The Sullivanians:Through a Blue Window ((c) 2019 shelley feinerman's Podcast
CULT! This podcast chronicles the rise and fall of the Sullivanian Institute and its members. The psycho-sexual therapy] and institute existed on Manhattan's Upper West Side from the 1970s through the 1990s. Directed to abandon family and friends, as we all were, after five years my life was inextricably altered. The podcast begins with my childhood, then goes on to my time in the Sullivanians, and 20 years later, its self-destruction when it was characterized as a cult. It is entitled Through a Blue Window: The Sullivanians and is dedicated to mother, Ruth.
The Sullivanians:Through a Blue Window ((c) 2019 shelley feinerman's Podcast
A Sullivanian stalwart, Marxist Echoes and a death in the family.
Initially, the group was a vibrant blend of energy—artists, musicians, writers, actors, politics, and interpersonal drama. Serena left the apartment, and Sandra Aguilar, the only minority in the group, was added to the mix. In the group, there was an elite hierarchy among the trainees, the therapists of the institute, and the people they dated, who were given preferential placement in the burgeoning Marxist classes. In this episode, you'll learn about the conflict created by Annie's decision to hire and then fire Steve Berman, a non-Sullivanian, as an instructor of Intro to Marxism based on the directive of Annie's therapist. This is another example of Annie's intractability and a foreshadowing of events to come as heard in the Aug 30, 2023, Through a Blue Window( getting out) episode.
The episode takes an intimate and harrowing turn as it recounts the dictate given to me by my therapist after a call from my sister, the support I did receive, and the emotional wasteland I still can find myself wandering in a lifetime later.
In the immediate aftermath of leaving the Sullivanians, in the quiet of my new apartment, I wrote an eulogy for my mother. This was the first step in helping me shape the trajectory of my life and 45 years later I still turn to it when I feel her presence and profound absence. Join me as I navigate these deeply human experiences, with insights that may resonate with your journey facing the complexities of life and relationships.
The complete documentary Through a BlueWindow can be seen on my youtube channel shellfein1. I would love to hear your thoughts.
Thank you
Serena followed Lainey out of the apartment six months later to a group apartment where her activities wouldn't be so closely scrutinized. I took over the corner room where Serena had left behind the mirrors and scent of potpourri. Initially, there were many creatives in the group artists, writers, actors and musicians. Word got out that some of the artists were banding together to rent a 10,000 square foot bare bones factory loft on West 27th Street. I became a member of that collective and we were each assigned our own designated space, and this became one of a handful of positive memories I have of the group. When Serena moved out, I suggested that Sandra Aguilar, a member of the loft and someone I'd been dating for a while, joined the apartment. Sandra was the only minority in the group. A native of Columbia, her family had emigrated to the United States. When she was two years old, after her mother died, she was expected to take care of the cooking, even if it meant climbing in a chair to reach the stove. As she matured, her father, an auto mechanic, began to visit her bedroom. Like Heidi, sandra had been initiated into the group after she answered an advertisement for a live-in babysitter at the Sullivan Institute. That was two years ago when she was voted into our apartment. She was midway through a BFA program at Hunter College and was no longer in contact with her father.
Speaker 1:February 1975 marked the emergence of Marxist classes in the group taught by the highly sought-after Daniel Weissman, an author and college professor who had also served as Chase Economic Advisor. He and Seth had fought together in the Abraham Brigade during the Spanish Civil War in Cuba. We were very excited about the prospect of being taught by someone who had lived the struggle. But after the therapists, the trainees and the people they dated were given priority, the group elite, the classes were filled and we were told we had to wait. Annie and Maria Elena, angry about being shut out, decided to form a Marxist group of their own and hired Stephen Berman, a colleague of Maria's from PACE with an excellent reputation, to teach introduction to Marxism. The class included the women of my apartment and some of the men we were dating, a diverse group of 15 in all. We were all very pleased with Berman's teaching technique, but after two classes Annie called an emergency meeting without Berman.
Speaker 1:Beverly thinks we should end our relationship with Berman, that we can do better. Annie said, getting right into it, it was insistent that we stop the class and kept repeating Beverly's words. This was Annie at her most intractable. I'd seen it with Serena and it was frightening. We were being bullied, but it was futile to argue with her. Annie had it all figured out and explained when the Vanguard party and we made a mistake by hiring him. We need to be watchful of who we invite into the apartment. Beverly, her therapist, assured her that she could get someone with a connection to the group. She continued that should be enough for everyone here and we should terminate our relationship with Stephen Berman. Overwhelmed after hours of Annie constantly invoking Beverly's dictate, ultimately we became convinced and the boat was unanimous. Unable to contact Berman before the next class, maria Elena and Annie intercepted him on the street and paid him for his time.
Speaker 1:Eventually, daniel Weissman was available to teach our class, but the episode gave me pause and I lost interest in the Marxist class and dropped out. After that I seemed to be attracted to those on the fringe of the group, like Don Troller, who was enrolled in the prestigious NYU Tisch graduation program in film Tall, angular and younger by a few years. We sought a lot of each other and in group parlance we were in a focus. The jagged hook of his nose was a souvenir from his father demonstrating his displeasure at his son's career choice One of the Rutgers contingent. Don was referred to Nate Glass, the only male trainee in the program. When Debbie told me to keep my date with Don and not go to my mother's funeral, I knew he'd take care of me, and he did.
Speaker 1:I thought of that day many times over the past 50 years and it was always from beginning to end, with all the sensory details in place. It starts with the telephone ringing and ends with cool sheets against my clammy skin. I'd been in the group and the Sullivanian therapy for almost three years, traveling each day from Manhattan's Upper West Side to Queens College. The commute was long and tedious, the return trip somehow seemed doubly so, and I was usually worn out. It was late afternoon and Hikberto, the elevator man, had let me off on the ninth floor, one home I had asked, inquiring after any one of my three roommates. He shook his head, then slid the heavy door close and continued his journey upward with the other passengers. While I searched for my key, I could hear his muffled voice above me pleasantly saying have a good evening.
Speaker 1:Somewhere was the counterpoint of a telephone ringing and I realized it was coming from inside my apartment, I decided to let it go, with the expectation that whoever it was would call back. The ringing stopped, but only for the moment. It took the caller to redial Shit, I said out loud and dumped the contents of my knapsack on the ancient tiled floor. I think it was a clear day that day, because I hate the rain and I would have remembered the detail of my papers lying in a puddle of water if it had been raining, I mean. But on the rest I'm crystal clear.
Speaker 1:The insistent ringing finally finding my keys. Fumbling with the lock, my slapstick rushed down the narrow hallway to my room, the hinged screen door that kept the cats out, slamming against my butt and diving for the telephone on my bed where I'd left it earlier that morning. Hello, I, hello, don't hang up. I stammered. Is that you? Who is this? I asked, my heart racing as if it jumped the long hurdle, knowing all along it was my sister. And to infuriate her, I asked again who did you say? This is your sister. She answered, her voice rising.
Speaker 1:I became impatient for the conversation to end and asked how did you get this number? That's all you have to say to me after almost three years. I just did, that's all. Okay. Fine, what do you want? I'm busy. I have something to tell you. I responded with silence. Are you there? Yes, I'm still here. I'm waiting. I heard her take a breath.
Speaker 1:The cancer came back. Mommy's dead. I can remember the heavy thud of each word, like the muffled sound of overripe crab apples hitting the grass on a hot summer day. By evening time the apple's sweet perfume would turn fetid, the clawing smell repulsive. Did you hear me? My sister said Mommy's dead. She died early this morning. The funeral is in two days. I'd stopped listening.
Speaker 1:I remembered my grandfather's funeral and the sight of him in his coffin. Orthodox Jewish law forbids elaborate funerals, no adornments and the coins covering his eyes, but to keep his soul from flying away, my mother had explained at the time, and now she was dead Suddenly. The thought of seeing her that way was more than I could bear. Why is this night different from any other night? No, that was Passover and I realized I couldn't remember the Kaddish. Are you there? So I'll see you at the funeral right At Rothbrothers on Queen's Boulevard, where Grandpa Joe was.
Speaker 1:I don't know. I said interrupting. You don't know what you mean to tell me you don't think you're coming Mommy's funeral, you asshole. I'm just not sure, sheila. My voice sounds tinny and that's when I realize I'm not talking to anyone. My sister has hung up. I pressed down for a dial tone and then quickly dialed Debbie, my therapist. There's nothing you can do for her. Now she tells me after I explained about the call. You're saying I shouldn't go. Let me tell you a story. She continues. Several years ago, when Seth Lewin's mother died, he didn't go to the funeral and you know what he said, the exact words I just said to you. What can you do for her now? So keep your date tonight and I'll see you tomorrow at our regular time.
Speaker 1:Don and I have tickets for Bed Middler's Clam on a half-shell. It feels bizarre to go. Have a drink, have a few drinks and go. Maybe you'll have a good time, but I don't care what you do, just don't stay in the apartment. Are we clear on this? By the time Don and I arrive at the theater I know it's a mistake to be there. Despite the warm evening and the liquor I've consumed I'm cold enough to snap and I begin to shake and I can't stop. My head is fuzzy, seeing everything through a funhouse mirror. Place of being drunk but feeling sober In the middle of Bed's opening number, as she's being lowered to the stage on a crescent moon, I tell Don I want to leave.
Speaker 1:By the time we reach his apartment I feel nauseous and my eyes are burning. Still shaking, don suggests that I take a warm bath. The bathroom of his apartment is dark and cold and smells of urine. He gropes the wall for the light switch and I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. The face staring back is unrecognizable. Suddenly I began to convulse in a series of dry heaves. Moments later the nausea subsides and iron dress, letting my clothes fall one by one to the floor before stepping into the icy porcelain tub where I sit, shivering as the water slowly fills to the top. After a while I'm finally warm, but an overwhelming feeling of loneliness engulfs me and I feel sluggish, as if moving slowly through brackish water. I want to yell for help, but the words are like fish from the sea and I can't speak. After a while, don lifts me from the water and pulls a Rolling Stone t-shirt with its huge red tongue that seems ready to lick me dry over my short wet curls. Here he says, bringing a glass of scotch to my lips, drink this. I take a few sips and he leads me by the hand to his room where I crawl into the bed between the sheets and into an impenetrable sleep.
Speaker 1:One evening, 43 years ago, I sat at the kitchen table in my new apartment, away from the Syllevanians and out of the group, and began to write. A blue window exposes a desire across. Tonight left, but who never left? Time was a particular time and today is a distant yesterday. Suddenly wrapped in your odor, the movement, I reflect itself. How strange to light a candle for you and to place it near the window is, if somehow the flame will be seen that way rather than from the kitchen table. Sometimes the feelings well to tears, but the memory is far away, and usually of times to be forgotten, paralyzed by creation, a life destroyed and I am very much your daughter A child's insanity, invented realities to be shat upon. And what makes it any better? As an aside, I love you. How strange to have lit a candle for you and placed it near the window is, if somehow the flame will be seen that way rather than from the kitchen table.