Elaine Finsilver

Hi friends! Some of you may know that this past spring I had the incredible privilege to participate in DOROT’s Legacy Project series. The Legacy Project pairs folks with older adults to interview them and capture their story – their legacy they would like to pass on to others. 

I was paired with Elaine Finsilver who is 93 years young! She is one of the most amazing humans I’ve ever gotten to know. She is gutsy, brave, and way ahead of her time. Her life contains so many great stories – most of which involved her going against the norm of her time and doing what she believed was right. 

She cultivated a vast career in dance and visual art, lived with Andy Warhol in the Upper West Side, and had an impactful hand in the Civil Rights Movement (working with MLK, Bayard Rustin, and Lotte & Bill Kunstler!). She did this all while raising three children. 

I told Elaine that I would share her project with my community and she was tremendously excited! If you read it and want to share thoughts to her, DM me and I’ll pass them along.

Thank you for reading. And in the words of Elaine "Do what your heart tells you, be loving and kind, and don't listen to other people"

Grayson

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Elaine Finsilver's Legacy Project - FINAL.pdf

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“You must have many flowers in your garden.” This was a piece of wisdom I received while teaching dance at Fieldston Ethical Culture. My life has indeed been a vast garden, filled with many wonderful flowers of all kinds.

I was the only child born to a beautiful mother and a difficult father in the affluent Upper West Side of Manhattan. Like me, my father adored the arts and loved animals. However, this is where our similarities ended. My father was often impossible, and I feared his frequent temper. He was a master of sarcasm, and I always felt humiliated by his treatment of others. My mother was a beautiful party girl who loved dancing. She was tiny and spoiled, and everyone doted on her. She knew how to be beautiful and throw parties, but she didn’t have the strength to help me when I needed her the most. For the most part, I was not to disturb her, except on Monday nights – those were our special nights. The staff in our home would set up a bridge table and bring out dinner. Together, my mother and I would eat and listen to soap operas and mysteries on the radio.

My parents (father on the left, mother in front) Myself and my dog circa 1939

While both of my parents were of Jewish descent, I never really “felt” Jewish. My paternal grandfather was extremely wealthy, and when he immigrated to America, he provided the funds to build B'nai Jeshurun on 88th Street. My family celebrated nearly every holiday, not just Jewish ones. We had Christmas, celebrated Passover at my mother’s sister’s apartment, and I even remember my father bringing home two baby ducks for Easter. Still my apathy and disenchantment towards religion began at a young age. My father’s behavior had been particularly out of control when I went to visit our rabbi to seek some guidance and words of encouragement. After relaying all the pain my father was inflicting on me, our rabbi, unconcerned, replied, “Well, that’s just the way that he is.” Since then, I have been completely turned off by religion, but I respect those who hold religious beliefs and values.

Despite the opportunity to be solely doted on as an only child, I still felt deeply lonely. Luckily however, to soothe this was the warmth and kindness of Carrie and Albert – our family’s cook and butler. One Christmas morning I woke up quite early – unable to contain my excitement and wait until everyone else was awake – and dashed to our Christmas tree, admiring all the gifts and presents awaiting me. It felt like there were more toys there than I could ever open, along with the lonely realization that I had no one to play with. Just as this somber realization settled onto me, an exhausted Carrie and Albert entered from the service entrance, coming back from a long night full of dancing and celebration. I ran up to them and begged them to play with me, and somehow convinced Albert to join me. With my brand-new Monopoly set, Albert stayed up and taught me how to play craps.  I loved Carrie and Albert so deeply, I once asked them, “Why don’t you have any children of your own?” In her sweet, loving way, Carrie responded, “Because YOU are our child.” How lucky I was to have them.

Carrie and Albert

As I grew older, the rebellious, trouble-making spirit that would follow me for the rest of my life began to blossom. I became a fiery bobby soxer, and thanks to my mother’s family and my wonderful stepfather, I fell in love with Frank Sinatra. There was a radio show Sinatra was performing on that was open to the public, and I was absolutely determined to attend. There was an age limit for entry because of how deafeningly us young girls would scream, so to bypass it, I sprinkled a little bit of baby powder on my head to dull my dark hair and look like a little old lady – and it worked, I got in! It was wild, and so was I. Nearly every day, I'd wake up at 4 AM to join the line of equally ecstatic girls at the Paramount Theater to watch his film "Anchors Aweigh."

My obsession even drove me to sneak into Mount Sinai Hospital, where Sinatra had been recovering from an illness of some kind – though I can’t remember what exactly. I walked into the hospital with a Countess Mara tie in hand, ready to gift him. Before I could take a single step down the hallway, a police officer stopped me in my tracks; he knew exactly what I was up to before I could even offer any explanation. I remembered that my classmate’s grandmother had recently been admitted to Mount Sinai, so bumbling along I explained, “Oh! I’m just visiting my grandmother, who has been ill!” The officer went ahead and escorted me right to my classmate’s grandmother’s room and left me alone with the woman (whom I had never met before). We were both stunned, but I admitted my true reason and plan for being there, and she found it absolutely hilarious. Later, a nurse agreed to take my tie to Mr. Sinatra, and a few weeks afterward, I received a letter:

“Now that I’m back on the airways and feeling better,I want to take this opportunity to thank you for your recent visit and gift.” - Frank Sinatra”

I was 16 years old when I had just gotten my first pair of really high heels. I decided that I would showcase them at the Waldorf Astoria, where Sinatra was performing in their Wedgewood Room. I had been there before with my family, amidst stars like Joe DiMaggio and other famous Manhattanites. Through a series of conversations and batting eyelashes, I somehow convinced both the maître d' and Skitch Henderson (Sinatra’s music director) to let me bring a birthday cake up to the stage to present to Sinatra during his show. As I walked into the beautiful crowded ballroom, with the cake in hand, Skitch and the band began to play the familiar tune of “Happy Birthday.” I floated right up to the stage, handed the cake to Sinatra, and right there in front of everyone, he planted a kiss on my cheek! He even invited me to a party he was having after the show, but whoever I was with told me I couldn’t go. My name could’ve been Elaine Sinatra!

Me and my friends Me and my mother (I’m on my knees squinting)

I was attending Fieldston Ethical Culture when my family was struck by a series of personally devastating tragedies. Both my maternal aunt and uncle committed suicide, and soon after, my stepfather—whom I adored endlessly—died in his doctor’s office of a massive heart attack. I was a mess and felt so alone and isolated. My classmates would talk about such superficial things—the things that most teenagers talk about—and meanwhile I felt as though my world was ending. If you have a favorite teacher, make sure you let them know how wonderful they are. My biology teacher at the time, Mr. Phillip Kotler, had somehow known about all these personal losses and told me “Elaine, if you ever need a break, you can stay in my office.” I had no idea that anyone knew what was going on, let alone him.

I graduated from Fieldston and thought that I would go on to become a sculptor. I was accepted into a handful of New York universities (Syracuse, NYU, and a few others), but ultimately, I opted to attend a junior college in the city. This is one of my biggest regrets. I understand why I did it at the time—I was so hurt and angry at all the loss I had experienced and didn’t have the drive to go forth to someplace farther and bigger—but I wish I had attended a real university. To this day, any time I hear “Pomp and Circumstance,” I become emotional. The only thing I learned to do at junior college was type. One day during a lecture, our dean went on a wild tangent about the famous actress Ingrid Bergman. It had been in the news that she had recently left her husband and child in New York City to pursue an affair with Roberto Rossellini. During class, he ranted and raved about how horrible she was for doing so. I wasn’t sure why the dean felt it was his place to pass judgment or even how it was relevant to that day’s lesson, but I was sick of it. I stood up and walked out.

As I blossomed into young adulthood, I was surrounded with wonderfully creative and artistic people: dancers, musicians, actors, artists. I was a true eclectic. I wasn’t enrolled in dance classes at that time because my mother told me that “nice Jewish boys don’t like girls with fat legs,” but I still loved dancing. A few male dancers in the ballet corps would give me lessons on their own time. At one point, a couple of dancers from the Ballet Theater asked me to host a party, and through a series of unfolding conversations, I was talked into moving into an apartment on W 103rd Street. The apartment housed a handful of incredible artistic types: two dancers, a jewelry maker, an actor and writer, and an artist named Andy Warhol. We were effectively called “The Crew.” Everyone in The Crew was dirt poor. I would often bring food back from my mother’s home, and on Saturdays I was in charge of making breakfast (which was at 3 PM) for everyone in the apartment. Andy once painted a beautiful circus scene on my bedroom wall that I absolutely treasured and still remember vividly, but my mother later painted over it. My mother disapproved of nearly everything I did, which made me want to do it even more.

Andy and I

I was around 19 years old when I found myself working in the vicinity of the First Lady of Theater herself: Helen Hayes. I was babysitting a young actor in the cast of Mrs. McThing – which Hayes was lead in – when I had finished up my duties for the day and decided to stay back and watch her perform firsthand. Hidden in the darkness of the wings, I watched as she took her place alone on the stage. Silence. “Lights!” “Curtain!” Without moving an inch, I watched her as she transformed into her character, commanding and hypnotizing everyone in the audience, including myself. I was in absolute awe and will never forget that moment.

I look back fondly at these years. I did everything that I could and wanted to do, and while I did struggle emotionally, I loved being surrounded by so much creativity, art, and excitement.

Not too long after, I did what every young woman at the time did: got married and started a family. When my first child, Jane, was almost two years old and my son, Josh, was a newborn, my first husband and I moved away from the vibrancy of Manhattan to what felt like a muted and diluted Westchester. The art, The Crew, and my nomadism of my previous life were traded in for a domesticated and quiet lifestyle that contained mores and social rules that I didn’t care to follow. I felt like an outsider all over again, and needless to say, the adjustment was quite difficult. A year in, I decided that I had to do something besides rot away. Rekindling my first love, I enrolled in dance classes and began taking lessons 2-3 times a week. It was like a breath of fresh air. When I die, I know that my children will always remember me in a leotard and tights. One particular day, one of the teachers there mentioned that I myself would make a great teacher. I was asked to be an administrator for an afterschool program at The Scarsdale School along with a series of other exciting roles in the dance education space. Re-entering the dance world made life much more livable.

My first dance group (I am second from the right)

While the dance department grew, my first marriage began to crumble. Our differences became more evident; I was an ambitious person with an undeniable craving and lust for life, while my husband was a thoughtful and intelligent man who preferred a quieter, more passive existence. It simply drove me crazy. At the time, my husband had a job in graphic design and spoke often about his admiration for the director of his department, telling me how fabulously cool and interesting he was. One day, this director invited us to a party at his home in Connecticut. His name was Charles, and upon our first meeting, I immediately became intrigued. He was 14 years my senior, and 6 feet tall with striking white hair. He was intelligent, hilarious, and sexy. I also discovered that he was a fabulous artist and woodworker.

Several weeks later, my first husband and I returned the favor by inviting Charles and his wife for dinner at our place. Trading stories and laughs between cocktails, Charles’ wife looked over to him and said, “Why don’t you give Elaine a ride in your new sports car?” The drive was only supposed to last 10 minutes, but we were out much longer. Alone in the car with this handsome, talented, free-spirited man, I realized how truly unique he was. Charles had served in the US Navy in World War II, and women from Australia to the States were falling all over him. Although I had never been previously unfaithful in my first marriage, I thought I made myself clear to Charles that I was available for him. Charles assured me it would be too complicated and “not worth the coin.” In some way though, I knew that wasn’t the end of us. A week went by, and I found myself growing impatient. I picked up the phone, turned the receiver upside down, and as soon as Charles

answered said, “This is Elaine. I want to go to bed with you.” Without missing a beat, he replied, “Okay, I’ll meet you at Delmonico’s in an hour.” Four years later we were married, and many years later celebrated our 40th anniversary. I asked Charles if he would have ever called me had I not called him first. His answer was “absolutely not.” He thought that I was a nice Jewish girl walking devotedly beside her husband — like I said earlier I thought I had made myself clear that I was available!

Charles and I

A Fair Housing Group had been established in Westchester, and coming from an ethical background, I thought it would be a great thing for me to get personally integrated in. My lifelong passion

for activism was sparked while attending these demonstrations with the FHG. I was full of vigor and resoluteness for the cause and I often brought Josh and Jane along, and when Charles and I had our daughter Amy, she came too. During one demonstration in 1963, a woman approached me and asked if I was interested in getting involved in a local Civil Rights movement. This woman was Lotte Kunstler, wife of renowned lawyer and prominent attorney William (Bill) Kunstler, best known for his work with the Chicago Seven, as well as Attica Prison Uprising and kids in Mississippi who were in jail at the time.

Unknowingly, I was brought into the movement at an extremely pivotal time. A march was being planned on Washington, and it was my job to help coordinate buses to transport activists from the Westchester area to D.C. On August 28th, 1963, at 4 AM, 103 buses arrived in various places throughout the county. A close friend and I boarded a bus in White Plains with no idea what historic event we were about to take part in. On the bus, we were surrounded by folks of all different races, ages, and creeds. I still get emotional thinking back on the whole beautiful experience. We arrived in D.C. to an outpouring of support, with people on their doorsteps waving and cheering us on as we passed by. We disembarked the bus and walked onto the lawn, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of folks fighting for change. My friend and I somehow found a very small spot in the grass to sit down on. We were completely exhausted and knew this would be an all-day event, so I decided to lay down just for a moment and fell asleep—just in time for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. to deliver his legendary “I Have a Dream” speech. Yes, I fell asleep during Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream'' speech. While this incident has become a running joke for me, it doesn’t diminish how important I believe Dr. King’s speech was and is. I sincerely believe that the world should embody the ideals encapsulated in the speech.

Participating in the March on Washington was very special and very meaningful, and I was blessed to be a part of something that truly made a difference. Throughout my career in the Civil Rights Movement, I had the privilege and honor of attending several demonstrations and meetings alongside Bayard Rustin, Philip Randolph, and Martin Luther King Jr himself.

In 1965, I received a phone call from an organization looking to start an initiative called the Southern Student Project. Established with the mission to help integrate bright Black students from the South into predominantly white schools in the North, they asked if I knew anyone who would be interested. I immediately volunteered our family. We received a list of students available for fostering and settled on a boy from Charleston, South Carolina, named Ronald. We really had no idea what to expect. Ron arrived that summer. Charles and I went to the Port Authority to pick him up (my first time ever being there) and were overwhelmed by the infinite, chaotic mass of people weaving and pushing throughout the port. Teeming with all kinds of people—mostly people of color—I was worried we wouldn’t find Ron. In the knick of time an idea hit me. I ran into the bathroom, grabbed a paper towel, wrote Ron’s last name on it, and attached it to the end of my umbrella. I held the umbrella high over my head above the crowd, and prayed that it would work, but before I could finish there he was standing right in front of Charles and me. Later, Ron would recount his first impression of Charles and I saying that he thought Charles looked “really cool” and found it funny how small I was in comparison.

Ron when he lived with us

I have so many stories about Ron and the injustices he and our family experienced while trying to get him into high school. Ron did well academically despite the constant harassment from neighbors: ranging from spitting on our lawn to brandishing knives. One day in particular, Ron asked me if he could get his hair cut. I checked with Bill Kunstler first for advice on where best to go. He told me to take Ron to the same barber that I would take Josh to. It turned out to be one of the most horrible experiences ever. Josh sat in his barber’s chair, with his haircut proceeding as normal, while Ron’s barber began cutting chunks out of his hair and spitting racist slurs at him in the process. All three of us left the barbershop sobbing. I remember telling Ron, “Don’t worry, we will call Papa Bill and get this all sorted out.” I called Bill and recounted the horrendous experience to him. When I finished, he paused and simply asked, “Did they cut his hair?” I told him yes. He replied “Then there is nothing we can do, but take Ron back there anytime he needs a haircut.”

Initially, for Ron to come up to New York and participate in the program, Charles and I needed to have a backup family in place in case something didn’t work out and Ron still needed a foster family. The committee in Westchester eagerly raised the funds to take care of Ron’s financial needs, but when it came time for someone to commit as a backup—to provide him with the emotional support and physical safety he needed—we were met with silence. We never found a backup family.

Looking back, I believe the seed that grew my passion for activism and civil rights was planted right in my childhood home. Many of the staff who made my life so comfortable—like Carrie and Albert—were people of color. They were the ones who raised me and also the ones my father treated so poorly. There was a particular incident with my father that I call “The Cracked Plate Incident” that left a permanent impression on me. I was about 10 years old when my father, his mother, and I went to lunch in Central Park. I remember it vividly. The restaurant was packed when the host led us to our table, which was small and had an umbrella. Before we could even reach our chairs, my father began raising holy hell. “Well, this table isn’t big enough!” he exclaimed. My cheeks began to turn red, as I felt the familiar sting of embarrassment rise within me. The host calmly reassured him that we could be seated elsewhere, and were swiftly brought to a table arranged for six.

We took our seats at the new table, and before we could even get settled, my father grabbed the plate at his place setting and bursted out, “My plate is dirty!” Our waiter tried to explain to my father that the plate wasn’t dirty; it was just cracked. My father took his napkin, dipped it in the water, and began wiping the plate in the waiter’s face. By now, everyone was staring at us, murmuring uncomfortably. I began crying hysterically, mortified beyond repair. I stood up, ran outside, and took a taxi home. I didn’t even have any money to pay the driver; our doorman had to cover the fare. These interactions were so commonplace and made a tremendous impression on me. I believe that everyone should be treated with equity, fairness, and respect. And if you do witness someone being mistreated, you must stand up for them.

My family in the early 60s/late 70s

My children were also involved in their own forms of activism. Amy was in 4th grade when I received a call from her school, informing me that she was protesting because the boys had the option to wear pants while the girls were required to wear skirts. Josh and Jane raised money for the Chicago Seven by handing out fliers at their high school. The school administration attempted to stop them, and after I contacted the ACLU, the school implemented a blanket ban that prohibited the distribution of any fliers on campus, not just theirs. Additionally, protests against the Vietnam War were in full swing, and Josh had plastered anti-war stickers on every locker at his school. Our family began to develop quite the reputation. One evening, I attended a meeting at the school, entering into an unusually packed auditorium. Despite the massive crowd, the meeting began as normal, with the head of the school board calling the meeting to order. Someone in the back raised their hand, and upon being recognized, formed a fist and started shouting, “Back to Russia! Back to Russia!” The entire audience stood up and joined in on the chant. I was terrified and overwhelmed. I rushed home sobbing while Charles called the head of the school board (who lived just up the street from us), demanding an explanation. Their response was chilling: “She asked for it.”

While my activism life continued full steam, my career in dance also continued to flourish, and along the way, I made many lifelong friends, including an incredible man named Donald McKayle. As an administrator for Scarsdale Dance, part of my role was to bring in esteemed individuals from the dance world to perform and teach workshops. This is how I met Donald, and we immediately hit it off. Donald was like the brother I never had. He was a phenomenal teacher, the artistic director of The Batsheva Dance Company in Israel, and spoke an array of languages.

I learned so much from him, not only on a technical and creative level but also as a peer walking side by side in life. I would ask Donald, “What kind of dance do you love?” and he would reply, “Good dance.” He was a person with immense depth, and I was truly blessed to know him. One time, long ago, he and I were lying on a bed together when I turned to him and said, “Donald, one day I'm going to tell everyone that I was in bed with Donald McKayle!” Now, everyone knows!

Me and Donald in the 80s

I believe that art is a wonderful way to communicate with others, especially with fellow artists, who often have the most interesting things to say. When I taught children, I noticed that they would paint these odd little pictures. I’d go up to them and ask, “What’s this about?” and they would relay these grand stories that they created through their art. I began painting when I was physically no longer about to dance. I met Larry Horowitz — a fabulous pastel artist — who taught me how to paint, and I fell in love with it. Good art touches your soul.

Some of my pieces!

For the remainder of our lives, Lotte and Bill were Charles' and my closest friends and confidants. When we had Amy, Charles and I gave her the middle name “Willot” in honor of William and Lotte. So, when Lotte came up to me and said, “Elaine: you, Charles, and Amy are like a closed corporation” my heart sank. Jane and Josh were not a part of this "corporation," and I had been unaware of it. It's something that has stayed with me for the rest of my life. It was extremely difficult balancing all the different aspirations and aspects of my life, and in hindsight, I realize I wasn’t as available to my children as I should have been. I believe that I did the best I could, but I am remorseful that I didn’t do better. When I became a mother, I looked back at my own mother’s life and understood why she was the way she was. I was a very good dancer, a very good administrator, and a very good friend, but not a very good mother. Still, I’m extremely proud of my children. Jane became a writer and involved in the dance world, Josh left his corporate job to work with the New York Housing Authority, and Amy runs a hotel that is ranked number one in the USA and is a great leader. I also have one grandchild who, like me, is unapologetically unique and authentic to themself.

I’ve lived an extraordinary life, but I am not a perfect person. I don’t regret the things I’ve done in my life, just maybe how I went about them. I made and experienced great art. I had beautiful friendships with people who also lived on the edges of acceptable everyday society. I was passionately in love with a man who was just as eccentric as me and supported all my wildest dreams. I raised three incredible children and have an equally incredible grandchild. Do what your heart tells you to do, be loving and kind, and don’t listen to other people. I’ve learned many lessons through the heartbreak, grief, and trauma that I experienced. I’ve done what I’ve needed to do and have made an exceptional garden with many flowers.