Celebrating the life of Laura Baudo Sillerman

Celebrating the life of Laura Baudo Sillerman

May 15, 2025

Welcome

As Laura wished, we have gathered her friends and family here at Harlem Academy to celebrate a life well-lived.

Since the school’s founding, Laura has advanced our work in countless ways and quietly inspired others to do the same. Her generosity offered financial stability through early, uncertain days, and her leadership was instrumental in making our beautiful campus a reality. As a trustee, Laura set the standard – always listening carefully, sharing wisdom with humility, and keeping the mission at the heart of every strategic decision.

In May 2024, The Poets Terrace was dedicated in honor of the Sillerman family and its transformational impact on Harlem Academy. Laura played a pivotal role in establishing this school as a home for young poets to find their voices, and the Terrace now stands as a joyful, inspiring space to celebrate the vibrancy of our program. The triple-loop infinity symbol rendered into the dedication plaque was the only thing Laura would accept as a subtle but powerful recognition for the way Laura, Bob, and Mackinley’s drive and spirit are woven into the foundation of our school and will carry forward in support of generations to come.

Today, we celebrate all things Laura: music, pizza, poetry, good beer, and cocktails. Please join us for a brief program at 6:45 p.m. And, thank you for being here to honor Laura’s extraordinary spirit.

A Loving Remembrance: Laura Baudo

Sillerman 1947 - 2024

Laura will long be remembered for her service and counsel to a wide array of humanitarian, education and arts organizations, including PEN America, the American Museum of Natural History, and the Unterberg Poetry Center of the 92nd Street Y.

An alum and a trustee of Marietta College in Ohio, she was key to critical fundraising efforts there and championed the construction of the Dyson Baudo Recreation Center and Legacy Library; the Sillerman Commons on campus is named in her honor. With her husband Robert, she was co-founder of the Sillerman Center for the Advancement of Philanthropy at Brandeis University.

She was also president of The Tomorrow Foundation, a New York City-based charitable foundation, and served on the board of Long Island University’s Southampton campus, where she was instrumental in bringing both the Southampton Writers Conference and The Southampton Review to national prominence. During summer conferences at the school, she was a legendary host to a vast community of writers, treating all - renowned authors and unknowns alike - with the same genuine interest and care. And she was the creative spark behind the summer All For The Sea concerts to benefit the college’s Marine Science Program, featuring acts such as Paul Simon, Tina Turner, and Crosby, Stills & Nash.

In 2012, she joined the board of Harlem Academy, an independent K-8 school for promising low-income students, helping to facilitate the creation of a visiting poets program in partnership with the Poetry Society of America. In 2013, she established the Sillerman First Book Prize for African Poets, helping to expand the scope of publishing in African poetry.

She was also an accomplished poet, columnist, and co-author, with Bruce Morrow, of “Cousin Brucie: My Life in Rock ‘n’ Roll Radio” (William Morrow, 1982). She wrote with such elegance, depth and insight that a simple email from her could be something of a literary event, calling upon the recipient to muster their inner poet in response. It wasn’t a challenge or a test, it was simply an example that made people want to rise to the best that was in them. That was her effect on people, and she was always at the ready to help them do that. In the end, that may be her greatest legacy of all.

Speakers

Abby Flynn Paulson was among those with the outrageous good fortune of having had Laura in her life from birth. As one of the ‘kids’ from Southampton, Abby was blessed to know Laura as a true matriarch to our tribe, a selfless and generous friend, and a constant source of support, inspiration and unconditional love.

Billy Collins is a recently retired Distinguished Professor at Lehman College (CUNY). He’s been part of the Southampton Writers Conference for many years and is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

Robert Reevess Professor of Creative Writing and Literature at Stony Brook University and guided the development and growth of the many academic, advanced training, publishing and community programs recently gathered within the newly founded Lichtenstein Center. Two nationally prominent programs within the Center, The Southampton Review and the Southampton Writers Conference, are the direct result of Reeves’ partnership with Laura Sillerman.

Patricia McCormick is the author of several young adult books and was a proud member of the Log Cabin Women, a writers’ group that included Melissa Bank, Laura Stein, Magdalene Brandeis, and Laura Sillerman.

Vinny Dotoli is the founder and head of school of Harlem Academy. He and Laura had their first meeting in a church basement before the school had opened, and she played a critical role in the parallel growth of his leadership and the school itself.

Abby Flynn Paulson

Good evening…It is a tremendous honor for me to welcome you all tonight…

An enormous thank you to Harlem Academy for bringing us together in this wonderful place; a place so rich with promise, so restorative in its optimism; a place to which Laura devoted herself and invigorated the way she did so many things, so many people, dreams, gardens, and as probably everyone here can attest, all the pitchers of margaritas.

Unlike the brilliant individuals we’ll be hearing from momentarily, I am a regular person…a regular person with the exceptional fortune of having known the power of Laura’s love.

As I look around tonight, I marvel at the scale to which she gave this magnificent gift. The reach of that love extending to each of us here and far beyond, her boundless generosity rippling out into the world.

And although generosity in the traditional sense of the word is something she obviously personified, I believe the power of Laura’s love was rooted in her seemingly infinite emotional generosity: her generosity of presence, of perception, of attention. Her energetic generosity, the balm of compassion and solidarity she brought to every hardship; the graceful yet authoritative way she induced merriment and lavished permissions onto our most decadent dreams.

Certainly there is no exhaustive list of the companionships, kindred spirits, sisterhoods, connections and confidantes Laura knew: her cherished cousin Jerrilyn, whose family she adored; the Marietta college friends with whom she remained so close; her Manhattan ‘girl gang’; the altruistic and dedicated peers she held dear from the myriad committees and boards on which she served; the trusted, constant buoy that was her writing group; the veritable anthology of poets and authors with whom she shared her talents and passions; the extended family of Southampton townies she embraced as her own…

Bob…‘Seems’ as Laura called him, and the stratospheric ferris wheel of his victories and losses – or maybe he would prefer for me to call them strategic descents – and that spectacular comet of a girl who blazed in and out of this world with such brilliant ferocity, Mackinley Jo.

As was her custom, Laura left us wanting more. She slipped off over the dune while we were dancing barefoot in the sand, buzzing with the joy she’d magicked into us, never imagining we’d have to carry on in a place where she was not. Lucky for us, place and time are meaningless in the

presence of love like ours. As we celebrate her this evening, let us assume that she is listening. Let us believe that she is here.

Not long ago Laura closed an email she sent me with a poem by Raymond Carver entitled Late Fragment. It goes like this:

And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.

Laura,

we have endless words we’d say to you and of you forever more, but rest assured that at the top of the list is ‘beloved.’ Beloved on the earth, Beloved here this night, Beloved wherever you may be.

It is now my great privilege to introduce someone whose mind and heart were an inspiration and an oasis for Laura.

A dearest friend to her, a brilliant voice, and a luminous presence in her life, the incomparable poet amongst poets, Billy Collins…

Billy Collins

I’m honored say a few words here at Harlem Academy, one of Laura’s many charities and the place she wished for us to gather. I wonder if this was a way to bring the Academy to our attention and maybe a subtle posthumous suggestion and we ourselves might make a donation? The odds of Laura contriving that are not zero.

A word about the first time I met Laura. It was 20 some years ago. My second visit to the Southampton Writers Conference. I loved being out there on the Island. My parents used to rent a cottage on Towd Point when I was a kid, and since then very few of my summers lacked visiting the South Fork. I was given a room in a student dorm on the campus, which was fine with me. It had one of those beds with a metal frame that I stubbed my toe on nightly. The air conditioner in the window was noisy and as effective as a hair dryer, but I was fine.

Then Bob Reeves told me about a couple who offered to have me as a guest at their home. No thanks, Bob I said as I pictured an elderly couple who ran a BnB somewhere in town. They kept a tea cup collection in sideboard, which they loved to show their guests, each one came with a story. No I’m fine in the dorm. And the woman is in your workshop, Bob added. In that case,Definitely no! She’s going to write poems about the teacups and I’m going to have to be nice to her, Finally, I relented. Bob drove me to 1020 Meadow Lane. I could see the ocean and the bay from my room, which was built with no nails. I became an annual guest in guest heaven. Oh by the way, no surprise, Laura wrote circles around everyone in the workshop without meaning to.

I going to say a few words about Laura’s public life and her private life then I’m going to read a short poem.

Her public life, as we know, went arm and arm with her philanthropy. I knew about only a few of her causes, ones that were relevant to me: Poets House, basically a library of some 60,000 volumes of poetry in Lower Manhattan, including a children’s room withLaura’s name above the door, and the historic Poetry Society of America. Beyond that, I knew little.

Her giving never entered the conversation. There were so many more interesting things to talk about: horse racing, baseball statistics, boxing, Broadway, the Frick, New Jersey! She knew a lot about a lot of things. I remember the one time she mentioned her philanthropic work to me. It was over breakfast at a diner here in town. She said that she had recently told her husband Bob that every time he joined another golf club, she would donate the exact amount of money that it cost to be a member to one of her favorite causes. She called it a new version of “matching funds.” She was too modest to ever advertise her giving. She was allergic to praise. We are gathered here today to compliment her, but she would have none

of it. When she and her husband were being honored by the Poetry Society of America at a gala at the New York Botanical Garden, someone at the podium was going on about her contributions, she whispered to me “A little restraint would be nice.”

The PRIVATE Laura was easier to know. Being with her meant having her full attention. She was an accomplished listener. The Patron Saint of Listening. She was always right there, fully present, and getting everything on a level that truly mattered. All ears, all eyes as well, because she listened with her eyes, too. And she had a way of opening up a conversation to let more people in which made for a more lively, or at least different experience. No one ever felt left out in her presence. No one was more empathetic. And she knew how to cut to the chase: Once, when my then fiancée and I were telling her about a delay in our plans to get married, she said, Well why don’t I just marry you? OK! And so it came to pass that on Cryder Beach one summer evening by a power invested somehow in her by God knows what or whom, Laura made Suzannah and me official.

As I was thinking about what to say today, I actually looked up the famous 5 stages of grief. DENIAL. ANGER. BARGAINING. DEPRESSION AND ACCEPTANCE. Not sure what Laura would think of all that, probably not much. Having to go in order, and all. I’m puzzled by the stage called BARGAINING. My agent, Chris Calhoun, is here today, a dear friend of Laura’s- and a very clever bargainer, but I don’t think even he would know where to begin. Wouldn’t it be too late for making deals?

After counting the five stages on my fingers a few times, I decided the best place for me was in permanent DENIAL. I have no interest in proceeding any further. Acceptance is out of the question. I find this whole thing completely unacceptable! But also, because I think Laura still lives, she lives in the examples she has set for us over her lifetime. Lessons in hospitality, generosity, but also in humor, affability and poise.

Wasn’t her philanthropy really just a wider expression of the kindness she showed to everyone, (with one or two notable exceptions.) She left behind her a trail of what Wordsworth called “LITTLE, NAMELESS, UNREMEMBERED ACTS OF KINDNESS AND OF LOVE.” She continues to live, most essentially in the influence she has had on us all, by those exemplary acts. We, the receivers of so many of those acts, by following her example, evoke her presence and perpetuate her virtues. “What would Laura do”, is not a bad question to ask ourselves in our moments of doubt.

And better than those five stages, are two lines in a poem by Denise Levertov Grief is hole you walk around by day, and fall into at night. Proving, once again, that poets say it better than psychiatrists.

Much of the time Suzannah and I spent with Laura and Bob was as their guests. Studies show that we are all born we are either Host or a Guest. One reason we got

along so well is that she was the Perfect Host, and Suzannah and I try to be pretty good Guests. If I had an identifuing tattoo, it would say GUEST I’ll end with a short poem titled “The Guest.”

The Guest

I know the reason you placed nine white tulips in a glass vase with water in this room a few days ago was not to mark the passage of time as a fish would if nailed by the tail to the wall above the bed of a guest. But early this morning I did notice their heads were lowered in the grey light, two of them even touching the glass table top near the window, where you set them, the blossoms falling open as they lost their grip on themselves, and my suitcase only half unpacked by the door.

Billy Collins

Robert Reevess

I tend to write down things if there is wine involved, or if there is a possibility of weeping. Both conditions have been met. I should mention that Laura and I attended a few occasions like these-- too many, sadly enough -- and I used to share drafts of my memorial remarks with Laura. I promise you, Laura would have cut these by half.

Thank you, Vinnie, and Katie for use of this wonderful institution, a place so meaningful to Laura. And thanks to Alice, and Jane, and Sharon for planning this evening, and of course to all of you, Laura’s friends who are gathered here out of love for her. I’m grateful to be included.

I came to know Laura almost three decades ago (not nearly as many years as some of you have known her) when I was offered a chance to direct the Southampton Writers Conference. Laura had offered a grant from the Tomorrow Foundation, and the goal was to raise the national profile of the conference, to match the other great literary conferences of the days, Breadloaf and Sewanee. And within a year or two, working with Laura, we did just that. Laura was much more than a patron, of course -- a collaborator, a counselor of rare judgment, a behind-the-scenes builder of programs, a friend who would stand with you shoulder to shoulder. During those Conference summers, she became a legendary host, and it is impossible to overstate how adored she was among a vast community of renowned writers. Also, of course, there were many unknowns around, the point of the conference, after all, was to train young, aspiring writers. Laura had the gift of treating everyone – somebodies to nobodies-- with the same genuine interest and care.

A couple of years ago I started to assemble a record of conference history – a project still underway, which includes an interview with Laura. I quote a bit of that interview, to let you hear her voice as she speaks about the conference, about the glory days, and how much fun it was.

“There was so much laughter during the weeks in the summer. but it wasn’t practical joke laughter, it was the laughter born of similar sensibilities. And knowing people, knowing their soft spots and teasing perhaps, but gently. In particular, night after night, there was much laughter over who claimed the sunsets. The summers sunsets at Foon Dune were embarrassingly beautiful. They looked almost retouched. Curated. And Frank McCourt would always be the first to comment on their beauty, and Billy Collins would inevitably intervene – humorously, but not un-seriously – and say, ‘Sunsets are for the poets to name, Frank. You stick to your miserable childhood in Ireland. You may not comment on the sunsets.’ And for many summers that became a running gag.”

God help me, those were fun days. They already seemed bathed in the

warm glow of literary history. But the memory, beyond its charm, tells you something about Laura. She was entirely comfortable letting others have the stage. She could be – and this is a phrase I first heard from her and have used many times – she was able to be “one of many.” And for someone who could speak (as we know so well) with such insight and authority, it was all the more amazing she distinguished herself as a listener. She became your best, most attentive audience.

Permit me one more conference recollection that also tells us something about Laura. If she was comfortable being one of many, she was just comfortable being the one -- moving from the audience to the podium.

One summer I asked Laura to introduce an afternoon reading. As a few of you here still remember, in those days we went through a period of extravagant, over-the- top author introductions, mostly because there were wall to wall famous writers, and they were all introducing each other. -- E.L. Doctorow, Joyce Carol Oates, Amy Tan, Jules Feiffer, Nora Ephron, Margaret Atwood, and Melissa Bank, and Frank and Billy. It got to be quite competitive, out of control, so much so that the introductions were overshadowing the readings. The burden of preparing these intros became so heavy that writers were avoiding me.

So I turned to Laura, and as always, she stepped up. The author was Ted Solataroff, who had just published his memoir, Truth Comes in Blows. He was founder of the New American Review, lifelong friend and publisher of Philip Roth, but in those days, that distinguished resume would only earn you an afternoon slot, not a primetime reading.

And the reason for this long preliminary is to tell you this: I knew Laura would do a good job, that I could count on her, but I wasn’t expecting what happened. That afternoon in Duke Lecture, before that small-ish afternoon audience, our friend Laura Sillerman delivered the best account of a writer’s work and career– the smartest, most perceptive, most moving - that I had ever heard, and I’ve heard hundreds.

There was no video that afternoon, no audio recording, no record whatsoever of this moment of brilliance. What I do remember is that Ted Solataroff was so moved he couldn’t rise and come to the podium. He had to take a few moments to gather himself. Laura, a complete stranger to him until a few minutes before, actually brought him to tears. It was an astonishing moment.

And now these many years later, I continue to wonder how many other moments of unrecorded brilliance marked Laura’s life? Not just moments of her intelligence, but moments of generosity, of loyalty, of humility and selflessness, of surpassing kindness. We have all witnessed these moments, again and again, small and large, and we have all been the beneficiaries.

We are here to celebrate Laura’s life, as we should, and we will laugh as Laura would have wanted, but for so many of us there remains a haunting sadness that may never resolve itself. We are aware – how could we not be-- of the extraordinary suffering visited upon our beloved friend, suffering in so many realms of life, private and public. It was staggering. It was biblical. Job-like. But if Laura’s life was marked by tragedy, it was not defined by it. Undeserved suffering is not the takeaway.

For me, what I carry forward is the simple, startling example of her courage –the courage of her resilience, the courage of her complete absence of self-pity, the courage of her sheer endurance. That is the example I try to follow. If I ever find myself in unfavorable circumstances, if I am ever tempted, even for a moment, to curse my fate, to indulge in woe-is-me self-pity, I simply call to mind her example, and I try to summon her courage.

And that is one way, I think, we can honor and celebrate and even in some small way repay our friend Laura. We can simply summon the courage to carry on. Thank you.

Patricia McCormick

I first met Laura at her home on Meadow Lane at the annual cookout she hosted on the eve of the Southampton summer writers conference.

I know: calling a Laura Baudo Sillerman party a cookout is like calling a beef Wellington a meat loaf. Mountains of shrimp cocktail. Heaps of wagyu beef burgers. Waiters pouring fine French wines. And an elaborate dessert –homemade by Laura.

But that bounty wasn’t just Laura’s idea of hospitality – it was a reflection of her astounding generosity toward writers.

That day, I introduced myself to Laura, handing her a copy of my book. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, taking my face in her hands. “I know who you are. You’re a writer.” She swept a hand wide, gesturing to the spread. “That’s what all this is about. For you writers.”

What I didn’t know at the time: McKinley had died just days earlier. That was Laura. Both gracious and stalwart in a moment of unimaginable pain.

I knew then that Laura LOVED writers. What I didn’t know: Laura WAS a writer.

And while I’m honored to speak today about her writing, I’m also aware that there’s a way in which Laura would HATE this kind of attention to her work.

She was deeply, deeply private about her writing.

And yet, after that cookout, she and I and three other women – Melissa Bank, Laura Stein and Magdalene Brandeis – met for years as a writers’ group, with Laura sharing pages of unbelievable beauty and ferocity.

We called ourselves the Log Cabin Women – in honor of Missy’s little log cabin on Long Island – where we sat on rickety rockers on the porch – or, in the winters, inside at a farm table – each session a sisterhood of honesty and rigor, critique and care.

It was often painful to read Laura’s work. She drew on her experiences of loss – and I would argue no one has known more loss than Laura – with ferocious integrity and dedication to craft.

Some of her sentences had an intricate, lattice-like beauty.

Some had the rugged opacity of an oyster shell, protecting the pearl within.

Some were long, looping ellipses of logic that finally detonated with a boom.

Some had the hard sheen of a freshly waxed Jersey hot rod.

But all of them - informed by her intelligence, her wit, her compassion – her rage – her grief and her wisdom – had the strength of tempered steel.

Her pages often felt that as if they were still hot to the touch, scorching in the truths they told.

As the members of her critique group, our main role was to be in awe.

In awe, not as much of the woman who’d survived those experiences, as in awe of the writer who wrestled those experiences into art - into something that lived on the page.

Our other job, most often, was to suggest that she show herself the compassion she so freely gave to others, to give herself some of that love she had for other writers.

People who knew and loved Laura often wondered how she survived a life so often drenched in pain.

I do not know. I don’t know what stores of resilience – or sheer Jersey Girl stubbornness – she had.

But I like to think that Laura was following the advice of that great philosopher Mr. Rogers – who said that what is mentionable is manageable. In other words, what can be talked about – or written about – can be borne.

And I think that one of the ways Laura bore up under the unbearable was through her writing.

Which is not to say her writing was therapy.

Far from it. Much like tempered steel, which is heated nearly to its breaking point until its essential properties are changed into something new, something much more durable -- Laura took her life and fired it into words of uncompromising strength.

Swords are often made of tempered steel – not just because the process makes the metal stronger, it also makes it more flexible – which is why a sword can absorb an impact and bend back into shape.

Tempering also allows the blade to retain its edge and cutting power.

To me, Laura’s work is most like a sword – at least in the Buddhist sense.

To Buddhists, the sword symbolizes the power and authority to cut through the darkness.

To do battle with conflicting emotions. It represents courage, justice and transformation.

That is Laura’s work. A mighty sword, wielded well and wisely.

The last time I saw Laura I didn’t know it would be the last time. We’d made a date to visit Melissa’s grave. And Laura, in her true fashion, had a gift for Missy. She’d bought a miniature log cabin, a toy about the size of a box of index cards, to place at the grave.

She could have brought anything; she chose a totem of our writing sorority, the Log Cabin Women.

Laura was giddy as we hid the little cabin in the crook of a tree near the grave.

She was also shaking, almost uncontrollably. It was a cool day, but that’s not why her body was reacting to the moment. I put my arm around her – which wasn’t something I often did with Laura, the formidable and independent Laura. It felt good, in that small moment, to give comfort to her, to the woman who resisted giving it to herself in her writing.

Then we drove over to the actual Log Cabin.

Laura had a second toy cabin she planned to hide in near the porch where we’d sat on those rickety rockers, discussing our pages, for so many years.

But it turned out the cabin was occupied. We made a date, Laura and me, to return to the cabin in a month’s time, in the hopes that the tenant would be gone by then. And now it turns out that it’s Laura who’s gone.

Laura, dear Laura. I hope to visit you someday, at your resting place in Massachusetts and leave that little cabin at your graveside, in honor, my friend, of the writer you were.

Vinny Dotoli

Thanks Abby, Billy, Patty, and Bob. I’m Vinny Dotoli, the founding head here at Harlem Academy, and want to close with a couple thoughts -

The first is to add a bit of context to why we’re gathered here, in an elementary school library to celebrate the life of someone who threw the best parties. I mean - a tiny stage, nowhere to sit, and 145th street during rush hour is not exactly convenient for most folks.

It’s because Laura spent the last 20 years making Harlem Academy the most transformational school it could be - and bringing this building to reality. She wanted to ensure it was and remains a special place where bright, motivated kids from all backgrounds can come to learn and grow. Hopefully you saw a bit of that on the way in and even consider ways to engage on your own.

Over the four years since we opened the building, Laura and I discussed a few ideas for how we could honor her impact… But, she always pushed off the decision, wanting to somehow find a way to center what was accomplished over the who or how of the accomplishment. Then one evening last year, after she had joined me and a bunch of middle school parents for a simple but powerful poetry reading, we sat at a table in the back of this room and struck on a plan.

The beautiful space outside our library will always be known as The Poets Terrace. You can look to the plaque affixed to the school to see a triple-loop infinity symbol. She chose this symbol for its own poetry, the conjuring of mathematicians, ancient philosophers, the universe, and most powerfully for the way our impact on each other and the world ripples through space and time. The triple loop represents not just Laura, but also Bob and Mackinley, whose drive and spirit were always woven into our work together.

During our second hour, I hope you spend time on the terrace. It’s a wonderful place to remember Laura. Plus, you can read poems written by our students over the years intermixed with pieces written or shared by some of you and Laura’s other friends in celebration of her life.

I hope you also step back into the main section of the school to visit our Kindergarten classroom, where there’s a slide show of the photos you all sent capturing memories with Laura through the years. There’s even a station where you can voice record a quick story that will be shared along with the photos and poems in the next few weeks…

Finally, in thinking of Laura, I’m reminded of what my wife Traci said when we first heard she had died. “I am so sorry for the hole you must be feeling - that loss of a voice that heard you, and spoke with you, in a way that was different from any other…”

In the lead up to this celebration, it’s been so clear how many folks are wrestling with that same kind of hole. It’s something we just have to acknowledge and sit with, knowing we can’t bring her back, and we sure as hell can’t replace her. However, we can hold the collective responsibility to emulate the powerful ways she connected with each of us… I think Laura would like that.

Let’s finish with a quiet pause to reflect and breathe in the memories that bring smiles to our faces and that we want to carry forward. Then, as we have a toast and the music kicks back in with our wonderful steel drummer (a Laura request) playing a song dear to her heart (One Love), we can share more memories and continue the celebration … A moment of silence to Laura. And a toast to our friend.

Laura Baudo Sillerman Scholarship Fund Contributors

The Laura Baudo Sillerman Scholarship Fund honors the immeasurable difference Laura has made at Harlem Academy. Since the school’s founding, Laura has been dedicated to the strongest realization of the mission, making the school a philanthropic priority and continuously helping to fulfill the needs of students.

Ronald and Josephine Allen

Bijan Amini

Anonymous

Warren Benjamin

Scott Campbell

Jay Harris and Marcia Cohen

Eve and Simon Colin Foundation

Ronald Delsener

Lisa DiMaulo

Todd Dimston

Rose Dios

Roxanne Donovan

Traci Schwinn and Vinny Dotoli

Dyson Foundation

Jane and Victor Finalborgo

Alice Flynn

Carol Gilbert

Melinda Gould

Lucia and David Greenhouse

Linda T. Haesche

Jeremy Raccio and Sadia Halim

Valarie Amanda Hing

Karen Huebner

Micheline and Christopher Jedrey

List in formation

Mrs. Judy Katz

Andrew Kreig

Mr. and Mrs. Irwin Kruger

Georgeanne Kumar

Kelly Levy

Ann Maloney

Karyn and Bruce McGowin

Janet Muir

David B. Peterson

Alice Quinn

Jane Rascoff

Linda Rothschild

Colleen Caslin Schmit

Faith Hampton Childs and Harris

Schrank

Ms. Beverly E. Schwartz

Edward Simon

Silda Wall Spitzer

Katie Steinbach

Chef Bobo Surles

Sandra Theunick

Lizabeth B. Weaver

Catherine D. Wood

Patty Young

Your generosity drives our mission.

harlemacademy.org/laura-baudo-sillerman-scholarship-fund

Poems and Other Words for Laura and from Laura

These words were submitted by Laura’s dearest friends and family members. You will see original works, poems that remind us of Laura, fond memories and favorite things, and Laura’s own poignant words of encouragement.

submitted by bijan amini & silda wall spitzer: High Tide in Tucson: Essays from Now or Never

“Every one of us is called upon, probably many times, to start a new life. A frightening diagnosis, a marriage, a move, loss of a job or a limb or a loved one, a graduation, bringing a new baby home: it’s impossible to think at first how this all will be possible. Eventually, what moves it all forward is the subterranean ebb and flow of being alive among the living.

In my own worst seasons I’ve come back from the colorless world of despair by forcing myself to look hard, for a long time, at a single glorious thing: a flame of red geranium outside my bedroom window. And then another: my daughter in a yellow dress. And another: the perfect outline of a full, dark sphere behind the crescent moon. Until I learned to be in love with my life again. Like a stroke victim retraining new parts of the brain to grasp lost skills, I have taught myself joy, over and over again.

It’s not such a wide gulf to cross, then, from survival to poetry. We hold fast to the old passions of endurance that buckle and crack beneath us, dovetailed, tight as a good wooden boat to carry us onward, And onward full tilt we go, pitched and wrecked and absurdly resolute, driven in spite of everything to make good on a new shore. To be hopeful, to embrace one possibility after another-that is surely the basic instinct. Baser even than hate, the thing with teeth, which can be stilled with a tone of voice or stunned by beauty. If the whole world of the living has to turn on a single point of remaining alive, that pointed endurance is the poetry of hope. The thing with feathers.

What a stroke of luck. What a singular brute feat of outrageous fortune: to be born to citizenship in the Animal Kingdom. We love and we lose, go back up to the start and do it right over again. For every forebrain solemnly cataloging the facts of a harsh landscape, there’s a rush of intuition behind it crying out: High tide: Time to move out into the glorious debris. Time to take this life for what it is.”

- Barbara Kingsolver

submitted by scott campbell:

It is not the ones who throw roses

On your grave

Who realize your life didn’t die

It’s the ones

You rode with on the roller coaster, Who you made love with,

It’s the children who learned from you

To laugh exactly the way you do...

They are where

Your life went.

- Joseph Pintauro

submitted by jane finalborgo:

Instructions on Not Giving Up

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees that really gets to me. When all the shock of white and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath, the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin growing over whatever winter did to us, a return to the strange idea of continuous living despite the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then, I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

-Ada Limón

submitted by bernice fischman:

There are Stars

There are stars whose radiance is visible on Earth though they have long been extinct.

There are people whose brilliance continues to light the world even though they are no longer among the living.

These lights are particularly bright when the night is dark. They light the way for humankind.

- Hannah Senesh

submitted by chelsea

fischman:

When I was going through a tough time about 12 years ago, Laura wrote in an email “We will race the sun until we are in its light again” and it has stuck with me ever since. I’ve often contemplated getting it tattooed somewhere.

Laura always loved her IPAs! Especially Lunch IPA from Maine Beer Company. I fondly remember the time she helped me flirt with a cute waiter at Quatorze Bis on E. 82nd St. She was always down to have a bit of fun!

And she was the one who gifted me a copy of Sweetbitter by Stephanie Danler many years ago. Laura was the reason I started working in restaurants at age 19, and reading that book made me reminisce about the insanely fun (and terrible) times I had in my 20s working in bars and restaurants in NYC.

In Praise of Mystery: A Poem for Europa

Arching under the night sky inky with black expansiveness, we point to the planets we know, we

pin quick wishes on stars. From earth, we read the sky as if it is an unerring book of the universe, expert and evident.

Still, there are mysteries below our sky: the whale song, the songbird singing its call in the bough of a wind-shaken tree.

We are creatures of constant awe, curious at beauty, at leaf and blossom, at grief and pleasure, sun and shadow.

And it is not darkness that unites us, not the cold distance of space, but the offering of water, each drop of rain,

each rivulet, each pulse, each vein. O second moon, we, too, are made of water, of vast and beckoning seas.

We, too, are made of wonders, of great and ordinary loves, of small invisible worlds, of a need to call out through the dark.

-Ada Limón

by carol gilbert:

The Laura Factor

If you know Laura Baudo Sillerman, you have experienced The Laura Factor.

As we know, she knows a lot about a lot. And she remembers everything—the facts, their significance, to whom they matter, and why.

When we are playing one of the parlor games, of which she is so fond, we do well to consider The Laura Factor.

Playing charades? You want The Laura Factor on your team. If she’s not on your team, it’s important to note that the Laura Factor is on the other team. Doing the crossword? The Laura Factor will get it done.

When driving in two cars, choose the one that has The Laura Factor. Better yet, let The Factor drive.

The Laura Factor is portable and telepathic. She herself need not be present to be helpful. When I’m at a crossroads, on the horns of a dilemma, dithering, procrastinating, fulminating, I think, “What would Laura do?” and I factor it in. The Factor was cultivated at Marietta College, and now has influence world-wide.

Let us celebrate The Factor, which is in this very room, at this very moment.

Raise your glass, and may the Factor be with you.

- Carol Gilbert

submitted by lucia greenhouse:

There are too many to list. Laura was the consummate curator. One thing she did not like though, are Paperwhite Narcissus (flowers.) The smell. I always smile and forever will when I encounter them.

submitted by martha hand:

The positive impact Laura had on others can’t be described in simplistic terms--it was so much deeper! Yet I think Laura enjoyed simplicity, so my sentiments today will be just that.

These words capture for me a small part of the boundless grace, generosity, aweinspiring strength of character and beautiful spirit of Laura:

Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some people move our souls to dance. They awaken us to a new understanding with the passing whisper of their wisdom.

Some people make the sky more beautiful to gaze upon. They stay in our lives for a while, leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never, ever, the same.

So it is with Laura to all those who knew her. Rest peacefully, dear friend. You are missed and your cherished memory is with us always.

submitted by karl kirchwey:

An Estate

The swimming pool appears to lack one edge. Water strains gently at its own meniscus and overflows the blue slate to allege to the god of boundaries that there are no boundaries.

The bathhouse is a fane of Alaskan cedar, a virgin forest marked out and consumed, all for the delight of a Japanese master, and without the use of a single nail.

A Brahms quintet leaks from the undergrowth around each supine body and beaded drink. She leads us through a blushing sandstone labyrinth, flanking inducements of the sybaritic

to stoop gracefully where a cliff swallow lies motionless, small stunned voluptuary, in noon’s thin margin of glass and shadow; and though she leaves for Anguilla on Tuesday, pelagic traveler, to her alone (not to a guest whom privilege makes passive) it falls to cup that body’s buff and cinnamon and raise it to us, ruffled and alive.

i.m. Laura Baudo Sillerman (1947-2024)

- Karl Kirchwey

submitted by lisa

lebowitz kiss:

Laura’s gift of bringing the most interesting, soulful, and loving people together is not lost on anyone in attendance here. We used to have long talks about whether we were old or young souls, over cocktails (she turned me onto side cars, which she made very strong!) Of course Laura was an OLD SOUL. Not just in how generous, honest, empathic & loving she was to everyone, but in the epic swings Laura encountered in her life with such strength and grace. A rare soul indeed, there is no way anyone could have lived that life with the tenderness and grace she did without this being one of many rounds of being here. How lucky we all are to have known & loved her. I still speak to you Laura on many nights as I fall asleep. I thank you for all the soulful conversations and letters we shared over the past 34 years. My dearest wish is that you are seeing your dearest loves again and are at peace wherever that may be. Sending all my love to you now and forever. xxxooo L

submitted by: earle

maiman Friendship

Oh, the comfort— the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person— having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all right out, just as they are, chaff and grain together; certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then with the breath of kindness blow the rest away.

- Dinah Maria Craik (1826-87)

submitted by carol muske-dukes:

I remember her poem called “The Nature of Wealth”, ending With a child holding fast to her Grandfather’s trembling hand.

I sat next to her in the helicopter Rising over Manhattan. Sat next to her On the subway, next to her at the theater

The night her child was lost forever. She Never stopped mourning but still entered Rooms in polite distraction, her expression

Half-intent on dialogues that often ended in Pleas for help. She refused the maudlin, She waited for each power beam of the Lighthouse, like Mrs. Ramsay, to illuminate,

As she wrote to me, at The End, “I am, at long last, On speaking terms with uncertainty. Miracles do happen.”

Bravery was her uncertain miracle. I remember Her once, her face flushed at the end of our long windy Beach walk, as her big dog Sandy came galloping up -

“He rockets through the electric fence just to get to Us” she laughed. “He’s willing to take the hit to be free.” She was free, taking the hit, she didn’t hesitate in the Lighthouse power beam. In clarity’s pain, she kept coming.

- Carol Muske-Dukes

I loved Laura, as so many of us did. I knew her through spectacular ascendancy and tragic downturn but her dignity and compassion never left her, even at her darkest. Her soul, her spirit survives here at Harlem Academy.

submitted by jerrilyn petito:

Laura was born in Paterson, NJ surrounded by her loving parents, doting grandparents, adoring aunts, uncles and cousins. She was our beacon of light and today, as we deal with her loss, her wisdom, generosity, courage and love continue to guide us.

submitted by mark petito:

Laura loved a good IPA. Specifically Sip of Sunshine

Silent hope hiding deep in the recesses of the soul, waiting in the wings for the world to turn, not afraid to give and take from life as a whole, standing aside knowing there is something to learn.

Waiting in the wings for the world to turn, I patiently stare at the people flowing by. Standing aside knowing there is something to learn, counting on the truth of the inevitable reply.

I patiently stare at the people flowing by, not afraid to give and take from life as a whole, counting on the truth of the inevitable reply (silent hope hiding deep in the recesses of the soul).

- Mackinley Sillerman (written in 2008)

submitted by siobhan roche:

Laura was the most wonderful keeper of traditions and had this magical ability to make everyday things feel special. There was always an element of ceremonywith every detail and accoutrement carefully thought of. At Thanksgiving, it was the corn soufflé and round table ask of what we’re grateful for, the Friday pizza night with Nick in his personalized chef coat or post Turkey poker complete with Big Joe’s bucket hat and “follow the queen”. If someone mentioned a hankering for crabs, up from Maryland they would come with mallets, newspaper, bibs and IPAs. These seemingly little things showed me how much she cared for those around her and how loved and connected we all felt under her watch. Her commitment to keep traditions (and make new ones along the way) is one of Laura’s many amazing qualities I hope to continue in her memory.

submitted by scott

stebbins:

A Note from Laura

Dear, dear Scott,

Despite the long preparation and even with the presence of blessed relief, you so deserve the condolences that come with knowing you were a singular companion to your mother as she patiently endured her path to moving on.

These past months must look like a fever dream-- the sameness, the conversations, the quotidian tasks and devotions. They look like luck, too, Scott. A cementing of ancestry and place, and a perfect rebirth into your own life.

There seems to be much mystery in how she could have stayed so long after December and how she could have come so close to her 95th without interfering with your June 14 departure. Of course there is. Such love as you manifested brings much mystery with it.

I hope you have enormous peace on this day and are visited by the joy of knowing you embodied a son’s feelings of duty and undeniable connection. I hope if there is any grief it is easily processed and set aside. Above all, I hope you know you were that rarest of all human experiences -- perfect, and can take that knowledge into the glorious imperfect days, months, and years to come.

With such love, Laura

Blessings the Boat

(at St. Mary’s)

may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our understanding carry you out beyond the face of fear may you kiss the wind then turn from it certain that it will love your back may you open your eyes to water water waving forever and may you in your innocence sail through this to that

- Lucille Clifton (1936 - 2010)

Thank you

We extend a deep appreciation to Alice Flynn, Bernice Fischman, Jane Finalborgo, Sharon Roberts, and Todd Dimston who gave their time and effort to ensure today’s celebration honored Laura in the best possible way.

Songs for Laura

Bridge Over Troubled Water

Simon & Garfunkel

Harvest Moon

Neil Young

Having a Party

Lee “Scratch” Perry

Il Cielo In Una Stanza

Mina

Imagine

John Lennon

In My Life

The Beatles

Oh When The Saints Go Marching In

Louis Armstrong

One Love

Bob Marley & The Wailers

Ripple

Grateful Dead

Sweet Blindness

The 5th Dimension

Urge for Going

Tom Rush

Paul Simon