CLOSE
Authors Posts by Leah Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

413 POSTS 0 COMMENTS

by -
0 241

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

You have probably heard about a police raid on a local newspaper in a small Kansas town.The act was so egregious that it prompted emails from friends around the country who were concerned about us, even though the event happened some 1500 miles away.

We should all be concerned.

To fill you in, local police and county sheriff’s deputies seized computers, servers and cellphones belonging to the seven-member staff of the Marion County Record. They also searched the home of the publication’s owner and semiretired editor, along with the home of a city councilwoman.

This ostensibly had to do with how a document about a local resident got to the newspaper, and whether that person’s privacy had been violated. But according to the editor, the real issue may be tensions between the way officials in the town are covered by the paper. Newspapers, making up what has unofficially been termed the Fourth Estate, after the Executive, Legislative and Judicial branches of our government, have long enjoyed legal protections in their news coverage “to speak truth to power.” Newspapers historically are considered the watchdogs of government, informing readers about the actions of public servants, which creates what one press association director described as “healthy tensions” between the two.

While the Record has a circulation of about 4000, its owner has had a long career in journalism, both as a reporter on a daily and as a professor at the University of Illinois. His father worked at the Record for half a century before him, rising to be its top editor, and the family eventually bought the newspaper, along with two others nearby, according to the New York Times in an article this past Monday. 

“On Sunday, more than 30 news organizations and press freedom advocates, including The New York Times, The Washington Post, and Dow Jones, the publisher of The Wall Street Journal, signed a letter from the Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press to Mr. Cody [chief of police] condemning the raid,” according to the Times.

The issue in question had to do with the copy of an official letter sent to a Record reporter privately via Facebook that instructed a resident how to go about restoring her driver’s license after a drunken driving citation. That resident was now seeking approval from the City Council “to operate a liquor-serving establishment.” The letter had been given to a city councilwoman with the apparent intent of affecting the decision, but the newspaper owner denied sharing that letter with the councilwoman. Meanwhile the resident is in ongoing divorce proceedings, she pointed out.

So was the letter forwarded by the newspaper? Was the resident’s right to privacy violated by the newspaper? Apparently that was the nature of the search. And while news media are sometimes subpoenaed by government officials to supply interview notes and sources, “The search and seizure of the tools to produce journalism are rare,” according to the NYT. And while”federal law allowed the police to search journalists when the authorities have probable cause to believe the journalists had committed a crime unrelated to their journalism…[not when] the alleged crime is gathering the news,” according to the Freedom of the Press Foundation.

Needless to say, the newspaper is having great difficulty trying to publish its next edition without its computers and servers that contain other filed stories, pictures, layout templates, public notices and ads.

Newspapers have become fragile entities. Since the arrival of the internet, many of the advertisers that traditionally supported newspapers have moved away, forcing newsrooms to shrink in size and even to close entirely. Some 2200 local newspapers have disappeared in the last 20 years, creating what are called, “news deserts” across the nation. From 2008-2020, the number of journalists has fallen by more than half. 

But communities are vulnerable to ill-conceived and rapacious actions without news sources to inform and defend them, as well as to educate, entertain and tie them together as a hometown.

by -
0 208
METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

My oldest grandson is now engaged to be married. At twenty-eight, his timing is altogether appropriate, but it is a wonder to me. The idea of having a grandchild tying the knot, when I am only 35. All right, 45. Um, 55? Oh, never mind. You get the point.

Further, I am intrigued by how the couple is going about the process, especially in contrast with how my husband and I wed. I’ll explain.

Not long after the initial phone call from my grandson telling me the exciting news of their engagement, I was told that the wedding was planned for two years hence. That was, of course, fine, but I couldn’t help but marvel compared to what my husband and I did. 

We informed my astonished parents that we wished to marry in six weeks. My husband-to-be was moving to a new apartment at that time, and we thought it would be romantic to start our lives together then. In those days, couples decidedly did not live together until after they married.

My grandson did the traditional thing, getting down on one knee. The scene, though, was anything but traditional. He managed to position himself onto the floor of the Tomorrowland People Mover car as they went through a tunnel at Disney World, one of their favorite rides, and popped the question.  Her parents were in the car behind them, and as she witnessed what was happening, her mother enthusiastically screamed with delight.

My husband told me he loved me and asked me over the phone to marry him. I never did get an engagement ring. It should be explained that he was at school in Chicago at the time, and I was in Boston. 

We had a wedding in New York City, where I grew up, with all the trimmings, including bridesmaids, groomsmen, a full ceremony, music, hors d’oeuvres, dinner, dancing and 175 guests. I wasn’t even there for the planning. I was working in Boston right up to the weekend before the event. My mother managed it all. And after the wedding, she practically collapsed for a month.

I did come back for a wedding dress fitting. It was all done efficiently. My mom and I went to the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where there were multiple shops that took care of such needs, and climbed the brownstone stairs to the one recommended, I don’t remember which one. I picked out the material, style and trimmings I wanted, measurements were taken, and presto! The day before the wedding, it was ready, fit perfectly, and I wore it, long train and all, the next day.

My granddaughter-to-be, on the other hand, had the great pleasure of trying on many and ultimately picking out her dress with the company and input from her mother and the groom’s mother. Photos were sent, via cell phones, to others tuned in. It must have been a leisurely outing that provided a joyful lifetime memory for all.

There is to be a bridal shower brunch to honor the bride-to-be back in the place she grew up, with her many friends and loved ones in attendance. That, of course, wasn’t an option for us, given our tight schedule. I don’t think it even occurred to me, more is the pity, because such events are part and parcel of the delicious anticipation for my grandchildren.

Her friends put out a request for favorite recipes to be sent, with the plan of providing the couple a Friends and Loved Ones cookbook. What a clever idea. I only knew how to cook breaded veal cutlet, mashed potatoes and canned peas, which I practiced on my roommate each night for three weeks before the wedding. And we weren’t registered anywhere for gifts. We just opened the envelopes and counted the money immediately following the wedding that night on our flight to Chicago.

There will undoubtedly be a bachelor party. In fact, my grandson just returned from one for a dear friend that involved a three-day cruise to Mexico. Yes, Virginia, times have changed. And why not?

by -
0 228
Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Who could forget the frantic scene of Berliners tearing down the Wall? That one action marked the beginning of a changed world.

It was 1989 when the Soviet Union collapsed and the Berlin Wall came down. Officially the end of the government came on December 26, 1991, with the 15 consistent republics gaining their independence, but the disintegration had been apparent for some time. Berliners were able to tear down that Iron Curtain, symbol of East-West separation and the Cold War, because the Soviet soldiers simply walked away from their posts. 

Why did they walk away? 

They hadn’t been paid in many months due to acute economic problems, food shortages and widespread political upheaval in the Soviet Bloc and in East Berlin, the Communists’ foothold in Western Europe. Government and its systems were bankrupt.

Yes, the West had won the Cold War. But as its name indicated, it was not a military war. It was an economic war. In trying to globalize Communism, the Soviets had spent themselves into insolvency.

Once again, the West seems to be locked into a struggle with Russia, the successor government to the Soviet Union. This time there is a military, “hot” war, but the economic war remains. And the Economic War may ultimately dictate who wins. The western allies have been sending hundreds of billions of dollars in the form of armaments into the battlefront of Ukraine, and the Russians have been doing the same, not only militarily in the Ukrainian war front but also within their country. 

The internal toll was revealed in a front page article of The New York Times this past Tuesday. The domestic economic fallout of the Russian effort is enormous. There is a state-led spending boom that has propped up the Russian economy from the effects of far-reaching sanctions imposed by western countries. As a result, this economic boom has helped maintain popular support for President Vladimir Putin and his Ukrainian war effort. But Russian economists have warned of a threat to the country’s financial stability. Can their economic high be sustainable?

Russia’s expanding military production and the increased funding for Russia’s poor in the form of higher pensions, salaries and benefits like subsidized mortgages, particularly offered in marginal regions with the most military recruits, is fueling inflation. Lending by the government has stimulated the economy and kept down social unrest. Mortgages supplied by Russia’s top 20 banks rose 63 percent in the first half of this year, with one out of every two mortgages subsidized by the state. Soldiers’ salaries are much higher than average local earnings, and families of those who die get payments that can be greater than their annual earnings. And with 300,000 men called up to fight, worker shortages are extreme and salaries have risen, furthering inflation.

Even as Russia’s federal government has spent almost 50 percent more in the first half of this year than in the equivalent period in 2021,  the country’s energy revenues have fallen by half.  “Sanctions have forced Russia to sell its oil at a discount and European countries slashed purchases of Russian natural gas,” according to the NYT. And hundreds of thousands of predominately white collar workers have left the country in protest of the war or to avoid the draft, an additional loss to earnings.

So once again, money is pouring out, and not just from the Russians and their allies. We, too, are spending prodigious sums to maintain the war effort, and doing so in the aftermath of previous huge outlays to sustain Americans during the pandemic. Our economy seems strong, for the moment, even as our growing national debt seems to bother few officials. 

The war in Ukraine has become one of attrition, with Russia and its allies waiting out the American-led coalition in the belief that we are a short-term nation in our war endeavors and will withdraw sooner or later. While that may well be, whoever withdraws first may be the side in financial ruin.

by -
0 211
'The Capture of John Andre' by John Toole. Wikimedia Commons

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

But for the fact that three militia men were playing cards and having lunch in the bushes alongside the Albany Post Road south of the West Point fort in 1780, we might be speaking English with a British accent. 

It was down this road that British Major John Andre came galloping, and when the three stopped him near Tarrytown, N. Y. to ascertain his business, they searched him and found detailed maps in one of his boots. It was key information about the fort, and the men realized the rider was a spy, trying to get behind the British lines in New York City.

As it turned out, Andre was coming from a meeting with Benedict Arnold, the commander at West Point, who was about to turn over the fortification to the British and join them in the Revolutionary War. The fort was a most important installation, blocking the British garrisons from moving up the Hudson, splitting New England from the rest of the colonies and connecting with their troops in Canada. This strategy could well have ended the war. 

The British troops had tried to overwhelm the fort but failed. There was a British ship moored in the Hudson, and when Arnold got word that Andre had been captured, he boarded the ship and crossed over to the other side of the river where the British were camped, making his escape and marking him for all of history as a traitor to his country.

The Fidelity Medal

Andre was recognized as an important figure and turned out to be head of British intelligence. The Colonists questioned him in detail. The map and information he carried would have allowed the British to enter and capture West Point. Andre confessed his role and ultimately was hanged as a spy, much as Nathan Hale had been four years earlier.

During the time Andre was held prisoner, he succeeded in charming his captors. A well educated man, of keen wit and culture, he was appealing to the upper-class American officers, including Alexander Hamilton and the Marquis de Lafayette, of the Colonial Army for his patriotism to his country. Ironically, we have heard of “Poor” Andre and Benedict Arnold, but most of us have never heard of John Paulding, David Williams and Isaac Van Wart, the three who captured the Brit. That is, until now.

Van Wart and the other two were farmers in their early twenties and were part of a local militia attempting to protect the much harassed residents sandwiched between Washington’s forces in the Hudson Highlands and the British army in Manhattan. That is why the three were stationed along the dirt road. Andre tried to bribe the men to release him, but they handed him over to American forces. 

The men “were recognized by the Continental Congress with hand-wrought, silver military medals, now considered to be the first ever awarded to American soldiers,” according to a New York Times article in last Saturday’s issue. And while two of the three medals were stolen from the New York Historical Society in 1975 and never found, the third was held by the Van Wart family for over two hundred years and has now been donated to the New York State Museum in Albany, where it can be seen starting in the fall.

The three men met with Washington, were given the medals, and each a plot of land and a lifetime annual pension of $200, which was then a “princely sum.”

Van Wart died in 1828, and the medal was passed down through the generations of his family until it reached Rae Faith Van Wart Robinson in White Plains. She was inordinately proud of her ancestor and kept the medal in a shoe box under her bed, taking it out to display at historical events. She never married, had no children or siblings, and when she died in 2020, she instructed that the medal be given to a museum where it could always be viewed and the story told. The front of the medal prominently bears one word: “Fidelity.”

by -
0 314
Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Big mammals must appeal to me. I love horses. When I visited South Africa, I fell in love with elephants. And now that I have returned from a few days on Cape Cod, I am totally smitten by whales.

It was my first whale watch foray. We boarded a ferry-size boat in Provincetown, off the eastern tip of the Cape, and I was surprised to see at least 200 people, who had the same idea, seated on two decks. It was a perfect day to be out on the water, hot, humid, with only a soft breeze barely stirring the ocean. We finally found seats in a shaded section of the upper deck just as the boat took off heading north east into the Atlantic.

Everyone seemed in a holiday mood, talking and laughing for over an hour until someone yelled, “Look! There are mists ahead.” Then silence, as everyone peered at the horizon. The captain slowed the boat and as we got closer, we could see the backs of two whales, diving and surfacing, expelling air through their blowholes as they breathed.

“Those are humpbacks,” the tour guide explained over the PA system. “There are many different kinds of whales,” she continued. It seems there are about 80 species of living whales, and they fall into two groups: baleen and toothed. We were seeing baleens, a word that refers to the manner in which they secure their food. Instead of teeth, baleens are like broad vertical Venetian blinds that grow down from the roof of the whale’s mouth. They are hard, like our finger nails, each one at least a foot long, maybe five inches wide and close together. They act to filter what the whale takes in, excluding anything wider than plankton.

Two years ago, around this time, a whale swallowed a man just off the Cape. This is a true story that made headlines all over the globe, and the man, Michael Packard, lived to tell the tale. 

“I’m done! I’m dead!” was the immediate reaction of Packard, who is a lobster scuba diver, when he was sucked into the mouth of a whale that came up behind him as he was descending to the seabed to search for lobster. Whales feed by opening their mouths like a wide elevator door, squeezing whatever is ingested, then spitting out what doesn’t get filtered by their baleen. 

Suddenly he felt a huge shove and it got completely black, and Packard realized he was inside a whale. “ I could feel the whale squeezing with the muscles of his mouth,” said Packard, as quoted by Newsweek. “I thought to myself, ‘there’s no way I’m getting out of here.’”

But then the whale “started going up. All of a sudden it just got to the surface, and he started shaking his head and getting all erratic … and then boom!” The diver flew out of the whale’s mouth, traveled a distance of some 50 feet and lay floating on the surface, looking up at the sky. “I think I’m going to live,” he remembers. He was inside the whale for about 40 seconds. Packard was picked up by a crew member, who called to shore, and when they arrived at the pier, an ambulance was waiting to take him to the hospital. He wound up with one broken rib and some soft tissue damage. Three weeks later, he was back diving for lobsters but now also making TV appearances with the likes of Jimmy Kimmel.

Actually, the whale didn’t swallow Packard. A whale’s throat is too narrow for a human to pass through. The humpback held Pachard in his mouth, then surfaced and spit him out.

We were lucky on that trip, seeing 18 whales, according to the tour guide’s count. Once the boat stopped, the whales surfaced and dived around us, almost as if they were entertaining us. One whale, estimated by the captain to be about 6 months old, cavorted and flipped  not far off the starboard side of our boat for at least 15 minutes. Some of us believe he was encouraged by our screams of approval and deliberately putting on a show.

by -
0 239
Alexander Hamilton's statue in Central Park. Photo from Wikipedia

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

“What if,” is always a tempting game to play with history. This week in July, thanks to what we learned from the play “Hamilton,” makes us wonder. 

What if Alexander Hamilton had not been fatally wounded on July 11, 1804? He died of his stomach wound the next day, yesterday, all those years ago.

He is reputed to have tossed away his shot, but Aaron Burr didn’t.

What if the two men, bitterly at odds over The Jefferson-Burr election for President in 1800, had never had a duel? Even though Hamilton was a member of the Federalist Party along with Burr, still Hamilton campaigned for Jefferson, a member of the Republican-Democratic Party, as having the better character.

What if Burr and Hamilton’s father-in-law, Philip Schuyler, had not opposed each other in the election for New York State Senate? Subsequently, would Hamilton still have said such derogatory things about Burr’s character that prompted Burr to challenge him to a duel?

Hamilton’s oldest son, Philip, was killed in a duel not long before, reportedly defending his father’s honor. Instead, he brought unimaginable grief to his parents. Hamilton is said to have thrown away his shot in turn because of the anguish caused by that killing. What if that great loss hadn’t happened? Would Hamilton have accepted Burr’s challenge, then deliberately missed? After all, Hamilton had been a highly decorated Major General, proficient in battle. He surely knew how to use a gun.

What if Hamilton had lived? After all, he was only in his 40s at the time of his death. Hamilton had been of enormous influence, first as an aide-to Camp for George Washington, then in writing most of the Federalist Papers and helping to get the Constitution passed, again as the United States first Secretary of the Treasury and setting up the national banking system that still exists today during Washington’s administration. (Perhaps less known, to get the Southern members of the Congress to vote “aye,” he agreed to their demand to move the Capital from Philadelphia to Washington, DC, a far easier destination for them.)

Hamilton is regarded today as a brilliant visionary and one of the most outstanding men of his century, at least according to the French diplomat Talleyrand in 1794. His life and thoughts have spanned three centuries. What more might he have given us had he lived?

What if?

His wife, Elizabeth, known as “Eliza,” lived to age 97 and is saluted for her remarkable contributions to the young nation.

Initially left with young children, a mortgage and bills, she was to additionally suffer the loss of her father, who had at the time of his death lost his fortune. 

With the help of friends, she was able to hold on to her home but eventually was forced to move her family to lower Manhattan from her 35-acre estate in Harlem. Her children were well-educated and went on to impressive careers.

Eliza became co-founder and director of New York City’s first private orphanage in the area now just south of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. She remained in that role for 27 years, during which time she oversaw 700 children. She also was a founder of the Orphan Asylum Society. Throughout her life, she remained sensitive to the plight and the needs of orphaned children, reflecting the world her husband had grown up in.

Eliza also was dedicated to preserving her husband’s writings and legacy, including the purchase of his work by Congress. This is how we know so much today about his life and thoughts. His writings are in the Library of Congress.

We might play, “What if,” at any turn in history, some of which could send shivers down our spines. This week, though, it seemed clearly Alexander Hamilton’s turn. He did much to create the world we live in today.

by -
0 118
METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

When I make my way downstairs in the morning, I am often singing, usually some show tune. This never occurred to me as being something special until now. But I recently read an article by Alexandra Moe in The Washington Post that “singing is good for you.” Since it’s always nice to learn that something you do is actually good for you, I am sharing this result of significant research with you. Perhaps now you will feel emboldened to sing beyond the shower.

In a study called, “Sing With Us,” conducted on members of a choir in a London suburb, tests performed before and after they sang indicated an increase in their physical and mental health. This was no ordinary choir, but rather one made up of cancer patients, and their singing “reduced stress hormones and increased cytokines, proteins that can boost the body’s ability to fight serious illness.” Ultimately the study involved 192 patients. 

Other studies have found singing “lessened anxiety, stimulated memory for those with dementia, increased lung capacity and an easing of postpartum depression.” While singing in a group offers additional benefits, like social bonding and community, just singing because you feel like, if you are alone or with someone else, is calming and promotes a sense of well-being.

My mother would sing often when she was in the kitchen preparing meals. So did my dad, who would break into song at no particular time. I never thought about it then, but they did have nice voices, and they did sing on key. They didn’t sing together, just spontaneously. And they really were singing, not just humming along while they worked. No one thought it was strange, as far as I knew. It was in this way that I learned the lyrics to any number of World War I songs, which were popular when my dad was a teen. When, as a child, I would start to sing one of them, older people who might be sitting on a park bench, for example, would look surprised and ask where I had learned them.

And that is how my children learned Broadway show tunes. When we went on long car trips, in particular, we would spend much of the time singing together. I grew up amidst the Rogers and Hammerstein, then Rogers and Hart musicals of the 1940s and 1950s, the “golden age of musical theater,”and my children know those lyrics as if they had seen those magical shows, which were well before their births.

Some of our favorites were: “Oklahoma!” from the show of the same name, “Getting to Know You,” from “The King and I,” “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” from “The Wizard of Oz,” “Some Enchanted Evening,” from “South Pacific,” and “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better,”  (a natural for our three boys) from “Annie Get Your Gun.”

All I had to do was start with, “Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry, When I take you out in the Surrey,” and they would all start singing from the back seat of the car. 

While I loved all the melodies, my particular favorites were from “My Fair Lady,” including “The Rain in Spain,” “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly,” “Just You Wait, Henry Higgins,” “I Could Have Danced All Night,” “You Did It,” “Get Me to the Church On Time,” and “I’ve Grown Accustomed to Her Face.”

I share this with you so you will know what I am singing when I begin. It is, I’m afraid, not always apparent. On the other hand, I would encourage anyone to sing, even if you think you can’t carry a tune or have a terrible voice. A friend was asked to try out for a play when she was in junior high, and when she began to sing the required song, the teacher interrupted her with, “No, really.” He thought she was kidding. But it was “really,” and for many years, she never again sang until she met me.

Everyone should sing, softly if you must, but do it. And if anyone asks, it’s for your health.

by -
0 193
Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

“I’m bored!” exclaimed my cousin, when we were about 10 and sitting in the backyard of my grandfather’s former dairy farm in the Catskills one summer afternoon.

I thought about that for a few seconds. “What does bored mean?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

“It means I have nothing to do,” she railed. 

“Oh. I’ve never been bored,” I replied unhelpfully.

“What do you do when you have nothing to do?” she demanded.

Again it took a few seconds. “I think,” I offered lamely.

My aunt, her mother, who was sitting nearby, burst out laughing.

Looking disgusted, my cousin got up and walked away.

I thought of that exchange, so many years ago, when I saw the headline in last Tuesday’s New York Times: “Let Children Get Bored. It’s Good for Them.” The article went on to advise that “in moderate doses, boredom can offer a valuable learning opportunity, spurring creativity and problem solving and motivating children to seek out activities that feel meaningful to them.”

How, exactly, did I spend my summertime hours when a visit from my cousin was a rarity and there was nothing structured amid the grassy cow pastures?

By the beginning of July, during my elementary school years, I had my books already signed out from the neighborhood library. There was a rule limiting the number that could be withdrawn at one time, but the librarians knew me, knew that I would be taking them away for the summer, that I would take good care of them and return them in September, so they let me exceed the number. Often they would make recommendations that added to my pile. So reading made up a large part of my waking hours.

I also remember picking blueberries from the bushes that grew in the pasture behind the house. They were wild berries. I don’t think anyone planted them there. They were sweet and delicious, and when I had my fill, I would bring back a small amount for my mother and sister, who were with me during the week. My dad would come up by Shoreline Bus on the weekends, and then I would roam with him across many pastures, marked by low stone walls, collecting blueberries in greater quantities.

I would invent games, like selecting a large rock as a target, then throwing small rocks at it from increasing distances, keeping score from one day to the next. If it rained, I would empty the glass jar in which my mother kept loose coins, place a pot against the far wall of the kitchen, then try to pitch the coins into the pot. To this day, I have pretty good aim when I toss something.

As an offshoot from reading, I guess, I would write sometimes. One of my favorite stories was about the antics of the Bobbsey Twins, by Laura Lee Hope, and I would try to dream up adventures for them when I had finished their books. I also loved horses, read the whole series about the Black Stallion by Walter Farley, then tried to extend it with my own amateurish episodes.

Sitting in the shade of a tree, I know I did a lot of daydreaming. I don’t remember any of those thoughts, but I do recall that I loved the smell of the nearby evergreens when the breeze blew and the warmth of the sun on my skin as it dipped down below the level of the tree limbs. In the evening, we could hear the frogs croaking and see fireflies momentarily lighting up the night sky. There were stars, millions of stars that were not visible in the city. And there was The Lone Ranger on the radio at 7:30.

My sister was two years younger, and I would make up scenarios in which I would be Miss Brown, and she would be my secretary. I would send her on all kinds of made-up errands, like mailing a letter at a pretend postal box a block away, and she would gladly run to oblige.

There was an innocence and a peacefulness in those loosey-goosey days that I think today’s youth, with their cell phones and video games, never know.

by -
0 146
Prom Night. METRO photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

Prom season has arrived. It’s that wonderful, fairy tale time when Cinderella goes to the ball. It’s when fathers suddenly realize that their daughters, beautifully gowned, have now grown up. And mothers are proud to see their tuxedo-wearing sons have become men. The hairstyles, manicures and pedicures are in place, the dress has been selected, the shoes to match, the dangling earrings, the special makeup and perfume—the scene has been set. The tuxes are rented, the flowers selected, the shoes polished, the cummerbunds and bow ties fastened, the haircuts fresh, and they pose for the cameras.  Boys and girls, now ladies and gentlemen, go off in their borrowed or leased coaches for a night of celebratory fun to memories they will create for the rest of their lives. It is a coming-of-age moment.

It is the magical Senior Prom.

There can be a darker side to this brilliant affair. Decades ago, shortly after we started the first newspaper in 1976, prom nights ended with a string of terrible car accidents caused by drunken driving. It was a time when MADD was founded — Mothers Against Drunk Driving. This non-profit organization “seeks to stop drunk driving, support those affected by drunk driving, prevent underage drinking and strive for stricter impaired driving policy, whether that impairment is caused by alcohol or any other drug.” It was a movement founded out of grief by those who had lost their children to horrible accidents. Today, more than 40 years later, there is at least one MADD office in every state.

We, at the newspaper, responded to the crisis on a local level. We wrote a short paragraph pledging that the signer of this petition would think about safety on prom night and not drive drunk. We then placed those words at the top of a sheet of yellow lined paper, carried the pads up to Ward Melville High School toward the end of June, waited outside until an assembly involving the senior class had ended, and asked the seniors as they emerged from the hall to sign on the lines. In return, we promised to reprint that page in the newspaper with their signatures just as they wrote them.

We didn’t know how they would react, of course, whether they would laugh us off and continue to the exit or otherwise ignore us. But they didn’t do either of those. Instead, they lined up to sign. And we wound up, as I recall, with five legal pad pages of signatures. We printed the pages, just as we promised, each full page as a page in the newspaper. That year, there were no accidents.

Not long after, Dorothy Melville, widow of the late philanthropist, called our office and invited me to breakfast at her home in Old Field the next day. I appeared on her doorstep at the appointed time, not a little curious. She greeted me at the kitchen door with a big smile, showed me to a kitchen chair, asked me how I liked my eggs, donned an apron and proceeded to cook. 

When we finished, she stood up, left the room, then returned with her checkbook. She explained how important it was to combat drunk driving, especially among young people who thought driving buzzed was “cool.” She then wrote out a check to The Village Times and smiled as she handed it to me.

“I want you to use the interest from this money to finance those signature pages of students pledging not to drive drunk every year at prom time.”

I looked at the check and was amazed. It was for the sum of $10,000. In today’s money, that would be somewhere between $60,000-$70,000. I stammered my thanks and said something idiotic like, “Can you really do this?” She smiled and nodded, and I left the kitchen.

For years after, we repeated the project. There were no more local car accidents on prom night. Some 45 years later, we ask the same.

by -
0 105
Pixabay photo

By Leah S. Dunaief

Leah Dunaief

You’ve heard of ChatGPT, yes? So had a lawyer in Brooklyn from his college-aged children. While the lawyer has been in practice for 30 years, he had no prior experience with the Open AI chatbot. But when he was hired in a lawsuit against the airline Avianca and went into Federal District Court with his legal brief filled with judicial opinions and citations, poor guy, he made history.

All the evidence he was bringing to the case was generated by ChatGPT. All of it was false: creative writing generated by the bot.

Here is the story, as told in The New York Times Business Section on June 9. A passenger, who had sued the airline for injury to his knee by a metal serving cart as it was rolled down the aisle in 2019 on a flight from El Salvador to New York, was advised that the lawsuit should be dismissed because the statute of limitations had expired. His lawyer, however, responded with the infamous 10-page brief offering more than half a dozen court decisions supporting their argument that the case should be allowed to proceed. There was only one problem: None of the cases cited in the brief could be found.

The decisions, although they named previous lawsuits against Delta Airlines, Korean Airlines and China Southern Airlines, and offered realistic names of supposedly injured passengers, were not real.

“I heard about this new site, which I falsely assumed was, like, a super search engine,” lamely offered the embarrassed attorney.

“Programs like ChatGPT and other large language models in fact produce realistic responses by analyzing which fragments of text should follow other sequences, based on a statistical model that has ingested billions of examples pulled from all over the internet,” explained The NYT.

Now the lawyer stands in peril of being sanctioned by the court. He declared that he had asked questions of the bot and had gotten in response genuine case citations, which he had included in his brief. He also printed out and included his dialogue with ChatGPT, which ultimately at the end, offered him the words, “I hope that helps.”

But the lawyer had done nothing further to ensure that those cases existed. They seemed professional enough to fool the professional.

Now the tech world, lawyers and judges are fixated on this threat to their profession. And warnings exist of that threat being carried over to all of humanity with erroneous generative AI.

But this is not an entirely ominous story.

Researchers at Open AI and the University of Pennsylvania have concluded that 80% of the U.S. workforce could see an effect on at least 10% of their tasks, according to The NYT. That means that some 300 million full-time jobs could be affected by AI. But is that all bad? Could AI become a helpful tool?

By using AI as an assistant, humans can focus on the judgment aspect of data-driven decision-making, checking and interpreting the information provided by the bot. Humans provide judgment over what is provided by a bot.

Ironically, the lawyer’s children probably passed their ChatGPT-fueled courses with good grades. Part of that is the way we teach students, offering them tons of details to memorize and regurgitate on tests or in term papers. The lawyer should have judged his ChatGPT-supplied data. Future lawyers now know they must. 

As for education, emphasis should go beyond “what” and even “so what” to “what’s next.”  Learning should be about once having facts or history, then how to think, to analyze, how to interpret and take the next steps. Can chatbots do that? Perhaps in an elementary way they now can. Someday they will in a larger context. And that poses a threat to the survival of humanity, because machines will no longer need us.

Prev1...345...42Next Page 4 of 42
TBR News Media is your local news and entertainment website.
We provide you with the latest breaking news and information for your community.
Contact us: [email protected]

Most Viewed

©