Richard Kent Smith – 50th Reunion Essay

Richard Kent Smith

26 Abbott Lane

Wilton, Connecticut 06897

richard.kent.smith@gmail.com

Spouse(s): Vivien Orbach-Smith (1982)

Child(ren): Tahlia (Orbach-Smith) Tartakovsky (1984); Arielle (Orbach-Smith) Tartakovsky (1987); Jacob Orbach-Smith (1991).

Grandchild(ren): Margot Rivkah Tartakovsky (2014); Nava Daisy Tartakovsky (2016); Eliezer (“Lazer”) Irving Leva (2017).

Education: Yale College, BA (Anthropology), 1975

National Service: VISTA (Volunteers in Service of America), 1967–’68

Career: Principal, W.R.T. Smith Builders, Inc., general contractor in residential, commercial and institutional construction, specializing in historical restorations throughout Fairfield and Westchester counties (1980–’97); Site Supervisor of high-end residential construction for leading contractors in the New York metropolitan area (1997–present)

Avocations: Avid reader of French/Spanish/English literature; explorer of the natural world and urban settings; Yankee-carpenter-Jew/Marxist global-thinker; ever-proud and curious about the doings of my delightful wife, and our three children, their partners and their offspring (all also delightful).

College: Ezra Stiles

Last night: I brought supper to my 95-year-old mother, Daisy, as I do every Saturday. She lives 300 yards from my house. The neighborhood nicknamed Smithville is where I’ve resided nearly all my life. Decades ago, my father, carpenter/contractor Walter Smith (d. 2015), bought building lots in our Connecticut town. Thanks to his gift of land, three of my four siblings and I were able to raise our own children here too. It wasn’t just the land. Our parents’ deep love for each other, their decency and humility, made it easy to stay.

Forty years ago: I became a Jew, a complex, ever-evolving journey. Being a left-labor-socialist pre- and post-dated my religious conversion. As such, my Judaism ever-increasingly leans in the Spinoza/Sanders direction, given the rightward bent taken by many religious-groups nowadays.

Thirty-six years ago: I married the beautiful, droll Vivien Orbach, a writer/teacher. She remains my avatar of loving-kindness. Just as my father taught me how to build a house, her father—Larry Orbach (d. 2008)—taught me about building an exuberant Jewish life. As a teenager in Berlin he was captured by the Nazis, who failed to eliminate him in Auschwitz. He emigrated to the USA, married (Ruth, d. 1999), and prospered. Vivien coauthored his saga, recently reissued as Young Lothar.

Our children grew up in an atmosphere of Yiddishkeit, Yankee pragmatism, and ribald humor. All treasured Smithville but none remain (and inevitably, we’ll join them one day). Daughters and husbands are well-settled in San Francisco: Tahlia (Joseph Tartakovsky), a nurse, currently home with little Margot and Nava; Arielle (Darren Leva), a recruiter, mother of Lazer. Our youngest, Jacob, and girlfriend Becky Young, live and work in Chicago. We’re proud of them, miss their lively presences, and delight in the magic of FaceTime.

Daily: I commute to Manhattan and oversee high-end construction/renovation projects for the world’s “0.5 Percent.” As the onsite supervisor, I maintain high quality, safety, and decorum. My crews are mostly young immigrants from at least 20 different home countries. Most days I speak more Spanish than English. (My Polish, Vietnamese, and Tibetan are drastically more limited.)

Yale was but one factor that made me a study in contrasts: that guy in work boots on the rush-hour train, eating a kosher knish and reading Proust in French. My tenure as a student was episodic; not until 1975 did I graduate. My university education began, in part, as a draft-dodge. In 1967–68 I left to become a VISTA volunteer in eastern Kentucky. Notwithstanding a lucky draw in 1969’s lottery, I dedicated the next several years to “experiential” learning: cross-country hitchhiking and construction work, six months in Colombia, and a brief first marriage. Returning to Yale, that final year especially, sharpened intellectual and linguistic tools that continue to carve my path.

Perennially: by nature and nurture, I remain a happy magpie observer of our species. From Yale, too, came a sense of humility—acquired early in our freshman year—that I was not the smartest boy in the room. That, and a lesson (alas) not always heeded: “Shut up and listen, fella—you might learn something.”