By the time I reached ten years of age, my reputation around Lustig’s—my parent’s ladies’ clothing store on the corner of Front Street and Watchung in bustling, post-War Plainfield, New Jersey—was firmly established. I was “Edna’s boy,” not a pejorative term as it might be used to describe a servant in India; rather, a useful description of my social standing, and one I was proud of, whether I was vacuuming the carpets in the two-story retail establishment, or downstairs in the back room, folding store boxes.
Yes, of course, I was also “Phil’s boy.” I recall my father instructing me that every garment sold at Lustig’s must be lovingly folded and wrapped in white tissue paper, then placed in a “Lustig’s box,” which displayed our family name which appeared like elegant handwriting alongside the silhouette of a stylishly-dressed lady walking a tiny poodle with a poofed tail.
The point of my parent’s business was not lost on me. It was predicated on treating customers with respect, deference, even loving care. That was always our mission at Lustig’s. It made no sense to me why anyone would purchase high quality clothing for someone he or she didn’t love, even in the case of a woman purchasing the clothing for herself. Wasn’t that done out of self-love? To me that seemed perfectly reasonable.
One sign of true love I know is one’s willingness to let someone go any moment he or she wishes to be free. Love always withers in an atmosphere of oppression. I never understood the appeal of controlling others. As a child I learned, “We love with open hands” by example from those around me—my father, my mother, my relatives. I never once heard anyone ever sermonize on the subject. My Jewish religion taught me there was no problem or challenge that could not and should not be addressed by education. Every person should be revered by being encouraged to rise to the highest echelon possible in this life.
Every one of these attitudes, beliefs and life lessons was mirrored by my Jewish religion that I grew up in; however, starting off, I had no need for religion because Edna Lustig was my teacher, in a way, my rabbi. In the Jewish religion, another word for teacher can be “rabbi;” and, after all, I was “Edna’s boy.”
Did I grow up to be a radical feminist? Not particularly, I’d say, even if I claimed to be that in the title. Now at my advanced age, I remain someone who’s never been above cleaning a toilet, mopping a floor, or cooking a dinner. There is absolutely no reason why home keeping chores can’t and shouldn’t be fairly split among those who make the mess and eat the food.
I don’t consider myself worthy of a medal or of any particular distinction. By this point I would hope all men are striving for new attitudes about cooking, making art, sewing, loving others and maintaining loving friendships with other men. By the way, it was my grandmother Celia who first taught me to sew.
As much as I give my mother, Edna Lustig, credit for helping me form these attitudes, in the end, I believe each of us learns from each relationship what each of us chooses to learn. Well, at least, now you know what I chose to learn from being “Edna’s boy.”
It looks as though I set out to write an appreciation of Bonnie Garmus’ Lessons in Chemistry, but given what that novel is and how effectively it arouses the animus of women and people like me held down too long; and at the same time, given how effectively Lessons in Chemistry skewers typical male attitudes of that former era (the 1950s) and the one we live in now, I thought it necessary this month to make clear where I stand on these matters. Next month? Deconstructing Lessons in Chemistry, Part II.
One of my favorite ads from the 1960s appeared in the New York City subways when Congresswoman Bella Abzug was running for re-election to the U.S. Congress. The visual was a photo of the Congresswoman speaking from a podium equipped with hundreds of microphones. The ad headline? “This woman’s place is in The House.”
