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He would occasionally ride his bicycle and visit with a bag full of tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers from his garden on the other side of Lewis Mountain. John was a friend of mine—a poet and a scientist. I miss John Herr, and I made this film. PLAY MOVIE From John, I learned that there is poetry in science. He knew how to look into unicellular organisms as a lover looks into the eyes of another. We fished together on the Shenandoah River, floated other waters, and, yes, we also made films. What I’m sharing today is a small token of that collaboration. I miss John—and you should too. He was devoted to science, and his discoveries made life better for us all.

Heritage Film Project to Attend MIPCOM 2025 in October We’re thrilled to share some exciting news: Heritage Film Project will be attending MIPCOM 2025 , the world’s leading event in the global broadcast and television industry, held this October in Cannes, France. Le Palais des Festivals et des Congrès de Cannes This opportunity—to showcase our documentaries on an international stage—would not have been possible without the unwavering support of our friends, patrons, and philanthropic partners. We are especially grateful to The Morris and Alma Schapiro Fund , and The Joseph and Robert Cornell Memorial Foundation , whose early and steadfast belief in our mission made it possible to tell powerful stories of American art, identity, and history— free of charge to students and the public at academic and public libraries across the country . Now, thanks to your continued support, we’re ready to take the next step: bringing these uniquely American stories to audiences around the world. Bringing American Voices to Cannes: At MIPCOM, we’ve already scheduled meetings with potential partners from Asia, Europe, and Africa who are eager to share the personal and creative journeys of some of the remarkable individuals we’ve documented—figures like legendary choral composer Alice Parker , The Other Madisons author Bettye Kearse , and renowned sculptor Joy Brown . Our films also explore the lives of Virginia painter John Borden Evans , American sculptor Daniel Chester French , Attilio Piccirilli —master carver of the Lincoln Memorial—19th-century composer George Bristow , and Louis Comfort Tiffany , whose luminous creations helped define American decorative arts at the turn of the 20th century. These and many others help illuminate the diverse and often overlooked fabric of the American experience. We’re proud to represent in Cannes, a production model built on philanthropic collaboration and a commitment to making these stories freely available to students and the public through academic and public libraries. We look forward to sharing updates from Cannes, including reflections on our meetings and exciting news about emerging international collaborations. For those who wish to stay connected, our mailing list and Instagram offer a window into the journey ahead. We invite you to follow along—and to be part of the unfolding story.

Cortázar Without a Beard: A Partial Biography A Review of the Book by Eduardo Montes-Bradley Originally by Joaquin Marco, Barcelona, October 23, 2014. “Written with intelligent humor, a fine style, a clear structure, brisk narration, and full of details, it breaks some molds of the genre—not only in what it reveals about the young Cortázar and his family, but also through Eduardo Montes-Bradley’s informal, demystifying, and warm tone.” The tone is clear from the very first lines: Eduardo Montes-Bradley introduces himself, situates the book, and makes his position as biographer explicit. It’s an unexpected opening, even disarming—almost conversational in nature. Yet this tone not only persists throughout but becomes a virtue. This incomplete biography achieves what it sets out to do: it presents a portrait of Cortázar during the early part of his life, up until his first return to Europe. It also explores the lives of his ancestors. Montes-Bradley brings Cortázar down from his pedestal—not to diminish him, but to humanize him. He does so with respectful irreverence, something that, judging by his letters and interviews, Cortázar himself might have appreciated. “Biographies like this are rarely written anymore… Biographers like Richard Ellmann are gone, and no foundations empty their piggy banks to finance studies like this one.” Instead of offering a quick, digestible, and superficial overview like so many mini-biographies do, Cortázar sin barba explores nuances. Montes-Bradley goes beyond the myth to uncover the man behind the literary figure. He highlights his physical appearance, his obsessions, his reading preferences, and his character traits. He examines Cortázar’s upbringing, focusing in particular on the absence of the father figure and the overwhelming presence of his mother—an influence that persisted well into adulthood. All of this is done with a tone that borders on the psychological, though never clinical. Perhaps the most striking aspect of the book is its refusal to conform to the conventional form of literary biography. This is not a dense academic tome nor a sensationalist retelling. Instead, it blends meticulous research with a personal voice and a touch of humor—elements that make the work both enjoyable and enlightening.

Watch as many films as you want from our Kanopy Collection Discover the World of Documentaries The Documentary Film Fund invites you to explore a specially curated selection of documentary films. These films are now available for free streaming with your public library card or university login at Kanopy.com . You can watch at your own pace. Whether you choose to enjoy one film or multiple films in one sitting, there’s something for everyone. These compelling stories of resilience, creativity, and historical reckoning unfold from Brazil to Virginia and Buenos Aires to the Bronx. The opportunity to watch these films is made possible by generous support from cultural institutions and individuals like you. These films serve as an invitation—to reflect, connect, and share in the narratives that continue to shape our communities. Share With Friends the Gift of Documentaries Feel free to share this invitation with friends and colleagues who may have a similar interest in documentaries. If you’d like to discuss the films, I’ll be making myself available this summer. I encourage you to send your questions or reflections about these stories and the people behind them. Let the conversation begin! — Eduardo Montes-Bradley Login now with your public library card or university login at Kanopy.com Engaging Documentary Topics Documentaries cover a wide range of topics, showcasing various cultures, important historical events, and social issues. By watching these films, you can gain insights into different perspectives and stories. Each film allows you to step into someone else's shoes—even if just for a moment. A Conversation Starter These documentaries can act as conversation starters. Discussing the topics and themes presented can strengthen your relationships with friends and colleagues. Sharing your thoughts and insights can lead to engaging conversations and open up new perspectives. Discovering these powerful stories together can be an enriching experience. Film Recommendations from Kanopy Consider watching some of these featured documentaries: “Rita Dove” - A profile of the renowned poet and her work. “Evita” - A deep dive into the life of Eva Perón, the iconic Argentine leader. “Black Fiddlers” - Exploring the history and influence of black musicians. “The Other Madisons” - A documentary that re-examines Thomas Jefferson's legacy. These films are just a small sample of what the Kanopy platform offers. Each one presents a unique perspective on societal issues, individual stories, and historical events. ACCESS THE FILMS NOW!

How America’s ideological refugees have found sanctuary in Russia across nearly a century—first fleeing conservatism, now fleeing progressivism East and West, the ongoing romance In the summer of 2024, the Hare family from Canada made headlines when Russia granted them temporary refugee status. Their story seemed almost surreal: North Americans fleeing to Putin’s Russia, citing persecution for their conservative Christian values. But this narrative of Americans seeking sanctuary in Russia isn’t new—it’s simply the latest chapter in a nearly century-long pattern of ideological migration between these two nations. What makes this moment so fascinating isn’t just that Americans are moving to Russia, but that they’re doing so for precisely the opposite reasons their predecessors did in the 1930s and 1940s. Where once African American workers and leftist intellectuals fled to the Soviet Union seeking progressive ideals, today’s migrants are evangelical families and conservative traditionalists fleeing what they perceive as America’s progressive overreach. The First Wave: Seeking the Promise of Equality The 1930s marked the beginning of a remarkable migration of African Americans to the Soviet Union. Langston Hughes, Paul Robeson, Claude McKay, and other prominent Black intellectuals and artists traveled to what they hoped would be a “raceless” society. But it wasn’t just the famous who made this journey. Ordinary workers like Robert Robinson, a skilled engineer and the only person of color among Ford’s recruits when the company sold assembly lines to the USSR, represented hundreds of African Americans who saw the Soviet Union as an escape from Jim Crow America. An extraordinary account of a unique experience A perfect complement to the previous mentioned book by Robinson The appeal was obvious: while America enforced racial segregation and economic inequality, the Soviet Union marketed itself as a workers’ paradise free from capitalist exploitation and racial prejudice. For Black Americans facing lynching, disenfranchisement, and systematic exclusion from economic opportunity, Stalin’s Russia offered something their own country denied them—the promise of dignity and equality. The Communist Party USA actively recruited African Americans, promoting the Soviet Union as a beacon of racial progress. Soviet propaganda featured Black Americans prominently, showcasing them as proof of socialism’s superiority over capitalist racism. The message was clear: America had failed its Black citizens, but the Soviet Union welcomed them with open arms. The Historical Irony The cruel irony, of course, was that many of these migrants discovered that Soviet reality rarely matched Soviet promise. The raceless society they sought often proved to be another form of inequality, with different but equally oppressive systems of control. Some, like Robert Robinson, found themselves trapped for decades, unable to leave even when they wanted to return home. Yet their migration represented something profound about American society: the persistent gap between American ideals and American reality. These were Americans who believed so deeply in the principles of equality and justice that they were willing to abandon their homeland when it failed to live up to those principles. The Contemporary Reversal Fast-forward to 2024, and we see a mirror image of this migration pattern. Conservative American families are now fleeing to Russia, but this time they’re running from what they perceive as America’s excessive progressivism rather than its conservatism. Vladimir Putin has skillfully positioned Russia as a sanctuary for “traditional values,” signing decrees that allow foreign citizens to apply for temporary residency if they share “traditional Russian spiritual and moral values.” The Hare family’s story exemplifies this new wave. They claim persecution for their conservative Christian beliefs, citing concerns about LGBTQ+ rights, vaccination mandates, and progressive education policies. Where their 1930s predecessors fled American conservatism for Soviet progressivism, today’s migrants flee American progressivism for Russian conservatism. This reversal reveals Putin’s geopolitical genius. Where Stalin marketed the Soviet Union as progressive and egalitarian, Putin markets Russia as traditional and spiritually pure. Both leaders understood that America’s internal tensions create opportunities for rival powers to position themselves as havens for disaffected Americans. The Persistent American Paradox What remains constant across both waves is the underlying American paradox: the country’s inability to reconcile its competing visions of itself. The 1930s migrants fled an America that failed to live up to its egalitarian promises. Today’s migrants flee an America that they believe has abandoned its traditional foundations. Both groups represent Americans who became so disillusioned with their country’s direction that they were willing to project their ideals onto foreign lands rather than work to realize them at home. This pattern suggests something deeper about American political culture—its tendency toward extremes, its difficulty finding middle ground, and its citizens’ willingness to seek elsewhere what they cannot find domestically. The destinations may have swapped political poles, but the underlying dynamic remains the same: Americans fleeing to Russia when they perceive their homeland as fundamentally at odds with their values. The Broader Implications This historical parallel illuminates several troubling aspects of contemporary American politics. First, it reveals how foreign powers can exploit American internal divisions for their own strategic purposes. Putin’s embrace of conservative American refugees serves the same propaganda function that Stalin’s embrace of African American migrants once did—it allows a rival power to position itself as more aligned with American values than America itself. Second, it highlights the extent to which American political discourse has become polarized. When citizens feel compelled to seek refuge in authoritarian states rather than engage in democratic processes at home, it suggests a breakdown in the social contract that binds diverse populations together. Finally, it raises questions about the sustainability of American democracy when significant portions of the population view their fellow citizens as existential threats rather than fellow Americans with different perspectives. A Nation in Search of Itself The irony of Americans fleeing to Russia—first as progressives, now as conservatives—reveals a nation perpetually in search of its authentic self. Both waves of migration represent Americans who believed so deeply in their vision of what America should be that they were willing to abandon it when it failed to match that vision. Perhaps the real lesson isn’t about Russia at all, but about America’s ongoing struggle to live up to its own ideals while remaining true to its diverse population. The fact that Americans continue to seek elsewhere what they cannot find at home suggests that the American experiment in democratic pluralism remains very much a work in progress. The great American exodus to Russia—in both directions—serves as a mirror reflecting our nation’s deepest tensions and unresolved contradictions. Until America can reconcile its competing visions of itself, its citizens will continue to seek refuge in foreign lands that promise to deliver what their homeland cannot or will not provide. The question isn’t whether America will continue to produce ideological refugees, but whether it will ever develop the capacity to welcome them home.

George Frederick Bristow was born in Brooklyn in 1825, the first of his family to enter the world as a citizen of the United States. His birth marked a turning point not only for the Bristows, who had only recently arrived from England, but for the burgeoning cultural fabric of Brooklyn Village itself—then still a patchwork of cobbled streets, clapboard houses, and ambitious dreams. Francis Guy's “Winter Scene in Brooklyn” (1819-1820) Notes for a documentary film on George F. Bristow The Bristows had not come in pursuit of riches but perhaps something far more elusive: opportunity. His grandfather, Thomas Bristow, a laborer by trade, appears in the Brooklyn directory of 1822 as one of the neighborhood’s working-class settlers. At his side stood William Richard Bristow, Thomas’s son and George’s father, a musician whose presence is already noted in a local Fourth of July concert as early as 1823, listed simply as “Leader of the band, Mr. Bristow.” By then, Brooklyn was stirring with civic pride, celebrating not only Independence Day but its own identity, newly affirmed by a municipal charter. In the beginning: Brooklyn William Bristow’s decision to transplant his family across the Atlantic may have been rooted in economic uncertainty or familial connection—records hint at ties with the Vernon family, fellow Sussex emigrants who had already found footing in New York. Whatever the motivation, the move reflected the rhythms of change then sweeping across both sides of the ocean. England’s industrial revolution was displacing thousands, while America’s packet ships brought ever-growing waves of immigrants to its ports. For the Bristows, music offered a path forward in the new world. . A view of Brooklyn Heights circa 1852 In Brooklyn Village, cultural life was still in its infancy. Yet military bands played in gardens like Duflon’s, the few sites then available for public musical events. Theaters were sparse, but community gatherings were plentiful, and even in the modest dwellings near Main Street, sounds of fiddles and fifes, hymns and marches, filled the air. It was here, amid the wooden piers and shipyards, in a town just learning how to define itself, that George was born. Though still a child, George’s formative environment was steeped in the civic virtues of industriousness, music, and the makeshift elegance of immigrant determination. His father’s dual role as laborer and artist—a man who led Fourth of July festivities by day and returned to modest quarters by night—left an indelible impression. Brooklyn, with its expanding schools and growing pride in education and public service, would give George access to both a structured musical education and an evolving democratic idealism that would later echo in his symphonies and patriotic compositions. His story was not just about talent, but timing. To be born in Brooklyn in 1825, into a family recently unmoored from English soil and re-rooted in a hopeful republic, was to come of age with the city itself. Bristow’s career would later be celebrated for its American voice. But that voice, clear and resonant, was first tuned on the streets of a small, striving borough—by a boy whose lullabies were the echoes of a father’s marching band, and whose destiny would harmonize with the country’s own maturing sound. Footnote This post draws from two principal sources: Brooklyn Village by Ralph Foster Weld (Columbia University Press, 1938), especially Chapters I and III, which provide a detailed portrait of civic, legal, and cultural life in early 19th-century Brooklyn. Carol Gohari’s unpublished manuscript, William Richard Bristow, American Musician (Chapter 2: “Brooklyn Village,” 1990), which documents the Bristow family’s emigration from England and their settlement in Brooklyn circa 1822. Katherine Preston's biographical research on George Frederick Bristow

A Journey Through Memory, Architecture, and the Paintings of Humberto Calzada In 2009, I created a film about Cuban-American painter Humberto Calzada. What emerged was more than a biographical portrait—it became a meditation on exile, memory, and the quiet power of art to reclaim what was lost. The film is now available on Kanopy Streaming. See link below. Agramonte St. and Gloria St, Havana, Cuba. Acrylic on canvas, 2022 Havana in Exile Humberto Calzada was born in Havana in 1944. He left Cuba as a young man and became an artist in exile, drawing not from nostalgia, but from a fierce commitment to remembering Havana as it once was—before the Revolution interrupted its rhythm and architecture. Calzada’s early years were shaped by an obsession with reflections: “I became very conscious of light and shadow,” he said in our conversation. “Maybe that’s the reason when I started painting.” Calzada de Luyano and Calle Ensenada. Acrylic on canvas, 2022 Building Havana, Brick by Brush His paintings recall stained glass, colonial porticoes, and the distinctive textures of old Havana homes—especially the one that belonged to his grandmother. He doesn’t simply illustrate buildings. He rebuilds them from memory, guided by color and intuition. “I’m trying to keep the spirit of what I remember Havana was like,” he told me. That spirit lives in every oil wash, in every carefully traced cornice. His brush resists decay. The Ruins and the Return When Calzada returned to Havana after 48 years, he found the city in ruins. Rather than turn away, he began photographing the devastation. Those images became the basis of a new project: deconstructing photographs and reimagining them as the Havana of his memory. Theatrical Premier Critical Reference following the premiere This work is deeply personal. “We’ll never be able to go back to that Cuba,” he said. “It will always exist in our minds, in our thoughts, in our heart—but it will never come back.” Memory as Architecture Calzada’s work lives in the space between grief and gratitude. His paintings are not about returning—they’re about carrying a place forward in time. His Havana may be imagined, but it is more vivid than the one tourists might see today. As an artist and exile, he affirms a Cuban identity unshackled from political narrative. His work preserves cultural memory as if it were marble, or better—glass that catches the light. Watch the Film Calzada: Reconstructing Havana is available on Kanopy and other educational streaming platforms.

We are proud to see 18 of our films streaming on Kanopy , a platform that brings thoughtful, independent storytelling to public and academic libraries across the U.S. and beyond. These titles—now available to students, educators, and the general public—represent over two decades of documentary work exploring history, music, race, art, exile, resistance, and identity. From the rhythms of Black Fiddlers and Samba On Your Feet to the intimate portraits in Alice Parker and Rita Dove , each film is a window into lives that shaped—and continue to shape—our cultural landscape. These films are free to watch with your library card through Kanopy.com Why It Matters: Our mission has always been to create films that educate, engage, and endure. Partnering with library systems helps ensure that these stories reach classrooms, communities, and curious minds far beyond traditional theatrical release. Please share with educators, librarians, and film lovers in your circles. These stories are meant to spark dialogue—and we invite you to join the conversation.

Notes from a First Meeting with Maestro Leon Botstein Site:  His residence at Bard College Subject:  Exploring the legacy of George Frederick Bristow and the possibility of a film Following directions through quiet Hudson Valley roads, I eventually reached a residential cul-de-sac at Bard reserved for faculty. Botstein’s assistant had texted me clear instructions: "enter through the main door, walk through the foyer, and I would find him waiting in his library." There was a sense of kinship, a familiarity—he and I could have been relatives. We looked like members of the same tribe. We explored those connections first: unknown corners of Poland, now Belarus, histories shaped by war and exile. Part of his family perished in the camps. So did mine. He could have been a much taller relative He wanted to know about my work, and I spoke of my films. He mentioned, almost in passing, that his daughter works closely with Ken Burns. Then we turned to what had brought us together: George Bristow and the upcoming concert at Carnegie Hall, where Botstein would conduct Bristow’s Fifth Symphony on January 30th. On Meeting Leon Botstein We spoke for hours—about Bristow, and what it means to create American music. After World War II, Hollywood embraced imperial aesthetics—Romans, Vikings—projections of American power. Quo Vadis  and its like, later parodied by the Coen brothers. And then came the music produced for television shows: soaring, nationalistic, martial. But Bristow had already been writing that kind of narrative, nationalistic, forward-driving music—before the fact. He talked about Rubin Goldmark, the bridge between Bristow and the moderns—Goldmark had taught both Copland and Gershwin. A New Yorker, rooted in two worlds. Bristow, too, had been that mix: European tradition and American ambition. Botstein also recalled that Gustav Mahler was pushed out of the Metropolitan Opera as the German wave gave way to Italianate fashion under Giulio Gatti-Casazza. Yet Mahler had tried to program American music, turning to George Whitefield Chadwick and others. Mahler, Dvořák, Ernest Bloch—all tried to embrace the American spirit. Bloch even wrote a symphonic choral work titled America: An Epic Rhapsody  in 1916. The conversation was quickly shifting into a master class—Botstein was teaching; I was learning. But American composers struggled. Antonín Dvořák had two Black students; one of them, Will Marion Cook, founded what became a cornerstone of African American musical tradition. Arthur Farwell championed Native American music. Still, composers like Chadwick, MacDowell, and Bristow were often dismissed as imitators of Europe. Charles Ives remained the notable exception, forging an American idiom all his own. I asked Botstein why were American composers of the 1800s accused of imitating European composers, when that was exactly what European composers were doing? Didn’t Beethoven draw inspiration from Mozart and Haydn, Brahms from Beethoven, Liszt from Chopin? He seemed to agree, and the discussion briefly turned to the difficult process of building a national identity—not just in America, but throughout 19th-century Europe. I was enjoying my self and I suspect he was also feeling comfortable with my presence. And what of modern nationalism? he asked. He invoked names like Louis Sullivan and Frank Lloyd Wright, and spoke of the aesthetic split between patriotism and nationalism—two different spirits. Bristow, Botstein believed, stood for something more cosmopolitan. He didn’t believe that American music needed to follow the European standard. He believed it should speak in its own voice, forged in the energy of a young republic. The ideal of cosmopolitanism brought the conversation briefly back to the influences of Hannah Arendt on the young Leon Botstein. “Walt Whitman was part of that voice,” he continued. European composers would later set Whitman’s words to music, but Bristow had already sensed that a new kind of poetry—and a new kind of music—was possible. And so, a film begins to take shape. What began as a quiet walk through Woodlawn in search of Bristow’s forgotten grave led to a four-hour conversation at Bard with one of the country’s most respected educators. A composer once silenced by time, remembered only in stone—now begins to be heard again, through film.

The Bristow School on Bristow Street On Bristow St. Friday afternoon The Bronx doesn’t apologize—it just is. On this Friday afternoon in Morrisania, the neighborhood that was once home to 19th-century American composer George Bristow, I walk in search of traces of a life we know so little about. Camera around my neck, notebook in hand, I begin to ask a question for which I know there may be no answer. This is not the Morrisania Bristow once knew, and that’s fine by me. I rode for about an hour on the 2-train from Brooklyn to Freeman Street Station, then walked west along Bristow Street. Just a few yards north of the intersection stands Public School 134, a relatively modern building sitting across from the Soul Tabernacle City of Refuge—a gospel church that proudly calls itself home to the “Soul Children of New York.” The school, like the street, is named for George F. Bristow, the composer whose life I’m now shadowing. José, a Puerto Rican neighbor, tells me no one ever mentions Bristow’s name. He grew up across the street and went to school there, but says nobody really knows who it was named after. From a nearby patio, the sound of Celia Cruz blasts. But this is no longer a Cuban space. José assures me Celia is international—she belongs to Puerto Ricans too. Morrisania today is Dominican, Boricua, Jamaican, West African—and thoroughly American. I saw a woman in Ghanaian dress leading her son past a Jamaican man lighting what might be the most formidable joint I’ve ever seen. Farther down Bristow Street, a thirteen-year-old girl danced gleefully through the spray of an open hydrant. The Soul Tabernacle The farther east I walked, the more I felt Africa’s presence—churches with names like Poder, Gracia y Amor; tire shops spilling onto the sidewalk; hand-wash car services; voodoo saints in makeshift shrines; and gospel billboards preaching resurrection in Morrisania. Here, the sacred and profane live side by side: a church on one side of the street, a botanica on the other. Somewhere between a Michael Jackson track booming from a 4x4 and the cry of a police siren, I reached Boston Road—its turn-of-the-century buildings catching golden light on their yellow and white bricks, five stories tall with old iron fire escapes. Community speaks its own language: a barbecue grill smoking in a narrow passage between buildings, kids playing ball, a woman selling watermelon under an umbrella, and a magical place—the Mary Brooks Community Garden—serving as a cooling haven for the elderly and their dominoes. I came expecting to be looking over my shoulder. But I felt safer here than in the streets of the 20th arrondissement of Paris. This is The Bronx. This is where Bristow lived with his wife and two daughters. Hispanic and Black pride in Morrisania I made my way to Forest Avenue and East 166th Street, where the First Congregational Church of Morrisania was established in 1851. The building still stands—weathered, locked, its windows barred, its original tracery just visible beneath layers of grime. It hasn’t reopened since the pandemic. Locals tell me it’s private property now. I searched for 1086 Forest Avenue—Bristow’s home—but it’s no longer there. From here, Manhattan’s skyline floats faintly on the horizon. Two worlds. A chasm bridged only by the elevated tracks connecting the Bronx to the rest of the city. From a truck loaded with old car radiators, where men mine for copper, comes the sound of a sweet bachata. At the next corner, a veteran waves as if we’ve known each other for years. At PS 140, the school motto is “Reaching Unlimited Possibilities.” The signs are in English and Spanish. In Morrisania, eclecticism rules—in architecture, in belief, in identity. Colombian cumbia fades into Dominican merengue, then into the rasp of an old gospel tune from a passing Buick. I saw a young woman in shorts so tight I wondered how she managed to fit in them, a mother in a white dress, two tall Muslim women wearing colorful burkas and sandals. Then I met D., a photographer like me, who told me the neighborhood was safer now that the police are everywhere, and that most people don’t know the man who gave Morrisania its name—Morris—was a slave owner. That, too, is part of the Bronx’s history. As I headed back to the train station for the ride to Brooklyn, I passed a woman seated on a walker outside a modest church. She greeted me with a “Buenas tardes.” I replied instinctively, “Buenas tardes.” She smiled—After all, here, the white men don’t speak English. This is Morrisania. George Frederick Bristow’s turf. I came looking for the composer’s ghost and found others—many—perhaps even my own.