery store in college, and the owner, Mr. Hyman Reich, made it clear from the outset that I must be trustworthy, and I assured him that I was. He told me that if I wanted anything, I could have it at wholesale. Initially, I was not allowed to ring up sales. There was change on the cash register, and if I made a sale, I would make change from the money on the cash register, not in it. After a year, I was permitted to ring up sales. I suspect Mr. Reich thought that seeing all that money in the cash register drawer would be tempting. I would never think of taking anything from the store, not merchandise and certainly not money.
My petty thievery during college involved the legitimate Broadway theatre. Toward the end of high school, I had discovered this new and exciting world. There were scores of theatres up and down the Great White Way, most of them west of Broadway from Times Square north to the 50s. The curtain rose at 8:40 pm. Broadway was dark on Mondays, so I limited my activity to Tuesdays through Thursdays. I would stroll up and down the theatre district beginning around 9:15 pm, looking for an intermission crowd gathered outside a theatre. It would be the end of the first act. When the crowd reentered the theatre, I would go in with them, pick up a Playbill and head for the back of the orchestra where there would usually be unsold seats. If it was a very popular show, and the orchestra was filling up, I would go up to the mezzanine and balcony. If there was nothing, I would check out the boxes; sometimes seats there were available because they were expensive and may have had obstructed views. I would strike up a conversation with the other box occupants, explaining that my seat was uncomfortable, or that I had to leave the theatre early. It was awkward when I was asked how I like the first act. I was never bothered by ushers. (They are more intrusive these days, asking to see your theatre stubs. Besides, tickets cost a lot more than they did in the late ‘40s.) Missing the first act was a challenge to my imagination. I would have to figure out what had already taken place. It added to the excitement.
A postscript: It was the late ‘60s, I was in New York for a meeting, and had a free evening. I decided to see a play, but tickets to popular plays were not to be had. Checking the paper, I bought a ticket to a play being performed prior to its official opening. It was awful. At intermission, I walked outside and noticed a crowd in front of the theatre across the street. They were playing Fiddler on the Roof. I joined them as they reentered, unaware that Fiddler sold out every night. Nothing in the orchestra, nothing in the balcony. Let’s try the boxes. I took a seat, and just before the curtain rose for the second act, a group of people entered, filling the box. I got up, apologized, gave the same explanation I did twenty years before, and I was encouraged to stay. It was a great show.
Back to the fall of 1949: I was at City College, enrolled in the Master’s program in Education.
Since I had time between classes, I took the Broadway train from 137 Street to 116 Street, to Columbia University, picked up a schedule of classes, and started attending a couple of very interesting courses that fit my schedule. (Something like walking into Broadway plays after the first act.) I bought a Columbia spiral notebook in which to keep the notes from my Columbia classes. I paid no tuition at City, and paid no tuition at Columbia. The classes that I attended were in large lecture halls and I blended in easily. I did it again in the spring 1950 semester, with one embarrassing incident. I walked into a class on Labor Relations, which had caught my eye, and it turned out to be a seminar with about six or eight students. The professor asked me if I had registered for the class. I said I thought I might audit it. He smiled and said no. I left.
Adult Thievery
From my first job with the ILGWU, through my years with the Jewish Labor Committee, the Amalgamated Laundry Workers Union, AFSCME, the US Civil Rights Commission, the Massachusetts Department of Employment and Training and finally the Fair Labor Division of Massachusetts Attorney General’s Office, I hereby confess that in each of those jobs, I helped myself to office supplies. I took paper, envelopes, scotch tape, pens and pencils, staples, paper clips. I viewed it as something to which I was entitled, a fringe benefit. In addition, I made and received personal calls from my office phone.
I am aware that other employees may not have helped themselves as I did. I remember visiting a friend who worked at the US Department of Labor in Washington. A colleague came over to tell him that he will be away from his desk for the next ten minutes. When I asked him what that was about, he told me that he was going downstairs to use the pay phone, since he believed it was improper to make personal calls from his desk. I asked my friend if he did the same thing. He didn’t.
It is troubling now to realize how I rationalized improper behavior. I felt entitled. Finally, I come to something I did for which I am truly ashamed. At the time, I thought I was “entitled.” I was a Regional Director of the US Commission on Civil Rights. A government car was assigned to my office. It was to be used by myself and my staff in the course of our work. I felt entitled to use it for non-work related activity from time to time, and did. I paid for the gas when I used it, so why not? From paper clips to using a government car. A slippery slope. When I worked for the Laundry Workers, I, along with the rest of the staff, received a staff car. A wonderful fringe benefit, and a precedent. However, the government car was not a gift to the staff. It was for government use only. My using it was more than petty thievery. I thought it was a lark at the time. I now deeply regret it. I don’t feel any better, having written this.
6-25-11
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Petty Thievery: A Confession
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Jacob Schlitt
Description
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"This is a memoir I thought I would never have the courage to write."
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2011-06-25
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text
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Ethics
Adolescence
Career
Childhood
Confessions
Jobs
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6048d44a30adae2931736df4896458da
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Autobiographical writing
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A Consumption Confession
(During Recession)
I am concerned about the economy. I keep wondering what I can do to make the economy better. It is one thing to vote for progressive candidates, and support social programs. It is another to help the economy by making purchases which help businesses grow. I realize I am not doing my share to support my neighborhood storekeepers, the backbone of the economy. Among the more important small businesses are the bars and coffee shops, and I patronize neither. I am not a drinker, but I do like a beer now and then. However, I do my drinking at home, or I might have a beer with a meal when we go out to a restaurant. And I must admit, we don’t go out to eat as often as we should. Not only do I not patronize the bars and coffee shops; I do not provide much business to our neighborhood restaurants.
Regarding coffee: We are surrounded by Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks coffee shops, but I almost never go there. I have a cup of coffee at breakfast, at home, and maybe a cup of coffee at the end of a meal at a restaurant, and that’s it. It never occurs to me to have a latte (whatever that is). I am not sure when people drop into a Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks. For breakfast? Late morning? For lunch? Mid afternoon? Late afternoon? I have the impression that young people go to Starbucks for an overpriced cup of coffee, and spend hours there working on their computer.
Lots of people go out for breakfast, and go to a bar after work, but not me. When I was working, I had breakfast at home, and I went home after work. What a dull life! (I did go out to lunch.) If more people were like me, the neighborhood diner (or Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks) and the neighborhood bar would go out of business, and the recession would be worse. Certainly, if people drank more—coffee and alcohol--and ate out more, it would aid the economy.
When on vacation in the summer, we would have drinks in the afternoon, along with cheese and crackers. I enjoy a gin or vodka tonic. The truth is, I have trouble telling the difference between gin and vodka, and I almost always bought the least expensive bottle. I was never one to try to impress people by purchasing the most expensive booze, though I was persuaded that good, single malt Scotch is better than cheap, non single malt Scotch. (But I don’t drink Scotch. We have it for guests, and Fran prefers it.) The Scotch comes out in the winter, when I will take an occasional drink of bourbon or Canadian, in connection with our celebration of the various winter holidays, Chanukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa and my birthday.
I am getting off the topic, but not completely. How do we support the economy? By buying things. Alcoholic beverages are an important commodity. I am not helping the economy when I only buy a few bottles of moderately priced wine from time to time, and a 12 pack of whatever domestic beer is on sale. No liquor store can stay in business with customers like me. There is no neighborhood bar that knows my name.
When times were good, my predilection to save money, to find bargains, did not hurt the economy. I read Consumer Reports. I was an opponent of conspicuous consumption. I was critical of built-in obsolescence. I talked about the good old days when things were made to last. I wore my clothes until they could be worn no longer. I was ashamed to give them to Good Will. But in my favor, I should point out that I always bought union made clothes. Today, it is almost impossible to find union made garments.
At a restaurant, and at home, I ate everything on my plate, and I was horrified to see people throw away uneaten food.. When we dined out, and there was something left over on my plate, I would have it wrapped up and saved for the next day. I am pleased that there is no longer any pretense, calling it a “doggy bag.” But it does mean that buying less food results in less income for the storekeeper.
Since I wrote the above, in a light-hearted way, the Occupy Wall Street movement began. It is telling America that 1% of the country controls over 40% of the wealth. The richest 400 Americans have more wealth than half of all Americans combined (156 million). And the Republican Congress is fighting to prevent the richest 1% from paying more taxes. It occurred to me that if some of the wealth that is concentrated in the 1%, was spread around—maybe to 5% or 10% of the 99%-- the new-found wealth in the hands of a larger proportion of the population would enrich the economy. If low income people had a few more bucks, I am sure they would spend it on necessities. The recession would be over, people would have jobs, and instead of closing, or laying off people, our neighborhood stores would be expanding and hiring. It seems so simple. Paul Krugman knows this. Why don’t the Republicans?
12-1-11
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A Consumption Confession (During Recession)
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Jacob Schlitt
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"I am concerned about the economy."
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2011-12-01
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text
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en
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A_Consumption_Confession
Confessions
Culture
Money
Politics
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8f209b5a354c206039b9bdf4cfd38e50
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Autobiographical writing
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CONFESSION
Today is July 1, 2010, and as I woke up this morning, I was stricken with guilt. I had totally forgotten that yesterday was my father’s Yahrzeit. From the time I was Bar Mitzvah’d, I felt impelled to say Kaddish for my father on or around June 30. If we hadn’t gone to shul around that date, I would say it at home. I am not sure when my mother told me the date of my father’s death. As a small child I knew that my father died when I was 3 ½. Whenever anyone asked me if I have any memory of him, I said no. I have a few pictures of my father, including one of me, as a baby, sitting on his lap, but that is it.
Over the years, June 30 has taken on a certain sadness for me. I think about what life would have been like if my father had lived. What kind of a father would he have been? I look at my friends’ fathers and I am not very impressed. I don’t think he would have played ball with me, or would even have been interested in my progress in school. Would our lives have been better? Apparently, he was hit hard by the depression and was unable to make a living, which may have explained his cashing in his life insurance, without my mother’s knowledge. Yet, he might have had better luck than my mother earning some money to put food on the table and paying the rent. Going through my mother’s papers after she died, I got the impression that theirs was a strained relationship. He didn’t accompany her to the Yiddish theatre or to Paris in 1926. He did not seem to share her interests. My mother’s unhappiness with card playing and smoking must be related to the fact that my father played cards and smoked.
Growing up, I viewed being a fatherless child more of an embarrassment than a tragedy. On a few occasions in elementary school, when a kid would ask me what my father did, I would answer that he was a salesman. I would never tell anyone that my father was dead.
After I started going to Hebrew School, my mother insisted I go to shul on the Jewish holidays. When I was in shul (alone) on those holidays when Yizkor was said, and all the kids left, and I thought I was the only kid remaining among all those grown-ups, I felt awful, and even more embarrassed. As we read the Yizkor prayer, “Yizkor Elohim nishmas avi…” and I was supposed to insert my father’s name, I always wondered if God might be confused if I said his name wrong. Should I say Louis Schlitt or Lazar Schlitt or Eleazar Schlitt? Then I read the English translation of the Yizkor prayer, and realized that it said I was supposed to give charity, and I hadn’t given charity, and had no intention of giving charity. Would it invalidate my saying Yizkor? Would God not remember his soul? Reading the English translation further, it referred to perpetuating ideals that were important to him. I had no idea what ideals were important to him. Over time, I learned what ideals were important to my mother, but I had the feeling that they didn’t share the same ideals.
As a teen-ager, the strongest memory I have of my shul when Yizkor was said, was the weeping and wailing of the women up n the balcony. Though I felt a sadness, I was unable to generate even a tear for the occasion, let alone an audible cry. With the death of my cousin Gabie in 1945, I added his name when I said Yizkor, and then I cried. In fact, over the years, whenever I think of Gabie, I get choked up. But strangely, not for my father. And yesterday, it happened. I forgot that it was my father’s Yahrzeit. So when I finish this, I will get my yarmulke, and a sidder, and say Kaddish. Better late than never.
Original Format
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application/msword
Dublin Core
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Title
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Confession
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Jacob Schlitt
Description
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"Today is July 1, 2010, and as I woke up this morning, I was stricken with guilt."
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2010-07-01
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text
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en
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CONFESSION
Childhood
Confessions
Father
Judaism
Memory