Of Many Things

Children are a fascinating lot. In their innocence, trust, playfulness and inquisitiveness they can often be our teachers. They question and wonder about big and small things; they hunger for knowledge. There’s no end or limit to their sense of wonderment. And this will never change.   Th

Walking south through Manhattan from America House on weekdays—this remains my preferred way of getting home. But on days when the weather does not lend itself to walking, I take the subway. The F train is only a short distance from our front door, and on boarding I generally see a majority of

If Broadway producers can do it, why not book publishers? “It” is the revival, in the case of theater, or the reissue, in the case of books. Heaven knows there is ample need for updated editions of longstanding classics, or what the industry calls “backlist staples.” And spea

One of my first activities on arriving at America House each morning involves a pair of scissors. An inveterate clipper, I keep an eye out for newspaper articles that deal with the kinds of social justice matters that are my focus for the magazine. The clippings are then filed according to issues li

A few weeks ago I made a quick stop into my local deli for a small can of tomato sauce, which wound up costing me $105.49. The 49 cents was my actual purchase. The $105, thanks to New York’s Mayor Mike (which rhymes with hike) Bloomberg, was a parking citation.   You’ve heard, I&rsq

A gleaming new, state-of-the-art building in a poor section of the South Bronx? One, moreover, that houses free services for local residents? A rarity indeed, and yet there it was: the Mercy Center (www.mercycenterbronx.org), facing me as I turned onto 145th Street for a late afternoon visit. Two Si

Raised an Episcopalian, I initially knew of the Virgin Mary as the mother of Jesus, but not as an object of devotion. Only on becoming Catholic as an adult did I turn to prayers like the Memorare, the rosary and the litanies that focus on the titles applied to Mary through the centuries and into our

I confess; I am a pack rat. Let those who would point a bony finger or raise a censorious eyebrow take comfort. I suffer from this. I know that I shouldn’t be living in a secondhand bookstore, still less on a rubbish tip. And I promise to reform. The gift of 50 trash bags, 30-gallon size, from

Theodore Roosevelt High School stretches for nearly a block along Fordham Road in New York City’s borough of the Bronx. It was built in the late 1920’s for a student population of 2,500 to 3,000. Most of these were the children of Italian-American, Irish-American and Jewish families. &nb

Walking down a dark street in the Bronx is not something most Manhattanites do without a good reason, but I had one. I was on my way to visit POTS—the acronym stands for Part of the Solution. In embryo form, POTS began some three decades ago to serve low-income residents in that section of New