With the Wall Street Protest, We are in Uncharted Waters

By Alexander Prisant

There is no precedent for the occupation of Wall Street. America has never engaged in class warfare. We consciously decided NOT to follow the British during the Industrial Revolution--when American Labor unions deliberately decided to be the only nation on earth to celebrate the working man in September, not on Labor Day;
when the Democrats decided not to become the Labor Party.

After all, why divide into classes when there was ubiquitous socio-economic mobility? But suddenly that is gone. Suddenly we have the severe economic inequality of 1910. That's right, 1910. The whole middle class advance, post World War II, has been wiped away in a decade.

The unsurprising result: only 20% of the nation believe there is an upwardly mobile future--for themselves or the country. Americans are beginning to take stock. And take sides.

Before now, references to rich and poor were simply occasional throwaway lines in political bombast. Now they are the crude labels around which society is coalescing and dividing.

If you doubt it, read yesterday's statement from Vice President Biden. To the best of my memory, no one form the White House--certainly not in the depths of the Great Depression--ever made a public statement like this. We are entering uncharted waters.

Vice President Joe Biden expressed empathy for the "Occupy Wall Street" protesters in New York and elsewhere who are pushing for a radical overhaul of U.S. institutions and government, saying the American system has run amok and is no longer fair for the vast majority of Americans.

Asked if he and President Obama stood in solidarity with protesters in lower Manhattan,Biden said it was a "really fair question" and then did not directly answer it.

"What is the core of that protest?" Biden asked rhetorically. "The core is the American people do not think the system is fair or on the level."

The vice president noted that the conservative Tea Party wing of the Republican party emerged from anger at President George W. Bush's bailout of the financial system three years ago and many Americans from the opposite side of the political spectrum are feeling that same anger toward the banks

"Look guys the bargain is not on the level anymore in the minds of the vast majority of the American (people) the middle class has been screwed," Biden said.

He cited the public outrage over a recent decision by Bank of America to impose a $5 fee for consumers to use their debit card demonstrates that anger.

Biden said "The American people know... the reason the CEO of the Bank of America" is still in business is because "the guy making $50,000 bucks bailed him out. Bailed him out."

Bank of America is "incredibly tone deaf at a minimum. At a maximum, they are not, they are not, paying their fair share of the bargain here. And middle class people are getting screwed," Biden said.

Writer Alexander "Sandy" Prisant, formerly a management consultant who worked in many parts of the world, lives in Florida with his wife, Susan. He is writing a series called "The Journey We Take Alone?" on MyStoryLives, a project that deals with the life-threatening illness he is facing. Today's post appeared first on his blog, Wordsmith Wars.

The Miracle Cream

By Justine Wright​

 
“Why did you have to have black people hair?” my mother says with disgust on her face.  I stand there trying to answer the question, but I don’t know what black people hair is?

Maybe it’s the tangles of these curls or the kinky thickness of my hair that can’t be tamed. She gossips with her friends about how ugly, difficult and horrible my hair is. I hate it; I hate how everyone has that same look on their face. It's as if I’m cursed.

​I find myself walking around the corner to this “salon.”

A big lady stands in front of me with these piercing eyes of hatred. She hates my hair and I think she hates me for being cursed with these locks. “I’m going to need a lot of relaxer for this one,” she declares.

She places a big bottle of this white mayonnaise-looking substance on the desk.  I feel the comb ripping four lines on my head. She’s in the jungle fighting the beast that is my hair.  This mayonnaise smells foul. It’s plastered across my scalp; my head is on fire and it burns.  

​Sitting alone on this high chair, with flames riding across my scalp, the tears are washing my face. I’m begging for water to wash this acid out of me. Every minute feels like an hour. The pain is penetrating, sinking toward my cortex.  After an hour of minutes, I’m rushed to the sink. There my dehydration is given the water it needs.

​The mirror looks at me and I see a different person. Her hair is straight and it looks longer than it was earlier.  The weight of the hair resting on her head is lighter.  I can’t believe that she is me. This miracle cream stripped the ugliness out of my hair. But it wasn’t over yet; after another hour of sitting impatiently on a pillow that brings my head to the dryer, I’m released from the punishment of having “black people hair.”

​Big bouncy curls fall from the rollers that construct them. Everyone in the salon is staring at my hair. “Ay, que Linda!” they keep repeating. These Spanish people in this salon finally accept my hair. “Now you look like your father’s mother, too bad you didn’t get her eye color.” I guess all the pretty traits that I don’t have just make me unfavorable to her.

​We’re walking through the street; my hair is long and flowing in the wind. I never knew it would be able to reach my waist. It's pretty, at least that’s what everyone in the street is saying to this short six-year-old girl.  I feel so beautiful. For once I love my hair. In this moment I’m glad that the mayonnaise burned the “black people hair" out of me. I run upstairs and play with my hair in the mirror; it’s so soft I can run my fingers through it.  

I am swaying my hair back and forth when my mother walks into the room. She is looking at me looking at myself in the mirror and then she says, “You’re not pretty so stop smiling.”

Writer Justine Wright, who grew up in the Bronx, is a freshman at the University at Albany, State University of New York. She plans to be a biology major.

"Now My Garden"

By Anjana Deshpande

She didn’t have to, but she introduced
me to the lilac, that afternoon.
pulled a branch towards me,
taught me the lilac scent.

And that’s my basil…
And my tomatoes are in the cage
because hungry deer nibble at it.
And those are my peonies …
she opened her hands,
flat and wide,
how does one explain peonies ?

Then the azalea bushes,
and some others (I forgot which)
that had pricked her son
when he planted them.

And then there was the lavender.

She crushed some,
and held out a
fragrant palm.

There, under a maple,
leaving the men to their talks
of basement leaks
and attic insulation

she stood in the garden
helping me grow roots.

Writer Anjana Deshpande is a Licensed Social Worker and a Certified Poetry Therapist who recently founded the "Center for Therapeutic Writing." As a therapist, Anjana works with a wide variety of individuals, including veterans, to help empower them through poetry and other writing. She has published papers on her work with the veterans and the elderly, and has given several workshops on the transformative powers of writing. She makes her home outside Philadelphia with her husband and two children.

Wall Street Protest -- A Cry for Campaign Finance Reform?

By Claudia Ricci

This post appeared first on Wednesday, October 5, 2011 on the Huffington Post.

Is it any wonder that the Wall Street occupation is capturing the country's attention? Who among us isn't deeply frustrated and fearful and just plain fed up? The fact is, everyone has had it with the recession that's never gone away. There's no end in sight to the housing crisis or to our record levels of unemployment. Too many people just don't have jobs, nor do they have any confidence or hope of getting reemployed in the future. It feels like everywhere you turn, the news is pitiful.

Meanwhile, government is in perpetual gridlock. Cynicism seems only too reasonable: too often legislators talk a good game when they are running. But then they get into office, and everything just stays the same.

Three years ago, the nation went to the polls amidst a wild outpouring of support for a silver-tongued man who seemed capable of making a real difference in the White House. He was elected by record numbers of first-time voters and with a giddy enthusiasm from young and old people alike -- we hadn't seen the likes of it in decades. The country seemed poised on the edge of a new progressive era.

Soon enough, though, it became clear that was all an illusion. What was that Obama used to say about hope? Hard to remember. Obama went back and forth -- one day standing up to the banks and insurance companies -- the next day giving in to the big money that's captured both political parties. Some of us feel like such demoralized dopes for believing that a candidate could really act tough against corporate money.

Like the rest of us, the "kids" are rather desperate, and looking for hope. They represent a generation that faces a dismal, if not completely hopeless, job market. Sure, there is theater and theatrics in the occupation, but at heart, the protesters are saying very serious things, things that everyone should already know: that the economic and political systems in this country are broken and profoundly unfair and flawed at their very heart.

The protesters have been criticized for not articulating their demands, but if you ask any of them why they are there, they are pretty damn clear in delivering a coherent and compelling message. They articulate what everybody knows to be true: too often, it's the big bucks corporations -- now regarded under the law as individuals entitled to free speech and other human rights -- that dictate law-making and governing in this country. It's the big banks, the big insurance companies, the big stockbrokers, etc. etc. who call the shots, and who have got Congress' and the president's ear.

Corporations wield way too much power and steer our country, while the rest of us are powerless. We sit back and suffer the consequences.

So now what? While the protest stirs up at Wall Street's doorstep, the only meaningful way to fix the system is to initiate serious campaign finance reform at all levels of government. In other words, we must institute changes that will enable us to elect individuals who are not beholden to large corporate interests.

Is that possible? Is there a set of legislators out there ready to lead the fight to bring fundamental reform to the way we elect our leaders? And if so, might it be time for them to step forward to lead the protesters toward this constructive change?

Stuck in an Elevator -- Please, Let me Live On the First Floor!

By Lexus Ulter

Everyone has fears and most of the time, people say, “Face your fears.”

All I can say to that is "Hell No!"

If I’m scared of something I stay as far as I can away from it. One fear I have is elevators, but since I live on the 13th floor in Mohawk Tower on the SUNY campus, I can’t stay away from the elevator.

When I was first assigned my room on the 13th floor, I kept telling myself I would take the stairs up now and then, but somehow I never do. I never really thought that I would get stuck in the elevator. But then one day, it happened.

I, Lexus L. Ulter, got stuck in the elevator.

I remember it like it was yesterday, why? because it WAS yesterday! It was nine o’ clock in the morning and I still had 10 minutes to get to class. It was a day like no other; I woke up on time, took a shower, brushed my teeth and got dressed. Before I left I sprayed a little perfume on me -- it smelled like baby powder. As I waited, I thought about being late to class. I could get marked absent and I didn’t want that to happen, so I pushed the elevator button a second time, as if that somehow would make it come faster. It didn’t.

I got in the elevator and there was a girl already inside. I had never seen her before. The elevator door closed and dropped down a few stops and another girl came in, I had never seen her either. The elevator started to move again, at its slow pace. The elevator read “2” and was heading toward "1." The elevator bounced a little and stopped, and then the alarm went off. The doors didn’t open and every button on the elevator was lit up.

That’s when I realized that I was officially stuck in the elevator. I was so pissed off because one, I’m terrified of elevators and two, I didn’t have service to call someone and tell them I was going to be late to class because I was stuck in the elevator. Three girls that didn’t know each other were stuck in an elevator with no escape.

I turned to look at the other two girls. I could almost smell the fear from them; they were as scared as me. The air in the elevator felt as if it was getting thinner every minute. I started to feel as if I could barely breathe. The alarm made me feel more scared than ever, I wished it would turn off but it never did. I recalled something scary my uncle had once told me, “An elevator will never drop unless the wire is cut. Aside from that, it will only shoot up.” Who wouldn’t be scared by that?

One of the girls panicked. So just kept pressing the alarm button as many times as she could, then she started to try to read the directions for “If You Get Stuck in The Elevator.” We all squinted to try to read it but we couldn't because some idiot had scratched the paper up.

We pressed the “Call” button and we heard ringing, then someone picked up, but we couldn’t hear a word they said, because the stupid alarm wouldn’t shut up. So we yelled. We yelled, “WE ARE STUCK IN THE MOHAWK TOWER ELEVATOR AND WE ARE ON THE FIRST FLOOR!!”

The person on the other end sounded like they were mumbling something and hung up. We thought we were screwed. We started a little conversation; we all introduced ourselves and told each other we would always remember each other. The girl who wasn’t panicking called 911. She told them where we were and they said they were on their way.

Ten minutes went by and we were still waiting, waiting for someone to save us. I didn’t want to die in an elevator, that would be horrible and honestly I wasn’t ready to die at that moment. I just kept thinking about my family and my boyfriend, I missed them and didn’t want to be separated from them so soon in my life.

One thing that also went through my mind was the time I had gotten stuck in the elevator once before. It was about a year ago and I was with my older sister. That was the most traumatizing experience of my life.

All of a sudden, we started to hear banging. We all jumped from the first bang and moved next to each other on the wall away from the door. The person on the other side started to yell to us, but once again, the dumb alarm was going off. We could hear them a little, so we started to do as they told us. We pushed the door together, and then there were a few more bangs.

Finally, the doors opened and I ran out first. I didn’t cry which surprised me since I felt like I would. I couldn’t believe that the girl who called “911” got in trouble for it, but I was just happy to be alive.

The happiness didn’t last long, though, because I remembered, I still had class. I ran to class thinking my teacher would probably mark me absent. Once I got to the physics building, I ran inside to see my classmates sitting in the hallway. My teacher hadn't even arrived yet. All I could say was “WOW.”

Ever since that day, I haven’t stepped foot in the middle elevator. I just don’t trust it at all. If I push the elevator button and that one comes, I wait for the next one. On my application for housing next semester, I will write, “I want to live on a floor below eight and above two, please and thank you.”

Lexus Ulter is a freshman at the University at Albany, State University of New York. She grew up in Washington Heights and graduated from Riverdale Kingsbridge Academy in the Bronx. She is considering majoring in sociology or social welfare.

And Now as Police Arrest 700 on the Brooklyn Bridge ARE we looking at the "American Fall?"

By Claudia Ricci

When it started just a few weeks ago, the Occupy Wall Street movement was largely dismissed by the mainstream media.

A bunch of "kids" had taken over a park in the financial district of Manhattan. Inspired by the Arab spring uprisings in Egypt and elsewhere, the protesters were calling out to the world to "end the monied corruption of our [American] democracy." But what exactly were their demands? Some media accounts portrayed the protest as silly, focusing on the kids who took off their clothes or wore funny hats. The group was faulted for having no unified message.

But now that 700 protesters have been arrested on the Brooklyn Bridge in a rather ugly encounter, it's going to be a lot harder to ignore the seriousness of the movement anymore. According to police, the only protesters arrested were those who chose to use the roadway rather than the Brooklyn Bridge walkway.

But the protesters have a different story to tell. According to the New York Times account, "many protesters said they believed the police had tricked them, allowing them onto the bridge, and even escorting them partway across, only to trap them in orange netting after hundreds had entered."

“The cops watched and did nothing, indeed, seemed to guide us onto the roadway,” said Jesse A. Myerson, a media coordinator for Occupy Wall Street who marched but was not arrested. A video on YouTube shows the incident.

Frustration in the U.S. over the economy is growing more and more widespread. We are headed into another presidential election cycle with little hope that any candidate really offers a way out of the mess we're in. A generation of young people has come of age to face unemployment figures that show no signs of turning around. Is it any wonder that the protest is quickly gaining steam and that the media now seems to be taking Occupy Wall Street more seriously?

Protesters are using what they call a "human microphone" system to broadcast messages during protests. One person speaks, and the crowd picks up the message and shouts it out to the rest of the group. And if you listen to what the protesters are saying, they are voicing the anger, frustration and despair that so many of us feel.

One young man who joined the protest in Manhattan -- he works as a cook in Columbus Ohio -- put it this way: "we want to end corporate personhood and the unequal influence that corporations have in politics...we want to give a voice back to the people, the majority of people don't have a voice and a small amount of corporations who have all the money have a voice right now so we want to change that..."

On the New York Times' opinion page, columnist Nicholas Kristof is still saying that Occupy Wall Street's "sloganeering" is "pretty silly." But he's also taking the protest seriously enough to offer a list of demands that he thinks the group should adopt as they demand changes in the financial system.

Meanwhile, liberal activist and former White House advisor Van Jones is predicting what he calls "the American Fall."

The Huffington Post quotes Jones as saying: "There's a generation of Americans who are looking around and saying 'What is the American Dream going to look like for me?' They're going to be standing up."

"You are going to see an American Fall, an American Autumn, just like we saw the Arab Spring."

"Why I Used To Hate English, Or How I've Become a Bird in Words Flying Mighty High!!"

By Bethzaida Rivas

I can’t tell you the specific moment I started to hate English, but it might have been the third grade, when I had this really mean teacher named Ms. Pet-tra-zel-li. I don’t think I’m spelling it correctly, but I still remember how to pronounce her name after all these years. Why? because the way she taught English was just Petrifying.

She always gave us a list of vocabulary words and made us look for the vocabulary words in the dictionary, which I never understood. That’s why they invented the dictionary, right? We would sit in our dull, depressing classroom and look up all twenty words that laid before us on our sheets and write definitions in our notebook.

Sounds like an easy task, but it wasn’t and I often dreamed about lunch coming and rescuing me from my misery. So when we wrote the definition down we had to put the definition into a sentence. Doing this part of the task upset me very much. I never could put the stupid word into a sentence correctly and this always annoyed me. How was I supposed to do this if I didn’t know how to pronounce half these long, pointless words and I never knew if I used the stupid word correctly to begin with? The thing that really annoyed me the most was it had to be the definition that dear Ms. Pet-tra-zel-li had in her notebook and not the definition you had. So if the two did not match up, Game Over for you and you had to do the walk of shame and misery all the way back to your wooden seat. This pointless and endless process went on for about three days, no not really, more like the entire school year.

As I started to move forward during my elementary days I started to dread English more and more. When I approached fourth grade, fifth, and so on, every teacher I had emphasized the importance of writing book reports and pointless essays about your life story etc. I remember this one time I read the book The Titanic and instead of writing a book report I ended up writing a ten page summary of the book. The stupid teacher Ms. Tell (her name really was Ms. Tell, I promise this is the whole truth and nothing but the truth.) But anyways she couldn’t read past the second page because her square, pale face and small, ugly eyes didn’t allow her to.

Don’t get me wrong, teachers always told me I had the ability to turn a piece of writing what was dull, lifeless, and uninteresting into a work of art. I did enjoy writing and when I felt like it. But I never liked writing when I was forced to produce work because there was never any fun in that. As I started to approach high school I just didn’t care about the writing process anymore. There were too many rules, structures, and formats to follow when it came time to writing Document Based Essays, Thematic Essays, and so on. I never could remember all the rules and definitions for when it was appropriate to use semi-colons, dashes, and all those other fancy punctuation.

I never understood why I couldn’t write the way I spoke and in plain English. If I wanted to write a run-on sentence or a sentence fragment that was my problem not anyone else’s. When I approached high school my English skills were horrendous, or so they said. Every time a teacher assigned me an essay, it was like teaching a dolphin how to sing opera. I swear I had writer’s block or a mental impairment that kept words from being processed in my mind. To start an introductory paragraph took me hours and when it was done all I had to show was five long sentences that barely took up half a page.

As my high school career progressed I had to remember and identify a whole new set of terms and definitions just so I could read and analyze long boring stories. I never got an A on any English essays I composed and I always felt like my writing skills were inferior to those of my peers. Even when I graduated valedictorian I had to write a graduation speech and the process was long, painful, and unbearable.

When I handed my English teacher the results after so many trial and error experiments I thought it was horrible, and lacked emotion. Curiously she thought my speech was the best piece I had written thus far.

But now that I’m a freshman in college I do have to say that I think I have rediscovered my passion for writing again. Since I have to use journals a lot in my English class, writing is starting to grow upon me now. Everywhere I go I have this urge to write down my thoughts and feelings. Recently, class was cancelled and suddenly I had this urge to write in my journal -- I ended up writing four pages!!

I enjoy going to my English class and I actually enjoy writing essays, well not essays on books so much. (Last week we had to write an essay on a book called Flight by Sherman Alexie -- you know, the kind with a thesis and quotes to support your claims.)

That wasn't fun. But I like writing essays with interesting prompts and stories. I like to write these personal essays that require you to use your imagination. In other words, I love to BLAB on and on about myself.

I have always disliked English for the simple fact that you have to write in a structured way and you have to remember so many rules and complex terms.

I like to write the way that I think and feel without any lines, borders, or rules to follow. I like my writing to be free from judgment, ridicule, and red marks written all over my paper by a mean teacher.

English once cast me to the abyss of the earth, but now it shines its ray upon me like I'm a bird flying mighty high.

Bethzaida Rivas is a freshman at the University at Albany, State University of New York, where she hopes to major in criminal justice. Born and raised in the Bronx, she is the first of five siblings to attend college. She was valedictorian of her high school class. Her dream is to join the Marines and become a General one day.

In The Belly of the Beast, Eluding Cops in Central Park!!

By Xavier Castillo

Moving swiftly through branches and bushes, it feels like I’m in a forest full of creatures that are eager to eat me alive. Wait, that’s exactly where I am, I slap myself repeatedly to keep the mosquitos from sucking all the blood from my skin. How did I get myself into this?

We all agree that if we see the cops, we will run in different directions -- if you get caught then you get caught. All that is running through my mind is I don’t want to get arrested tonight. Trespassing is a serious offense, but I am just trying to get home.

Ducking into the shadows every time a car light flashes by, footsteps have never been as loud as this, neither has my heart beat.

“Looks like we’re going to make it across," I say relieved. Just then a cop car pulls up behind us.

Is there anything more beautiful than a day spent with friends?

******

This is the last time we will get to hang out before we all go our ways and leave to college. The streets of upper Manhattan let out an aroma of concrete, pizza and basketball. The east side is busy with couples walking their dogs and children on bikes in the humidity, the summer time. I get to my good friends Danielle’s house at 6pm and some of my other good friends are there too. We all drink soda like its alcohol and we’re a miserable husband on a Monday evening.

It is particularly hot this day, not a good day for running, or any movement of any kind for that matter. But we don’t care; we start to play Dance Central on Xbox in the midst of all the laughter. The girls do their thing, boys retaliate. It is the funniest thing to ever happen, but we are not laughing because it is actually funny, it is a mix of nervous laughter and sad laughter.

Truth is we don’t know what the future will hold for us, and if we could ever survive without each other. Of course pizza is plentiful, it's summer.

The sun settles down and so do we, it’s been a great time. My best friends Josue and Irving are by my side as well as my other friends gathered around the couch. Soon we realize that we have lost track of time, it's 4 a.m. and we’re all tired. The three of us leave.

Our conclusion is that the buses aren’t coming anymore and it would take hours for a train to come. We were so tired.

That's when the idea comes, “Let’s walk through Central Park, back to the west side.” The idea freaks me out; I knew it is very much illegal.

We do it anyway.

Paranoid, we all walk as quickly as possible. Hearing footsteps must be normal when you’re a bit scared. We are terrified actually, but we’re all guys so we’ll never admit it. We all decide to run at the sight of cops, but the ironic thing is, to cross to the west side we have to pass a police precinct inside the park. We stop in front of it trying to decide what to do. We do it anyway. Now we’re walking quicker than we were before, there are rows of empty police cars and trucks parked on either side of the long path; we are in the belly of the beast. Not a sound has been made, “This is too easy.” I say. Just then a police car pulls up behind us, and drives past us slowly.

Up ahead there is a police truck pulling up in front of us. We play it cool. We know that there is no running now, we pretend to look casual. Sure we’re just a couple of kids taking a nice stroll in Central Park at four in the morning, no big deal. A cop gets out of the truck and starts to walk towards us. My heart is racing. All I think about is how mad my mother would be if I get arrested tonight, my heart beats faster. The cop looks us up and down, and then walks past us. Further up, another police officer did the same thing. Maybe they think that no teens would be stupid enough to walk around the park at night so perhaps we are supposed to be there? Either way we we’re free, the next left turn is the west side, our destination.

We make it without having something insane or dangerous happen, but I’m just glad to have spent the day with these idiots. I call them my friends.

Writer Xavier Castillo is a freshman at the University at Albany, State University of New York, majoring in psychology. A Dominican-American, Castillo celebrates his 18th birthday today, on the 25th of September!! He was raised iin Washington Heights in upper Mahnhattan and went to LaGuardia Arts, a specialized high school for students who love the arts and the performing arts. Besides writing, he paints and sketches, creates digital designs, and does sculpture. Ironically, while he studied visual art, he came out of high school loving to sing, and now he sings all the time. Says Castillo: "I love to be creative in every way possible, and I love to express myself."

Meeting That Famous Wine Man, Ernest Gallo

Note to readers: In part eight of "The Journey We Take Together," writer Susan Prisant continues the story of her life with her husband, Sandy, whose early career in advertising and PR included working for California-based Ernest Gallo, a giant in the wine-making business! To find earlier episodes in "The Journey We Take Together," go to the Search function on MyStory and type in Susan's name.

By Susan Prisant

We returned to America on the SS France and settled down near the family in a historic Long Island village, Roslyn. This was an idyllic place where homes were still preserved from the 1600’s. Settled on a hill with a very large duck pond and winding paths through a park at the center.

I’d always wanted to live there. Now we were going to. We’d found one of the historic trust homes alongside the park and moved in immediately.

Sandy had worked in advertising after journalism and now he wanted to open his own “shop” with a colleague. They did very well. A few years passed and all was going as we hoped. Just before we were leaving on a skiing holiday out West with Joe (Sandy's father), Sandy got a phone call out of the blue. Ernest Gallo of the Ernest & Julio Gallo Winery wanted to see him. Sandy, naturally flattered, was not interested. But Joe said: “No. Go. You’ll only be two hours away from Heavenly Valley and you’ll be back at the lodge for dinner.”

So we left Heavenly Valley one morning. Sandy was only thinking of the skiing that he would be missing with his father. We drove through Eastern California and arrived in a town called Modesto. It didn’t look much better than an abandoned mining town. My God, was it ugly. We went straight to the winery— a Hollywood castle rising up a very green hillside, with peacocks strolling together, showing their turquoise and midnight blue plumage.

Inside, the foyer was an atrium full of nature. Trees that were grown in the tropics, lots of ponds with Japanese fish, like Koi. They were so large they looked make-believe.

Sandy was whisked away to meet Mr. Gallo. I was left sitting there. After a few hours I was ready to pull out my hair. Finally, Sandy returned with his ushers. They said to us: “We’ve arranged a hotel for you and your wife; please return tomorrow at 9 a.m."

We arrived at the hotel, slightly numb. What was happening to our vacation? The hotel was kind of like a Holiday Inn Express. We gather it was the best lodging at the time in Modesto.

The next morning someone from the winery called to say that a lady would be coming to take me to lunch. “OK”, I thought, “I’ll kill an hour.”

But after lunch, instead of driving back to the hotel, the lady began driving me around town, pointing at houses and saying,

“What do you think of that one?”

Bewildered but from New York, I said, “I have no intentions of living here.” A typical real estate agent, she kept on going. Finally she drove up to a mini-mansion when I showed some sign of interest. The deal was closed for her. But not for me.

It was all orchestrated. The company was putting out feelers that morning to Sandy. We drove back to Heavenly Valley and sat down with Joe to discuss what could be a once-in-a-lifetime possibility . Besides its weight in gold, Sandy would be working for one of America’s self-made billionaires.

When we got back to New York, the phone calls from Modesto started. Gallo was on the hunt. Within a few weeks, Sandy had an offer he couldn’t refuse. We were leaving the family again. This time it seemed harder. Gallo flew us to Modesto first class, with our pet rabbit Cedric in a paper bag and two cats by our feet. We moved into our mini-mansion, but one day later, Ernest sent Sandy on a business trip for two weeks. Boy, was I alone.

The phone rang. “Hi, I’m Rich. I work for the winery. My wife and I will pick you up and bring you to our house.” And that’s the way it began.

We soon understood that Ernest was cherry picking a few MBA’s and marketing gurus from across America. They came with their wives and girlfriends and we quickly formed a clique--big city boys suddenly down on the farm

We were really close. Most evenings were spent together, playing tennis and barbecuing. These guys became some of the best friends of our lives.

There was a catch to this seeming paradise: people didn’t leave Gallo of their own free will; they were pushed. And it could happen any time. The first few years were memorable for the work and friendship. But by the third year, some fell out of favor with Ernest and our circle began to dwindle.

Ernest taught us about an approach to life and work that was based on utter commitment. Unnatural commitment and focus on what he considered important. One day we met in the hall, Sandy was wearing a suit with an expensive tie. He’d begun talking to Ernest about advice for a trip to Latin America. Ernest’s eyes brightened. He grabbed hold of his tie, held it straight out and said, “See this tie?” I got a half-dozen of these in the airport in Costa Rica. Only 50¢ each and look how strong they are.”

He urged Sandy to yank on it. “Feel the strength,” he said. What could Sandy say? Here was the owner of the second-largest privately held corporation in America with a 50¢ cravat, prized for its tensile strength, while the foolish subordinate was standing there with a $25 all-silk version.

That was Ernest Gallo. His perspective on everyday things was simply different from most people. He was able to look at every problem, every opportunity, a little differently.

There are very few of these men. If you ever meet one, you’ll know it. The impact of this entrepreneurial giant, on our lives and our career, spanned decades.

The Journey We Take Alone? -- Part 15

By Alexander "Sandy" Prisant

In the latter half of the last century, America had the power, but we also had the pain. Our first military defeat -- in Viet Nam. High profile assassinations. Watergate. Funny elections.

But we could always say ‘Thank God for modern medicine.’ In this one field, it seemed we could mostly agree we saw the advancement of civilization. Real progress. For mankind. The advances in research and the doctors who made them, right back to Jonas Salk. And by reflection, the doctors who treated us. This one group of people, regardless of your politics, made us proud and confident.

I’ve been impossibly fortunate to have a half-dozen close relationships with physicians who cared. And delivered.

When I was breaking free from New York in my late 20s, I had offers on the West Coast. My nephrologist at Albert Einstein College of Medicine sat me down for an unusual conversation. “We think it’s okay for you to go, so long as you’re under the care of one of these nephrologists.” He handed me a typed page with details of three doctors -- one at UCLA, one in Seattle and one at Stanford.

With an offer in hand to work for Ernest Gallo near San Francisco, I had the good fortune to draw the man at Stanford. Dr. Norman Coplon was a Professor of Medicine and a major player in the Kidney Foundation. But he was also an easy-going man from Syracuse with a ready smile and a wide repertoire of one-liners. Walking down the halls of Stanford Hospital with him, you’d see nurses take one look in his direction and collapse in hysterics. There is nothing aloof about Norm.

He quickly proved his medical skill, bringing my blood pressure under control in a way the top dogs in New York had failed to do. We had a wonderful ritual. One Saturday morning a month, I’d drive to Palo Alto from the San Joaquin Valley to have a check-up, draw blood and play tennis. Norm was ruthless; he’d often draw blood from my tennis arm.

It led to a burgeoning relationship between our families. Finally, the Coplons became our West Coast family.

As we began to travel and live overseas, Norm stayed by our side. When we first bought a home abroad in a very trendy neighborhood, Susan suddenly was hit with a terrible eye inflammation. We felt fortunate to be near the famed Moorfields Eye Hospital. We rushed Susan there, only to be told: “you must live in a depressed area with lots of construction dust. You must move.”

We went home to book a flight back to America for real care and called Norm for a referral. It was 4 o’clock in the morning in California. “Put Susan on the phone,” he said. Despite the pain, she calmly described every tree around our house.

“Go down to the pharmacy and get this stuff—you won’t need a prescription or a flight to the US.”

And by the next day, Susan’s eyes were nearly over the allergic reaction. Cured by a kidney doctor.

For several years, we lived a small village in Southern Italy. I kept a picture on the shelf above my bed, right over my head. It was Norm as a young doctor with chunky cheeks, thick, black-rimmed glasses and his smile. He was a Peter Sellers look-alike, taking his mother’s blood pressure.

I was pretty far away from any serious help in those years. Having Norm looking down on me each night helped get me through.

We continued to get care from six or eight time zones away well into the 90s. But we would still fly back to the US for the big stuff, like that triple by-pass in 1995, which set off a string of events. It was a lesson in how deeply integrated everything is in our bodies.

By then, it was already known that the contrast dye used in my angiogram was potentially harmful to the kidney. And because I was a prized patient, I was always given early access to new hypertension meds. A mixed blessing. I was effectively a guinea pig for several drugs. They all were beneficial until 1996 when Norm introduced me to an early Ace Inhibitor. This drug, combined with the contrast dye a few months before, sent my battered original kidneys into terminal decline.

But Norm was still there. “You’re going to get a transplant,” he declared. “We’ll take a kidney from your brother.”

When it comes down to the inevitable, even after years, the idea of asking anyone for a body organ is daunting. “Don’t worry,” Norm said.

A few weeks later, my wife, brother Marc and I were having a regular dinner at the Coplon’s. Just as we sat down, Norm announced: “Marc, your brother is having a transplant later this year and you are donating a kidney.” Marc was speechless. The table was speechless. Then somebody started passing the soup and that was that.

The Coplons kept my kidneys going for 20 years, sat by me in ICU for my first heart surgery, cured all manner of ailments from across the globe and interceded to directly arrange a kidney transplant.

Norm Coplon practiced at a time when doctors were deeply engaged in people’s lives—to every one’s benefit. The end of that era came when the insurance industry thugs imposed a new universal computer billing system. Norm could no longer be what he was—board certified and practicing for decades in both nephrology and internal medicine. Now he was told that he had to choose. He could only have one billing code in their system. The professor must throw away half his life’s work.

Norman Coplon, proud and accomplished, thought it over. He quietly closed his practice, took early retirement and went home to build a vegetable patch on a hillside.

To the detriment of us all.

Writer Alexander Prisant, who lives in Florida with his wife, Susan, has been writing about the serious health challenge he faces with his lifelong kidney ailment which now threatens his life.