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
Daddy Dearest: From the History Tapes - betrayal and the road to the Sullivanians
This episode weaves an intricate tale that begins with a wedding invitation and pulls at the threads of an emotional odyssey navigating the murky waters of a narrative steeped in abandonment, lies, and a profound search for the truth from my mother and estranged father, that would pave the way to the Sullivanians
There was a reunion where my sister and I were faced with the complex emotions of rekindling the long-lost connections with our father whose approval still felt like the cornerstone of our existence. We're confronted with the superficiality of his gestures and his strange declaration, "That's what fathers are for" and grapple with the innate desire for parental affirmation.
Eight years pass and then during the rawest of conversations with my mother, she unveils secrets that have simmered beneath the surface for decades. Prompted by my therapist I'm meeting with my father who amid the clinking of dinnerware, has some revelations of his own. As they tumble out my emotions are stretched thin, and with these betrayals, you bear witness to what eventually led me to the Sullivanians and the the enduring struggle to understand the past
The complete documentary Through a BlueWindow can be seen on my youtube channel shellfein1. I would love to hear your thoughts.
Thank you
Though my uncle Soli was going to walk my sister down the aisle when the hundred and fifty engraved invitations were mailed out to obscure Second cousins and distant great aunts, my sister had included one to our father. This made sense on some level because he was both distant and obscure. Eight years had passed since his last visit not an encouraging sign. Weeks went by without a response from him, no RSVP or phone call to honor the occasion of his oldest biological daughter's wedding. He had not seen this as a reason to break years of neglect and abandonment. Then, one night, with the wedding only weeks away, he called Inviting both of us to meet him at his office in Manhattan. I I soon learned that earlier that day my mother, usually circumspect in all matters concerning our father, had reached out to him. I'm not going. Sheila invited him. She can go. Don't be impertinent, young lady. She said you're going. I Shot my mother a look but I missed the mark and she rattled on You're his only blood children, for God's sakes. Anyway, he said he'd call and for once he kept a promise. He'll probably give you a tour of the showroom in your pick of clothes. Be polite. She'll ascend the invitation, not me. She can go alone. He's a bastard and he doesn't give a shit about any of us. Don't curse in my house and you're going.
Speaker 1:You know your grandpa Feynman. She continued, much to my annoyance, the God the grandfather you never see wanted his only son to be a letter carrier. But your father, with his good looks and ambition, got a salesman job at H Sylvester and company. At that time they were the biggest and best in ladies wear and now he's VP at Pretty Pants. Your father's first paycheck was $18 and 50 cents. We were living on semen Avenue, not the Swankers neighborhood, but your father dressed like Fifth Avenue Custom-made shirts and suits, and he was ruthless. Had to be in that business and soon he was their top salesman. He loved you both, but when you came home from the hospital, swaddled in your pink blanket, he thought you were the most beautiful creature in the world. He couldn't get over how big your eyes were. I didn't put myself through the indignity of calling your father so that you could tell me that you are not going.
Speaker 1:The last contact my mother had with my father was through her lawyer. He'd tired of paying alimony and child support and Though he was ordered to resume payments, they continue to be based on his 1949 earnings. I Called for Sheila and you're going to go with her. This is her day and this is not open for discussion, just don't embarrass me. When the elevated doors slid open, sheila reached for my hand, as she had when we were little girls, and I protected her at all things concerning my father. Four years older, she remembered the fights and the revolving door of their marriage like it was a chapter book.
Speaker 1:We waited in the plush reception area and soon he was taking long strides across the art deco floor, handsome and slightly tanned. I suddenly pictured him lying beneath the blue violet light of his tanning machine, white zinc oxide covering his nose, yellow plastic eye shields protecting his eyes. He embraced us and, though the room was air-cooled, the back of his light blue shirt was damp with perspiration. Girls, how wonderful to see you, he said, smiling. Then he led us through the frosted glass doors to his office.
Speaker 1:Gene Finerman, vice president of sales, was stenciled in gold letters on the door. He sat on the edge of his desk, his smile still in place, and picked up the photograph of his third wife and her three children, one still an infant in her arms, and showed it to us proudly, like the newlyweds they were. This is Ingrid and her children, mark and Jay, and the baby is Gary Cute, I said, though I hadn't looked at the photo. We were sitting opposite him in matching red shares. Girls, you both look so beautiful. He'd already said that. I thought Was he running out of compliments already? And now that you're older, I hope you can understand what went on between your mother and I. He was pacing around the room and sparks of static electricity snap loudly off his tassel loafers. I was hoping that we could be friends now.
Speaker 1:I looked at Sheila, who was smiling beautifically, and we both ignored this odd suggestion. Well, let me show you around and then you can try on some outfits and take whatever you want, he said, opening the office door. At Sheila's insistence, we squeezed into one dressing room and, with knees and elbows knocking, we tried to figure out what would be the appropriate number of outfits to ask for, finally deciding on six outfits apiece. We didn't want to appear greedy or desperate, but on the other hand, we didn't want to deny ourselves these clothes. Might be his only legacy to us. When we returned to his office, our bundle of clothes were already waiting for us, neatly wrapped in brown paper. Thank you for the clothes. Sheila said it's very nice of you.
Speaker 1:Well, I'm your father, and that's what fathers do for their children. He lit a cigarette and the smoke came out of his nostrils as he spoke. My pleasure. So what's your mother doing these days? Why didn't she ever marry that guy? It's kind of crazy. It's not crazy, I said, almost falling out of my seat, coming to my mother's defense. What I mean is she's an attractive woman, he said, fumbling to correct himself, and I was just thinking out loud. He was twisting a gold pen between his fingers. Anyway, what do girls like to do? Well, sheila's getting married soon, I answered, hands neatly folded in my lap, thinking my mother would be proud. Right, of course, that's wonderful. I got the invitation.
Speaker 1:He was fumbling again. Turning to Sheila, I don't think I can attend. You know, english family doesn't know I have children. It would be awkward, you understand, don't you, honey? Had I heard right, he had abandoned us, but now we don't even exist.
Speaker 1:I glanced at Sheila. Her round, dark eyes glanced over like marbles floating in water, and she was blinking continuously. She straightened the skilful scarf she'd borrowed from our mother and smoothed her skirt over her knees. I'm a really good artist, I exclaimed, hoping to divert the conversation. I wonder where you get that from? Certainly not me. He explained, denying us again. Hey, do you like music, he asked. I like Barbara Streisand. I have all her albums. I replied enthusiastically. Really, she just opened in Funny Girl. It's supposed to be terrific. Hey, wait a second, I just got an idea, give me a sec. Then he quickly dialed a number on his office telephone and by the time the conversation was over, he'd reserved two third row center seats for Funny Girl for the following week. Well, girls, let me walk you to the elevator. This was our queue. The visit was over. We gathered our brown paper-wrapped bundles and he walked us to the elevator in silence. Wonderful to see you, girls, he said when the elevator arrived, then hurriedly kissed us goodbye. I could hear someone shouting his name in the background Gene, find him in Gotta go. I'll call you soon, girls.
Speaker 1:Sheila wed Morris in a white-procade wedding gown, perfect for the extravagant winter wedding my mother had planned at the Park Avenue synagogue. After our visit to Pretty Pants, our father disappeared from our lives once again. Another eight years would pass before I'd see him again. I finally found a place of my own. I had a job and I was saving for school. I'd stop telling my mother about my crazy comings and goings, as she described them. She was no longer expecting a nightly call.
Speaker 1:Visits to Queens were limited to special occasions and we'd settled into meeting on Thursdays for dinner at a restaurant somewhere between her office and mine. For once, I was looking forward to our weekly dinner. I had great news to share. She was sitting in a booth at the rear of the dimly-lit seafood restaurant that was thick with the aroma of fish. I kissed her and sat down. The half-filled, high-bought glass did not go unnoticed. I'm so excited. I finally am going back to school.
Speaker 1:In the fall I spoke to the registrar's office at Queens College and they're going to accept all my previous credits and I'm going to get a financial aid package too. I blurted out as I sat down that's nice, dear, but did you know you're going to be spending half your time in the subway? Why don't you move back home? And you'll remember the last time you went to school you met that idiot and everything went down the tubes. Mom, I'm going to get a college degree. Didn't you hear what I said? I'm getting financial aid and a small scholarship. I don't need you to help me. Plus, I might be able to get work part-time.
Speaker 1:Be happy for me, ma, and for the record, greg wasn't an idiot. We were just too young, so let's not get into all that again. Be excited for me. I'm going to do what I want now, can't you see? I'm happy. Let's make this a celebration.
Speaker 1:What I see is that you'd rather live in an apartment so tiny you can't even turn around without banging into something, than live at home and the location. I keep thinking you're going to find you murdered one day. And I'm not giving you any money for school. I can just about afford my own expenses. You're not listening. I was exasperated. I'm getting financial aid.
Speaker 1:I repeated as I ran my fingers through my hair recently, shown of its years of chemically straightened ends in exchange for my natural curls. And another thing, she continued, as though reading my mind I don't like this new hairdo you've got. Don't you remember what I had to go through to keep it straight? Now it's wash and wear. Besides, I like the way it looks. Well, I don't. Let's order. And then I want to talk more about this.
Speaker 1:I'm seeing Daddy for lunch next week. I cried out, wanting her to just shut up. What? How did this happen? What's gotten into you? Why are you acting this way? You've worked such a sweet little girl. It was this therapist, right? This frank person. You see, wasn't it? She was spitting out the words.
Speaker 1:You know, mom, for what seems like the forever I've been scared of hearing what you call the truth about you and Daddy. I shouldn't have said anything about the lunch, but I was so happy and you didn't seem to care. Eight years without one word from him, and eight years before that. I don't get it. Can't we just forget about it and move on? Please, mom, can you explain it to me? I just want to see him. That's all I whispered, trying to keep my voice level. It doesn't mean I love you any less. He's always been the golem in my life. If you want to know the truth, I'm terrified. When she turned to me, her voice as dry as death. Well, here's something you should know beforehand, please. I don't want to hear it. Well, this time you're going to.
Speaker 1:Your father got me pregnant before we were married, before your sister, but he didn't want to start off the marriage with a child and he convinced me to have an abortion. It wasn't illegal. Then we went to our family doctor. Your father arranged it, but I had to borrow the money from Grandma Rose. You can just imagine that she finished her drink and was signaling for another. It must have been hard. I said Hard, that's the word. Alright, after your sister was born, he didn't want another child, but I didn't want your sister to be alone, so I stopped using the diaphragm. He had no idea and when I was six months pregnant with you, he started fooling around with Dottie. I found them in the kitchen kissing. He promised to break it off with her again and again and every time I believed him. I loved him and I wanted you children to have a father. You know, divorce wasn't accepted like it is now and the divorce almost killed your grandmother.
Speaker 1:She started to have palpitations. My mother continued Please, mom, please. The back of my head was throbbing near the base of my skull and a spot over my eye was pulsating. I was going to be sick. Are you alright? My mother Must have noticed something, because she stopped for a moment. Fine, it's just a lot to hear. At one time I explained, rubbing the back of my neck, I started sending you downstairs when he came to visit so I wouldn't have to see him anymore. Did you know he fabricated some story and got a psychological discharge from the army? Did you know that Maybe it was nuts or something? Mommy, I'm sorry but I just can't hear anymore. I've got a terrible headache. I squashed the cigarette I was smoking into the ashtray and pushed myself away from the table and geared to run from the restaurant. Where are you going? I'm not finished. Her words chilled me and I sat down.
Speaker 1:Your father's visits became erratic. Sometimes he skipped weeks and a month at a time, and this went on for over a year. You'd wait for him and he never called and he never came and he didn't explain. You never knew from week to week when you were going to see him, if at all. Eventually, when he did visit, your sister didn't want to see him. I didn't know what to tell her or you. Finally, I told him he couldn't keep to a regular schedule. He shouldn't visit at all. I wasn't sure I'd heard right. Let me get this straight. You told him not to bother seeing us and that's why he stopped visiting. Yes, that's when he stopped his visits. So it was your idea.
Speaker 1:All these years you led me to believe it was him, it was her, she said, practically screaming. His words were in his actions. Mom, I have to go. I feel sick. I stood up again. I bet you didn't know your grandfather hit your grandmother. Why are you telling me this? I don't want to know this. And I sat down again. I was six years old and Grandpa had stayed out all night gambling at Pinocchio in a saloon down the street. In the morning Grandma sent me to find him and when he came home he was furious and that's when he slapped her across the face. Grandpa, joe, I'm Mom, mom, I have to go. I'm nauseous. I'll call you Soon. Thank you, people.
Speaker 1:My lunch date with my father was two days later. We'd arranged to meet at noon on the corner of East 27th Street in Lexington, not far from the office where I worked as an assistant to a graphic designer. It was a mixed neighborhood of brownstones, flop houses and expensive, characterless office building. He was waiting on the corner, looking impeccably tailored as they approached a few minutes after the hour. I dressed for the occasion in a brightly colored blouse and matching skirt. My hair fell in layered curls and I'd applied cherry lip gloss before I left the office. You look all grown up, sweetheart, he said as he kissed my cheek, I am.
Speaker 1:My father's presence had shaken a memory loose and the images of a curly-headed little girl on a windy rooftop playing make-believe with her dolly, while her father sat nearby, flicking naked as though on a screen. He looked pampered, but on close inspection he had aged more than I first thought. His hair was sprinkled with gray and there were pathways of fine lines beneath his tan. When he took my arm, his hands were surprisingly soft, like chamois, his fingernails glossy. You're still wearing Faberge for men. I said absolutely. You remember that.
Speaker 1:He queried, puzzled and then, without missing a beat, asked where we would have lunch. I'd been so freaked out about actually meeting him and so preoccupied with what to wear that I hadn't given a thought to where we'd eat. I'm not sure what's good around here, I stammered, spinning around, that's OK. Lu-chao's isn't far away. They have great borscht, he explained as he held the yellow cab rounding the corner. The cab screeched away from the sidewalk and headed downtown. With my steely confidence. Left on the curb, there was a long waiting line on the other side of Lu-Chao's dark wooden doors, but my father shook hands with the maitre d' and a bill passed in his palm. Then we were led to the center table. Bread and butter was placed on the table, our glasses were filled with ice water and my father ordered a martini.
Speaker 1:So how have you been, sweetheart? He asked, sipping from the drink that had just arrived? Well, I was married and now I'm separated. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of our appetizers For him, borscht with a dollop of sour cream pulled at the center, and a shrimp cocktail for me. Well, I'm sorry that didn't work out, he said, bringing the spoonful of the dark burgundy liquid to his lips. This is good. I've always had a weakness for this stuff ever since I was a little boy.
Speaker 1:After a few more mouthfuls, he placed the spoon on the edge of the plate With a large pink shrimp still on my tiny fork. I explained. Well, actually my lawyer won seven hundred dollars for the divorce, but I need the money. I'm starting Queen's College in the fall and that's more important to me than getting a divorce right now. I'm not in a hurry anyway. Well, at least you got out when it was easy, without children. Your mother and I waited too long and then we had you kids and it got complicated.
Speaker 1:He was talking fast, but when he stopped it was as though the traffic light had suddenly turned red. He lit a cigarette, drained his martini and asked did you know she told me to stop visiting you girls? Did she ever tell you that? Excuse me? I said standing up. I'm going to the ladies room. I took as long as I dared, splashing cold water on my neck and face before returning to the table. He stood for me. When I returned and pulled out my chair, my half-eaten shrimp cocktail was gone. I told him to speed it up a little. He explained I'm kind of a rush, I have to get back. I'm working for Ingrid's father now in their real estate company. That's okay, I have to get back to work too. Did you know that?
Speaker 1:Your mother drove me crazy? What she was impossible. When I came to pick you girls up, it was never simple. He went on as though he was talking to a stranger. If I was even five minutes late or God forbid, if I had to miss a weekend, she'd scream like a banshee. I did have another family. I was so stretched out.
Speaker 1:I went to see a therapist and you know what he said. He told me to do whatever I needed to do to survive. So when your mother gave me the ultimatum be consistent or don't visit. That was it. I stopped coming so I wouldn't have to put up with her crap anymore. I should have stayed with Dot. You know she was the best, but she was getting too old for me. Even after divorce, your mother always had a chore for me. Remember the cat? That was her idea.
Speaker 1:My legs had turned to liquid between the table and I was having trouble swallowing, but suddenly these emotions gave way to anger. Do you think the therapist meant you should stop seeing us? We were your children. And what about after we came up to your office? I didn't think you were interested. Your girls never called me Interested. We were your blood children. Sheila was getting married and I was only sixteen when you got me tickets to see Barbara Streisand. I called you to thank you. Don't you remember that? If you say so? But no, I don't remember. I was probably away on business Away for the past eight years.
Speaker 1:Before he could reply, the entrees were placed before us. I left my knife and fork on the side of my plate and took a sip of ice water. You know I said speaking as though I had recently learned the English language. We were children when you and Mommy got divorced. I was only two years old, maybe not even that. It wasn't our place to call you, even if Mommy did tell you not to visit, you should have figured out a way to see us. You're our father. Think of Ingrid's sons at that age. Could you imagine them calling you or not calling them at all? He tossed his napkin on the table and pushed away from the table as if he was going to leave me with the check. That's different. He spit it out. Why? Because they're boys.
Speaker 1:Before he could answer, the waiter removed our plates and asked if we wanted dessert. Give us a minute, friend. My father said they. Then he inched his chair close to me and whispered conspiratorily so tell me, do you and your friend smoke, smoke? I asked incredulously. You know smoke, weed, ingrid, and I like to get high. Can't let your kids have all the fun. I like Colombian. Of course we never smoke in front of the children. Then he signaled for the check. It is great to see you again and listen about that $700 for the lawyer's fee. I can let you have that. What do you mean? I mean that's what bothers a foe.