Barbara Fischkin

by Barbara Fischkin The Dublin Hebrew Congregation Round about St. Patrick’s Day, in the Spring of 1984, my Jewish mother, Ida Fischkin, learned that within months I would marry Jim Mulvaney. She offered enthusiastic congratulations, as did my father. They loved Jim. We had been living together for a

by Barbara Fischkin Since its debut in 2013, I have been a fan of “By the Book,” a “Q and A” feature, in The New York Times Book Review. Google AI describes it as a look into “select authors' reading habits and favorite books.” I’d always been so eager

by Barbara Fischkin Recent Photo: Abandoned Kings Park Psychiatric Center building. Cousin Bernie's mother was institutionalized in a building here, one of several of her placements in New Jersey and New York. This shows Building 93 present day. Photo Credit: Diana Scarpulla Another eight weeks have passed since I

by Barbara Fischkin Buck Rogers wearing his flying belt. Vintage comic strip panel. Eight weeks have passed since I wrote about my Cousin Bernie—and how, posthumously, he adds to my own memories of him. As readers may remember from my last offering, Cousin Bernie’s widow, Joan Hamilton Morris, sent

by Barbara Fischkin Brownsville, Brooklyn, New York, 1930's. "Pushcart Market," similar to one frequented by the shared paternal grandmother of Barbara Fischkin and her Cousin Bernie.  Source:  Library of Congress. Photographer: Alan Fisher. Cousin Bernie’s Own Memoir Surfaces Years After His Death (a.k.a Cousin Bernie, Free-Range Professor-Part Three) As much

by Barbara Fischkin  Warren Wilson College Swannanoa, North Carolina Winter 1989 Now, it sounds exciting. And unusual. Back then I was terrified. I would be moving with my foreign correspondent husband from Mexico City to Hong Kong—a place I had never been—with a toddler and a Mexican nanny in

by Barbara Fischkin An impressionistic watercolor by Marta Camarena: Barbara Fischkin and her first-born son in the plaza in front of of her young family's rented home in the Plaza de los Arcangeles, in San Angel, Mexico City Part One: Before Mari Saved Us This is the back story:

by Barbara Fischkin The place where I learned the most about diversity, equity and inclusion was not at my liberal summer camp in New York’s Catskills mountains—but at a pig farm in northern Kansas. To be fair, if it wasn't for camp, I never would have pitched a tent

Photo from https://wel-metcamps.com/ by Barbara Fischkin People who have never been to sleepaway camp, don’t get it. They tease me when I speak about memories that are decades old, as if I am recalling a past life that never happened. They find it strange that I view my many

by Barbara Fischkin Objects. Objects. Objects. I need to drop objects into my writing. This advice keeps popping into my brain, as I write a second chapter about my cousin, Bernie Morris. For this writing tip, I credit Sands Hall, a teacher beloved by many. Sands may have worded

by Barbara Fischkin Professor B.B. Morris, dressed up as a newspaperman of yore, after educating his students about journalism. I remember the day I realized that my cousin Bernard Moskowitz—my father’s nephew—was nothing like my other relatives. The realization came in a flash as I spotted a newly arrived

by Barbara Fischkin JFK Campaigning in Omaha, Nebraska 1959. Vintage newspaper photo It was the summer of 1961. I was six years old. My mother and I had arrived in Omaha the night before, flying out of what was still “Idlewild,” not JFK International Airport, as it is now

by Barbara Fischkin On the stoop outside 4722 Avenue I, Brooklyn, New York, circa 1956. Barbara Fischkin as a toddler, atop the shoulders of her brother Teddy. With Cousin Shelli—and Barbara and Teddy's father, Dave Fischkin (with cigar, as always). Family photo, possibly taken by Barbara's mother, Ida Fischkin.

by Barbara Fischkin My 1985 photo of the priest who helped me to sneak into Armagh Jail, Father Raymond Murray: Jail chaplain, with former inmate Catherine Moore. I arrived in Ireland in the mid-1980s to cover the seemingly intractable bloody conflict colloquially known as “The Troubles.” I studied up

by Barbara Fischkin Oksana Fuk of Ukraine. Fuk Family photo At dawn on February 24, 2022, Russian President Vladimir Putin announced a “special military operation,” in Ukraine—a euphemism for war, if ever there was one. Since that morning, the fortitude of the Ukrainian people has resounded, even as the

Even in "safe" places, residents fear that the war with Russia will find them.

by Barbara Fischkin My refugee grandfather, Isaac Siegel, in his New York City  watchmaking shop, on St. John's Place in Brooklyn, probably in the 1940s. The black and white sign on the wall behind his head is an advertisement for an accountant—my father, David Fischkin, who was his son-in-law.

by Barbara Fischkin Children in Gaza who have autism enjoyed a day at the beach in July. Photo: Mahmoud Ajjour, The Palestine Chronicle Our elder, adult son, Dan Mulvaney, has non-speaking autism. For the most part, Dan has a good life. He lives near us—his mother and father—in a

by Barbara Fischkin I once wrote a political column for Fox News. My point of view was liberal and at times decidedly leftist. This is true-true and not fake news. The notorious Fox was then a media baby, albeit an enormous one. At its American launch in 1997, it