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Nan Guzzetta. Photo by John Griffin

By Michael Tessler

It was devastating to hear of the passing of one of our community’s greatest treasures. For those of us lucky enough to have known Nancy Altman “Nan” Guzzetta, we all knew just how special she was. It’s important that everyone who didn’t know Nan knows just how she impacted their lives too.

Nancy Altman “Nan” Guzzetta. Photo by John Griffin

Most in our community knew Nan as the owner of Antique Costume & Prop Rental on Main Street in Port Jefferson. For decades, she helped quietly bring to life every festival, celebration, and fun historical event in the area. When Nan was called to service, she didn’t just show up; she would move heaven and earth. Truthfully, on more than one occasion I saw her hoist a mannequin twice her size over her head … just to ensure a Civil War general would have the proper brass buckle. To say she took her work seriously would be an injustice; she didn’t just love history … she lived it. 

To Nan, her costumes weren’t just pieces of fabric … they were living pieces of history and art, many of which were originals or perfectly replicated to exact historical specifications. She explained to me that it wasn’t so much the details that mattered. It was about the respect that came with it. To her, it was personal that we honored legacies properly. 

Nan was feisty, funny, witty, and smart. She was both ahead of her time and yet seemed to belong to a bygone era. She was sophisticated, cultured, and worldly. For a woman of such small stature, she stood taller than most and never relented when she knew she was right. She was a woman of great principle and yet always shared a tenderness with those who knew her.

Here’s the truth though. Nan changed lives with her gift of time travel.

For the small child lacking in self-confidence whom she transformed into a Dickensian character of old and unleashed upon the streets of Port Jefferson, they will always know the joys and confidence that community service can bring. For the young woman who heard the forgotten story of a Setauket suffragette during a Three Village Historical Society (TVHS) Spirits Tour, she’ll spend the rest of her life knowing she too can transform policy and shape the future. For the Ward Melville High School freshman celebrating Culper Spy Day who sees a little of themself in Setauket’s Revolutionary War heroes, their lives will forever be transformed by Nan Guzzetta, a woman who made it her business to bring history to life and ensure no story go untold.

Nan left an incredible impact on so many, but to me, she was an unlikely friend and unforgettable mentor and confidant. Despite an age difference of some 60 years, our lives were wonderfully intertwined. We first met when she costumed me at just 10 years old as a Dickensian pickpocket for the Village of Port Jefferson’s annual Charles Dickens Festival. By chance, her son and his family had bought my childhood home which brought both of us great joy. 

Nan costumed Times Beacon Record News Media’s (TBR) first major film project, The Culper Spy Adventure, and helped introduce me to the wonders of film. We became great friends and our chats around history and politics would sometimes last for hours and hours. Occasional tea with her and her wonderful husband became some of my favorite memories. 

I’d always look forward to volunteering at the TVHS Spirits Tours, not just because they’re fun but because I knew it gave Nan such a thrill to see her costumes come to life when worn by such a passionate group of actors. Nan quite literally saved TBR’s Revolutionary War feature film One Life to Give on more than one occasion, procuring us silk stockings and enough tricorn hats to outfit a Continental Army. She was always there when her community needed her and she was always there for me. 

A few years ago, Nan picked up the phone, and on the other side of the line was a Hollywood producer in need of some costumes for a new series. Despite the fact I wasn’t yet a mature and/or responsible adult (as Nan often liked to remind me when I failed to bring back properly cleaned frockcoats) she insisted that the producer speak with me and consider hiring me to work on the show. He did. 

Some dozen or so television shows later here I am on my third year in Los Angeles running my own production company and because of Nan, I’ve now had the chance to work in Hollywood and achieve my dream of being a storyteller. Without her, I’m genuinely not sure where I’d be. I’ll forever be indebted to her for jumpstarting my journey and for all the kindness, understanding, and generosity she showed me. 

My last conversation with Nan was just about a month or so ago. We didn’t talk much about the past, but about our optimism and hope for the future. For her, history was a blueprint and a guide to help us do better. She had so much hope, especially in today’s young people.

Nan will forever stand among the greats in this community, no less than a Melville, Mather, Woodhull, or Strong. In everything she did, she thought about her neighbors, and the joy she could bring them, and the magic of history she could share. Her passion for the past was only surpassed by her love of family. To her, her children and grandchildren were and are the greatest gift she could leave behind to the place she calls home. 

Nan, you can rest easy knowing that the community you inspired will pick up that mantle and continue your work. Now it is time for us to honor your legacy and to ensure that future generations know of the extraordinary life you lived and the standard of service you set for us all.

Until we meet again, Nan. Thank you for making history. 

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Michael Tessler

By Michael Tessler

I’m writing this from about 34,000 feet in the air. There’s a great landscape below me: America. This vast and beautiful country feels endless from this vantage point. No matter how old I get or how many times I take the voyage, I’ll never quite get over the fact that you can start your day on Main Street, Port Jefferson and end it on Hollywood Boulevard.

It has been a record amount of time since I’ve had a day off. Not that I’m counting. I’m nearing one month since I’ve had one truly mindless or menial day. I’m not complaining — working in Los Angeles is a blessing. Though it is a constant hustle to survive, this struggle has made me grateful for the many blessings in my life and the many people that have gotten me here. 

It is easy to forget the power of the written word. Being back on Long Island for a few days, I was reminded of its incredible power by my co-worker Liz (you may know her as the bubbly sales representative who is constantly in motion). After reading my column on my weight loss journey, she began a daily routine of walking FIVE MILES every morning. You can imagine my shock, surprise and gratitude when I heard that just a few small printed letters could cause such a positive and lasting impact on someone.

So here I am, hoping I can provide some inspiration to you by sharing some lessons I was reminded of during my few days back with TBR News Media. 

Local news is the beating heart of a community. Most of us take it for granted. Until I worked for the paper, I know I certainly did. That all changed after spending time with our publisher, Leah Dunaief, who at each editorial and sales meeting reminds us of the importance of the work we do and what it means to the community we serve. Leah taught me that anything can become an inspiring and exciting subject, with enough passion and pride. 

There is a sense of belonging and place that comes with the printed word. When we set aside the digital drabble of social media and open the pages of our hometown paper, we’re reminded of how special we are. Whether happy or sad, tragic or celebratory — this publication tells our story and brings us together in the process. 

We write lengthy and ever-amusing responses to the stories we disagree with. With great, rambunctious passion we debate parking meters and zoning laws. It may seem simple or even small, but hovering above the great American landscape I can’t help but think of how beautiful it is, this weekly celebration of us. 

So as I reach the conclusion of an incredibly difficult and humbling stretch of work, riddled with successes, failures, lessons learned both easy and hard, I am reminded of the lessons taught to me by my second family at TBR News Media. Love what you do. Love who you work with. Love the community you call home and love yourself enough to take time off.

To Leah, who has believed in me and provided me with more opportunity than any person I’ve ever known: Thank you. You challenge me constantly to dream bigger, think smarter and cherish the people around me. 

To Kathryn, who taught me the value of hard work and building lasting, meaningful relationships. You gave me my hustle and drive and reminded me to appreciate just how cute the little ones in our life are. 

To Meg, who reminds me that to change a person’s day all you need is a smile and song, you warm every room you enter with your kindness. 

To the entire TBR family, you remind me that home is always waiting for you and filled with love … no matter how far you may roam or how long. 

To the readers who keep this heart beating, I’m thankful. May the love that goes into each page of this paper transcend into your home this holiday season. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and a Happy New Year from a grateful native son living his Hollywood dream. 

The author is an award-winning film and television producer and CEO of Multihouse Entertainment in Los Angeles.

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From left, Michael Tessler and best friend Jonathan Rabeno check out the sights and sounds of Hollywood. Photo from Michael Tessler

By Michael Tessler

Michael Tessler

Adulting is hard. This is a fact the universe likes to remind me of time and time again. Just when you think you’ve mastered it … BAM! you discover that you can’t buy a used, off-brand Roomba online and expect it to work for more than a week (it is now a glorified doorstop that makes me look way more successful than I am). 

Seriously though, every time I begin to feel comfortable adulting, I receive an absurd reminder that I am totally unequipped to cope with the actual stresses of figuring out what the heck an IRS 1095-A form is.

In the chaos of this transition, there are some victories. Both of my apartment’s fire alarms are incredibly sensitive and wail at the slightest inkling that I’m frying up turkey bacon. Using my adulting skills (and The Force) I’ve repurposed my replica Luke Skywalker lightsaber and have placed it in the living room so we can easily shut off the fire alarm, which would otherwise require a ladder. These small victories keep me going until the existential dread kicks in … this moment may be the nearest I will ever get to being an actual Jedi, but it is better than nothing.

During my ongoing efforts to embrace and tackle adulthood, I made a leap of faith by hosting not just one of my friends but three of them at the same time. In my mind, I was opening a sleepaway camp complete with preplanned activities, snack times and lots of sugar-free popsicles. When opening a sleepaway camp for your friends, be wary … they’ll probably want to actually do vacation things.

After you move across the country twice, it can be pretty difficult to maintain long-distance friendships. We as people tend to evolve and grow apart when placed far away from one another and/or while going through major life changes. Living in Los Angeles, work tends to get in the way of just about everything else. The extraordinary cost of living makes it hard to find time to take care of yourself let alone be there for others. Work, relationships, dreaded time zones … all can easily become excuses to disconnect. For me though, the greater the distance the more I begin to see which friendships matter and which don’t.

Best friends are the individuals you can go without seeing for months or even years and pick up right where you left off. They’re the ones who see your potential when you cannot. They know me better than I know myself. So thank you to my friends, the ones who have guided me on my path and inspired me through their own successes and comebacks. My friends are all pretty unique. Each occupies a special place in my heart. Their combined chemistry can be exhausting sometimes but also wildly entertaining (except if you’re our Uber driver in which case I’m so sorry).

Port Jefferson is just about as small as a small town can be. What’s most impressive about this community is, despite its smallness, the friendships made during the Port Jeff chapter of my life have proven to be the most lasting and most meaningful. I’m saying this because at present I’ve got three of my best friends in the world squeezed into my Hollywood apartment occupying an air mattress, my mattress and the couch, respectively. (So sorry to my roommate Andrew.) It’s not quite summer camp, but it sure is fun being back with the gang.

We’re about to head to Venice Beach. My best friend Jon and I have committed to wearing matching cat swimsuits. That should hopefully distract the rest of my friends from the $85 parking ticket they already got and the fact that I only own three blankets and there’s four people here. But hey, at least we’re together!

Catch Open Mike on a monthly basis in TBR News Media’s Arts & Lifestyles.

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By Michael Tessler

Michael Tessler

Today marks one year since my weight loss journey began. At my heaviest, I weighed 356 pounds and had transitioned from an already uncomfortable diagnosis of morbid obesity to the dreaded diagnosis of extreme morbid obesity, thus making me the literal opposite of an extreme sports athlete. You might have a food problem when the phrase “quitting cold turkey” makes you a little hungry.

In all seriousness — at just 24 years old, I was living a frightening reality. High blood pressure, high cholesterol, occasional chest pains … my body was telling me I was going to die, and it was going to happen fast if I didn’t change soon. Doctors told me the same thing and despite being successful in regularly helping others, I seemed absolutely incapable of helping myself. 

My weight was controlling every aspect of my life. Time and time again I embarked on unhealthy and unrealistic efforts to magically lose all of my weight. Each time I refused to actually change my lifestyle. These attempts were focused on instant gratification, and I refused to consider or acknowledge the reality of my food addiction and where these weight problems likely stemmed from. 

Crash diets, feel good unused gym memberships and diets of deprivation wasted years of my life and wreaked havoc on my body. Each time I’d not only gain back the weight I had lost, but I would become heavier than I was when I had started. This was self-sabotage at its worst.

Finally, I had my aha moment. One family member staged a silent intervention. Without speaking a single word she set me down a radical new path — one that I can comfortably say has saved my life. My niece was less than 2 months old when my sister-in-law asked me to watch her for an hour or two. 

Baby Lilly didn’t weigh much at all. Despite changing her diaper and feeding her I couldn’t seem to make her happy. So I picked her up and starting singing. We danced around the living room and I rocked her back and forth. Her crying subsided as we passed a big mirror hanging on the wall. I didn’t recognize the man holding my niece in the reflection. 

Michael Tessler with his beautiful little motivator, Lilly Rose Tessler. Photo from M. Tessler

His face was red, sweaty, and the simple act of holding a newborn child had him panting for breath. He didn’t even look like me … but this was my reality. Holding Lilly, all I could think about is all the memories and experiences I’d miss in this little girl’s life unless I did something drastic, unless I was really willing to do whatever it’d take to change. 

So rather than waiting another day I got to work. I cleaned my pantry and refrigerator right then and there and went for my first walk that night, adding more and more steps each time. 

I began some serious research, reached out to an amazing therapist (special thanks to Jill Haire) and dedicated myself to not just combatting my obesity but understanding why and how I got to that point in the first place.

Losing 54 pounds, going on daily walks/runs and showing myself that I could truly change my lifestyle, I made a big decision. After consulting with my doctors, I came to the conclusion that the best way for me to permanently maintain this weight loss would be with the assistance of bariatric surgery. This would be a tool and not a solution to help me maintain my healthy lifestyle. 

It has required constant vigilance and a commitment to health and transparency — but as of March 5 I’ve lost a total of 140 pounds and, thanks to little Lilly, am finally living the life I deserve. My dreams and life are no longer sedentary as I hike in the hills of Hollywood. So to whoever you are and whatever your struggle, keep moving forward! Don’t wait for tomorrow to start living your life.

Catch Open Mike on a monthly basis in TBR News Media’s Arts & Lifestyles.

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132 pounds lost, a new life gained - Michael Tessler in a before and after photo

By Michael Tessler

We’ve got quite a bit to catch up on. It has been over a year since I published what I thought was the last Open Mike column. In that time I’ve lived what feels like a dozen lives. 

I’ve moved across the country twice; hosted a radio program; attended the premiere of our first feature film at the prestigious Stony Brook University Staller Center; helped produced an underwater television special starring Sir Richard Branson and the grandson of ocean explorer Jacques Cousteau; successfully filmed several historic short films taking place in the 18th, 19th and 20th centuries; and was brought on as a ghostwriter for a compelling biography for a fitness guru/entrepreneur in Atlanta. 

Shortly thereafter I began developing an online school for emotional intelligence and am in the process of writing a corresponding children’s book. Interspersed between all that I founded my own production company, announced my candidacy for a local councilman position and, perhaps most importantly, lost 132 pounds in my effort to live a healthier and happier life.

It has been a long, hard and wonderful year riddled with obstacles and seemingly insurmountable odds. Reflecting back on it all, it doesn’t quite feel real. I’m writing all this because I’m exhausted and a little frustrated at the pace of things lately. Sometimes we as people have to force ourselves to look at our progress rather than just our mistakes or perceived failures. Don’t worry, I make plenty of mistakes too and have been the proud beneficiary of a practical education of failed efforts and misguided attempts.

Presently, I’m at home sitting in a very comfortable leather chair several blocks south from the Hollywood sign. Internally, I’m making the most difficult Los Angeles decision a person can make: protein shake or grilled chicken with avocado? God, what I’d do for a New York bagel.

Being a New Yorker in Los Angeles is a lucrative thing. You’ve got the hustle, honesty and helium-like ego required to keep up and in some cases rise above the fast-paced, self-obsessed world of glamour, fame and film. I’ve been here just three months so far. It truly feels like a lifetime. 

This city is quite a change of pace from Orlando where I lived for nine months after my dad’s fourth brain surgery. Being so far away from family during such a difficult time just didn’t settle right. I’m blessed I was able to pick up my life and move down south. After a whirlwind of a time in Florida that included some serious self-reflection and losing 132 lb (a column for another time), a very scary experience with internal bleeding and lots of personal development, my family finally said it was time for me to pursue my dreams and to stop sleeping on their couch.

From my rooftop you’ve got an ideal view of the Hollywood sign and the massive Netflix building. Sometimes I swear these monuments stare me down — as if to taunt with motivation. These two icons represent the new and old of an ever-evolving industry. Every decision I make must be done to create not just forward professional momentum in the film/television industry that is, but also upward professional propulsion toward the film/television that will be. This can be frustrating and conflicting at times.

My apartment complex is brand new. Since my roommate is from Texas, neither of us were able to visit the place before signing the lease. It is a competitive process to find the right location and price. “Adulting” is hard. Up until the moment my car pulled up, I was not entirely convinced the place was real. Was half-expecting we’d find an abandoned auto body shop or sketchy cash-only “jewelry” store. Thankfully, my internal optimist prevailed.

It’s a nice place, almost too nice — always imagined my first place in Hollywood would have at least some kind of varmint living in the walls. Nothing yet, just very annoying ice cream trucks and the occasional scream in the distance — we live near a high school so it’s hard to tell whether it is an excitable soccer mom or a murder most foul. Gotta love city living. Now that I’m a pseudo-grownup, all of our furniture matches one style instead of the typical postcollegiate hodgepodge of couches and chairs acquired curbside on Sheep Pasture Road in Port Jefferson. This is progress, people.

While I’ve always loved the IDEA of being an adult — this notion that my workday would end with a copy of the Wall Street Journal in my hands, Bing Crosby on the record player and myself looking dapper in tweed jacket with elbow patches is quite different than the reality. Just yesterday I found myself alternating between opening bills and handwashing a massive stack of dishes that were so dirty even the dishwasher quit. This of course occurred while I was blasting SpongeBob reruns on my television. I’m 25 years old and I’ll defend SpongeBob till the day I die.

In all the many changes this year brought, I’m often reminded of where it came from. Part of why I’m bringing Open Mike back is because it was this community that raised me. You paid the taxes that paid for my schooling — you might as well see some return benefit in the form of my column.

Heidi, our amazing leisure editor is going to throw a fit when she sees how long this so let me wrap it up.

What story do you leave behind in a city of stars and storytellers? For some it’d be the Oscars or Emmy perhaps. For me? I’d like to do something to make my hometown proud. Something worthy of a plaque on the Hall of Fame at Port Jeff High School. I know that sounds silly, but where you come from and never allowing distance or success to make you forget — that is what I strive for. All of my good fortune, my confidence and dreams began because of the place and people who raised me. So I give my everlasting thanks and gratitude to you. Home is always home, so yes, Hooray for Hollywood … but most importantly, GO ROYALS!

Catch Open Mike on a monthly basis in TBR News Media’s Arts & Lifestyles.

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How to defeat ISIS, save the economy and reunite the country

By Michael Tessler

Michael Tessler

Historically speaking, the United States economy tends to thrive in wartime. Americans become patriotic when faced with a great foreign menace. In times of crisis, we tend to buy American products. Our star-spangled workforce works harder and innovates quicker. Our domestic political disagreements seem smaller when we tackle something larger than ourselves. In these moments of dire necessity, we find common purpose. Under that pretense our nation was founded and through the centuries has propelled it to unparalleled success.

Thankfully, we do not need another world war to accomplish this spirit of unity. This may all feel impossible as the gap between our political factions has never felt wider. On every issue it seems partisanship dictates idleness and/or delinquency. So how do we bridge that gap? How do we break the ice? Well the answer is simple — by protecting it.

Climate change is the key to a new era of American greatness. Now, even if you don’t believe in climate change, hear me out. Before we can proceed, please remove the term “climate change” from your mind as some abstract scientific concept. Let’s personalize it, treat it in the same fashion we’d treat any great and terrible foreign power or dictator. It helps to imagine it with an evil little mustache. Envisioning it now? Good.

This Blue Scare (yes, as in excess water) threatens our homes, our livelihoods and our way of life. If we lose this literal “Cold” War, our cities and towns could be decimated not by atomic fire but by superstorms, erosion, dust bowls and flooding. Each day we wait, the Blue Menace grows stronger, melting glaciers and capturing our territory, inch by inch.

Let us form an iron curtain around the ozone layer, protect it from further damage and economically punish those who aide in its destruction. We must establish a great coalition of all civilized nations to combat this threat in an act of global unity, all the while strengthening and cementing our role as an international leader.

This Blue Menace has allied itself with our nation’s greatest physical enemy, ISIS. Their terrorist organization wants nothing more than for us to continue to ignore this mighty faceless foe. According to the United States Treasury and Dubai-based energy analysts, ISIS receives nearly $1 to $3 million a day selling oil. Meanwhile, the United States continues to be the global leader in daily oil consumption accounting for 20 percent of all global use each and every day.

By ending our addiction to oil, we could decimate the so-called Islamic Caliphate without dropping a single bomb. Without the money from that precious resource, they would be unable to remain an effective fighting force. Our nation would no longer have to maintain alliances with false friends, who have used their swaths of oil as leverage over our current state of dependence.

Meanwhile, we can commit that all investments in green energy jobs must be American. We can hire every single unemployed American to help build a modern and green infrastructure. We will see the greatest investment in public works since President Eisenhower built the interstate highway system. We will create a new generation of energy-producing highways (yes, that’s an actual thing), new energy fueling stations, bullet trains, green appliances and the vehicles of tomorrow.

Industry will boom and the workforce will grow as we upgrade and innovate many existing products and power plants. Regardless of how one views climate change, the economic possibility is real and should not be ignored.

One of the biggest concerns I’ve heard is how will communities that produce outdated energy sources be impacted? Though the merits of “clean coal” can be debated, it is simply not a renewable resource. Our economy cannot survive or remain competitive in the 21st century using finite resources.

We cannot and will not abandon those who live in coal and oil country either. We will continue to ensure that their communities thrive by transforming them into clean energy economic hubs, providing not just new jobs, but training and tax subsidies to aide in their transition. Their concerns are genuine and have a right to be heard.

As long as the United States can be fundamentally held hostage by oil, we are at-risk. We owe it to all those who have sacrificed, to our children, born and unborn, to the ideals of America itself, to create a country that relies solely on the ingenuity of its people rather than foreign pipelines and the fuel of a bygone century.

So let’s defeat ISIS, let’s grow the economy, let’s reunite our country, let’s do something bold — we have landed a man on the moon, and with that same American tenacity, we can harness the power of the sun.

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Photo courtesy of Three Village School District

By Michael Tessler

Throughout our brief but impactful history, America’s protesters have accomplished quite a bit. From the Sons of Liberty dumping nearly $1.7 million worth of English tea into Boston Harbor (talk about destruction of property) to Dr. King sharing his dream during the March on Washington. Protests, petitions, walkouts and other acts of civil disobedience certainly have earned their chapter in the American story, not always for good reasons, unfortunately.

My first protest was back in 1999 at Scraggy Hill Elementary in Port Jefferson. Things, as you may remember, were a bit simpler back then. Before the advent of social media, before digital petitions and fake news blogs we were forced to have conversations with one another.

Esther Fusco, my former principal, had an office tucked away behind the school’s reception area. Inside she had an old-fashioned metal candy dispenser that only accepted pennies. Whenever you were called into her office, she made sure you got to crank out a handful of M&Ms. Between that and her famed “Star Assemblies,” there was a lot to love as a student.

Unfortunately, for reasons beyond the comprehension of a six-year-old, Dr. Fusco had her assignment changed by the school board and was no longer working in the school. When I heard she was gone, I went home and asked quite innocently, “Where’s Dr. Fusco?” That unknowingly became the rallying call for the first protest I ever participated in.

My mom, an impassioned activist for early childhood education, organized with other community members to picket, protest and attend meetings. This was an extraordinary lesson in civics for a little boy and one that I treasure to this day. You can imagine my excitement when almost 20 years later I hear about petitions circulating through Ward Melville High School. Young people were speaking up about an issue they were passionate about.

The new cap and gown style at Ward Melville High School. Photo from Three Village School District

To provide a bit of context, Ward Melville’s principal introduced a new uniformed graduation gown that combines the school’s signature green and gold. In the past, they had been separated by gender. However, with the school’s growing transgender and gender-fluid population, they wanted to adjust with the times. Naturally, there was pushback as it was altering a 50-year tradition.

What should have followed was a debate on the BEST method to preserve tradition while accommodating changing times and the needs of the student body. What actually transpired was unfortunately quite the opposite. Petitions began to grow and with them hateful comments about transgender and gay/lesbian individuals.

During a student walkout, several students held up signs saying “STRAIGHT LIVES MATTER” and imagery often associated with the former Confederate States. There’s a fundamental difference between fighting for tradition and using the guise of tradition as a means of marginalizing another group.

Here’s the unfortunate reality: 41 percent of transgender youth and 20 percent of gay/lesbian/bisexual youth will attempt suicide at some point in their lives. Just for perspective, 4.6 percent of the general population will attempt suicide. Words matter, and if you’re wondering how those numbers got to be so staggering, look no further than the comments on some of these petitions.

If someone is willing to keep something like that a secret for their whole life, if the pain of that secret is enough cause for them to take their own life, then who the heck am I to question who they are and why? We were not born wearing blue or pink. We were born human beings and being human isn’t always easy so let’s stop making it harder on each other.

Nonviolence and peaceful demonstrations remain the second greatest force of change in this country next to democracy itself. To my young friends at Ward Melville, on all sides, keep fighting for what you believe in. Do so however, while showing respect and civility. You are stewards not just of your own rights, but those of all Americans. Just remember, “Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong.”

Seriously though, where is Dr. Fusco? If anyone sees her, please tell her Michael Tessler sends his regards. I’m 18 years overdue for some M&Ms!

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By Michael Tessler

Michael Tessler

My great-grandfather Louis arrived at Ellis Island at the onset of the Great War. He grew up in the predominantly Jewish community of Sighet. This small region of Hungary (now Romania) had been occupied and reoccupied by many countries throughout the 20th century. Sighet, however, remained largely the same. Its tight Jewish community maintained its traditions, history and, most importantly, faith.

Louis’ family sent him away in fear he would be drafted into the brewing conflict. So with what money he had, he traveled 1,000 miles from Hungary to the bustling port of Hamburg in Germany. One can only imagine how dangerous that trip must have been — navigating Europe as it began to rip at the seams. He survived though and boarded a ship destined for the promised land of America.

Like so many before him he arrived in New York City. Even as I write this, I smile at the thought of his first gaze upon the Statue of Liberty. At the time, just another face among the huddled masses … to me, the very reason I exist.

Assimilation wasn’t easy. He ended up marrying a woman from the same village and they started a family together. Their child Sam was a tremendous source of brightness in an otherwise unforgiving city.

Above, back row, from left, Pauline, Irene, Louis; front row, from left, Melvin and Max, circa 1929. Photo courtesy of the Tessler family

Louis’ family kept him going. He worked long and painful hours for a fur company in Manhattan. Before unions, before labor laws and before regulations — he inhaled dangerous chemicals daily as he dyed the fur, leaving him with chronic health problems.

His American Dream devolved quickly though as his home was consumed by a fire and with it his wife and only child. One can only imagine his dread. Thousands upon thousands of miles away from his only remaining family, he committed himself to rebuilding his life, and by extension, creating mine.

Louis remarried and had two children with my great-grandmother ­— my grandpa, Melvin Tessler and his brother Max. They grew up on Riverside Drive, both lovers of the city’s growing jazz scene.

Through an unfortunate reality, my great-grandfather wasn’t wanted in this country. Many anti-Semites peddled Jewish conspiracies, believing them to be an enormous danger to American society. When my grandfather was a little boy, Louis took him to work at the fur factory so his son could see what he did. His boss, however, hated the Jews and made a point of humiliating my great-grandfather in front of his son. He never took him to the factory again.

Though Louis was sent to America to be saved from joining a global conflict, it was a painful irony that both his sons were drafted into the army and became American soldiers in World War II.

Mel Tessler while serving in the US Army during WWII. Photo courtesy of the Tessler family

My grandfather Mel served proudly in Europe, where he developed trench foot, almost losing his feet to rot. Around his neck he wore the Star of David, his dog tags and a pillbox containing cyanide tablets in the event he was captured by the Nazis, knowing full well he’d be tortured for information if they knew of his Jewish ancestry. His brother Max served in North Africa where he contracted a malaria type disease. These young boys, the sons of refugee immigrants, served a nation that just a generation prior had not welcomed their father.

My Grandpa Mel would go on to become the head of the English Department at Port Jefferson High School and married my Grandma Sally, a teacher at Scraggy Hill Elementary. No doubt some of my readers had them as teachers.

In his class, he’d have the students read the book “Night” by Elie Wiesel, a celebrated Holocaust survivor who dedicated his life to serving humanity. Several years ago I had the great fortune of being invited to the United Nations, where I heard Mr. Wiesel speak. In the halls of the General Assembly his voice echoed “never again.” It was more than just a phrase but a perpetual call to action, one that we are all responsible to heed. I’ve taken that to heart.

What I did not know at the time was that Elie Wiesel and I shared something in common. He too was from Sighet, my ancestral home. In 1944, the Third Reich occupied Hungary and decimated its Jewish population, first by forcing them into ghettos and then eventually to the concentration camp of Auschwitz. Whatever family remained perished there during the Final Solution.

Whether by gas chamber in Auschwitz or by sniper fire in Aleppo … murder is still murder and is equal in the eyes of God. No man is greater than the other just because of their faith or any more deserving of our compassion. No civilized society, especially one built on the principles of “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” can remain ignorant of the world at large. To do so undermines not just our nation’s values but the essence of our humanity itself.

We cannot forget that our complacency, and more precisely, our fear, allowed countless innocents to die as waves of Jewish refugees were turned away from the United States. We must show bravery like those who risked their lives to hide Jewish families in their basements. If we are so scared that we are unable to help, then we have already lost, for without humanity we are nothing.

Had America not welcomed in my great-grandfather all those years ago, he too would be in the huddled masses lying dead outside Auschwitz. Do not forget, history has its eyes on you.

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By Michael Tessler

During the 2016 vice presidential debate, then Governor Mike Pence said “…the old Russian bear doesn’t die, he just hibernates.” This would-be proverb struck a chord with me and led me on a several month research expedition to further understand the collapse of the Soviet Union. How could a global superpower disappear from the Earth with just a few strokes of a pen?

Today, I’m reminded of another hibernating bear — California. Though sparsely mentioned in our textbooks, there were 25 days in 1846 when a sovereign Republic of California existed. Like-minded Californians rose up against Mexico in what is known as the Bear Flag Revolt. Their state flag to this day still proudly waves a grizzly bear above the words “California Republic.” Shortly thereafter they were annexed by the United States and became an integral part of our country.

How does this relate? Well, on Dec. 26, 1991, the Soviet Union dissolved. Its centralized government oversaw 15 Soviet republics that were partially self-governed, not so dissimilar from the function of our state governments. People thought it impossible, but the massive Soviet superpower was toppled (with relative ease) and was replaced with 15 sovereign nations. It raises the terrifying prospect: If it happened there, could it happen here? That brings us back to the other sleeping bear.

Hypothetically, if California were an independent republic, it would have the world’s sixth-largest economy. Its population is greater than that of neighboring Canada. Its agriculture industry surpasses that of any other American state. Its national guardsmen and women are composed of 18,000 soldiers and 4,900 air force personnel. In addition there are over 190,100 Californians enlisted in the United States military and reserves, which is roughly the size of the United Kingdom’s standing military.

There is a growing #CalExit movement that would grant California its autonomy following a voting referendum in 2018. Just three weeks into the Trump Administration, and one out of three Californians are in favor of secession according to a recent poll. This number is alarming, to say the least. In an age when populism rules, when the United Kingdom could exit the European Union and the United States could elect Donald Trump … the prospect is not just hypothetical but a reality we must address.

Californians, like many Americans, are feeling increasingly disenfranchised by the current administration and the congressional gerrymandering that has occurred nationwide. For the second time in 16 years, the winner of the popular vote, the winner in the State of California, was not selected president.

For years, California, unlike many states, has given more tax dollars to the federal government than it has received in return. Fundamentally bankrolling other states and paying for military campaigns are things Californians are staunchly against. Whether or not their grievances are justifiable is a determination for you, the reader. They should, however, be taken seriously, just as Brexit should have been and all populist movements of the past.

Without California, the United States as we know it would fall into disarray. Its electoral votes and ample congressional seats maintain the Democratic Party’s ability to remain competitive. To my Republican and/or conservative readers, I’m sure that sounds wonderful, but we must consider the larger picture. Without competition, our federal government becomes dangerously lopsided. No matter who the supermajority, accountability decreases and entire segments of our society would feel underrepresented. Political isolation has never ended well for any country, look no further than the Soviet Union for that lesson.

Just because we are the United States does not mean we are immune to collapse. Our nation’s bond was forged in the fires of wars. To each man his colony was his country. It took leadership, it took George Washington and Abraham Lincoln to unify us and maintain our nation. Today one can’t help but feel we’ve grown very far apart. How we can we pledge our lives and property to one another if we’re unwilling to show at minimum decency and respect?

Our federal government should strive to make separation an unjustifiable cause. To accomplish that requires patriotism over partisanship, rights over might, leadership not power plays and genuine liberty and justice for all. Disagreements are a natural and healthy part of democracy, but will get us nowhere if we treat compromise as a cuss word. No matter who maintains the majority, the views of the minority must be heard and represented.

President Trump is in a unique position to mend the wounds of a divided land. To cement a legacy far superior than that of any great wall or golden tower. He is the leader of a fractured state, one in which so easily the political majority could enforce its rule upon the minority. He must show himself to be humbled and practice civility and respect with his opposition. In return, they must learn to do the same. They must be brought to the table rather than fired for sharing opposing views.

That’s what separates an American president from a Soviet premier. His actions moving forward are paramount to ensuring the survival of the union as we know it.

No child should ever ask: “What was it like to grow up in the former United States?”

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For an audio version of this article, see above.

Whether you love him or hate him, take a moment to reflect

By Michael Tessler

Michael Tessler

This piece is not an evaluation of the president’s legislative accomplishments or failures. or even his politics — but rather a reflection of the very personal impact the 44th president had on one 15-year-old boy from Port Jefferson.

It was 2008 and I was just coming of age. Then I saw him on television, delivering his iconic “Yes We Can” speech. In that moment Barack Obama instilled in me a genuine sense of hope, a firm belief that in the course of human history it is possible to make a lasting difference. His words transformed my perception of our Constitution. No longer was it a thing of antiquity, but rather something tangible, something alive, and worthy of any sacrifice to protect.

My sense of purpose and my role in our democracy cemented itself in those early days of 2008. At 15 I found myself going to school in a blazer adorned with Obama/Biden ’08 and button sporting an Afro worthy of the Jackson 5. My teachers were endlessly amused at the sight. Some of my skeptical peers would ask me: “If you’re not old enough to vote, why do you care?”

On Tuesday, Nov. 4, 2008, at 15 (and a half) I hurried back from Drama Club rehearsal with my best friend Jonathan to watch the poll results come in. This was the first election I had ever volunteered for. My family huddled around our television, my

anxieties and nerves were relentless, and then they called it — “Barack Obama has been elected the 44th president of the United States of America.” Despite having not yet lived through a full decade, tears streamed from my eyes. My country, our country, the greatest country on Earth, had just elected its first African-American president.

In that moment I saw the unending potential of America that our founders envisioned so long ago in Philadelphia. During his inaugural address, his tone changed. Like every commander-in-chief he was inheriting the weight of the most powerful office in the world. So he called upon me, as he did all Americans, to not become complacent in the future of our union — and so my work began.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, I had established what would later become known as the International Youth Congress — an organization whose aim it was to answer that question: “If you’re not old enough to vote, why do you care?”

No generation chooses to inherit the world, we just do. Despite not having a vote, our voices were no less diminished. For six years our organization grew: helping passing legislation, providing education and resources for young people around the world and eventually building a network of youth leaders from six different continents and over 20 separate countries. We were making that great hypothetical “change” possible. From as far as Rwanda, to Pakistan and Spain we gathered together to chart a common vision for the future based on our shared sense of humanity.

In these past eight years we’ve all grown up and have taken it upon ourselves to serve our communities, nation and world — whether working for the United Nations, Foundation of Economic Education, United States Senate, European Youth Parliament, International Labour Organization, the White House or this very publication. That spark would have never been lit had it not been for a certain presidential candidate with a funny name and big ears.

No legislative accomplishment or disagreement will ever measure up to the enormous inspiration Barack Hussein Obama delivered not just to me but to millions of young people around the world. His time in office has come to its constitutional conclusion, but for those whom he has inspired … we’re just getting started.

Though as I grow older my politics have changed and evolved, and we don’t always see eye to eye, I will always be grateful for that timeless creed bestowed upon a generation raised in a weary era of uncertainty — Yes We Can. Thank you Mr. President, wishing you and your family nothing but happiness in the many years ahead.

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