Very little of the world in Brooklyn 3 had to do with nature. Rhythms and substance were defined by people - where they were and what they were doing.
Mornings were delivery trucks. If I was aware that birds sang mornings, I don't recall it.
Kids watched for good delivery guys to arrive at the stores, to catch free stuff. The best was Cake Man. Stand on the curb and chant "We want cake," and he would hit you up with first-class strudel.
Twice a week was garbage trucks. They were important to note because you could get tipped by neighbors for retrieving their metal cans, after the garbage gentlemen emptied and blithely flung them in random directions.
Mid-morning was the mailman. Larry was the regular. He had big thick glasses from years of address-reading. He had a great conveyance, two big brown leather pouches on a three-wheel frame. If you caught him he'd let you push it to the corner.
At lunch, unlike dinner, one was permitted to watch TV, and I liked game shows, as an indice of strange adult behavior. None of the adults I knew were ever silly, but on game shows they all were.
Some shows were edifying and not just mere curiosities. I found "You Don't Say" splendid, with a cunning tag line at show's end: "Remember, it's not what you say that counts, it's what you don't say," which struck me as archly insightful. I had the mistaken notion that Tom Kennedy, the host, was President Kennedy's brother.
In the mid-afternoon, kids returned from school. They tended to travel in packs. For some reason, kids walking alone, or in smaller groups, tended to be smart kids. Not that none of the kids in packs were, but you couldn't tell, and the odds were against it, considering the limited quantity of this commodity around us.
Late afternoon and early evening was the return of breadwinners; and the setting of tables.
Evenings were exciting, as the neighborhood was full, together again. In good weather, adults came out to talk, and kids to play.
The streetlights were stars, announcing night. They came on and mothers called children they couldn't see, somewhere out there - back to the nest, I guess.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Good Examples Versus Onions and Shoes
Adults should present good examples for children, but this was not always easy in Brooklyn 3, where there was so much reality.
Missing Mass on Sunday was a mortal sin. In our house, everybody went, every week. But not all families went, particularly not all fathers.
Some fathers got migraine headaches a lot. It was practically epidemic on Sunday mornings. It was transmitted by bottles the night before.
Most women didn't drive, so if the fathers didn't go, nobody went, although some kids with compelling fear of Hell would walk it, if they were old enough. If the mother had a baby, or babies, walking was out, unless the mother had a notion to shame the father, which of course could be as compelling as avoiding Hell.
You weren't supposed to curse, or take the Lord's name in vain, and this never happened in our house; our parents were good communicators, and could express bad feelings without vulgarity.
But this was not common, and even good kids learned powerful lexicons, and creative ways to use them.
With immigrant grandparents, some kids could curse internationally. We learned the expression "Tre cipolle culo di tuo fratello," or "Three onions up your brother's ass," from Cathy Dimarinis's grandmother. She would say it to people she didn't like, who didn't capish Italian, in a cheery tone of voice, and they would smile and wave.
You weren't supposed to steal, but sometimes the men found things, and would trade them for money, or for things other guys found, such as cartons of cigarettes, frozen meats, and new clothing.
Once, Jamesy Coppola's father actually went to jail for a misunderstanding about selling some shirts he had. The misunderstanding was with the owner of the House of Ivy clothing store on Church Avenue, where Jamesy's father worked.
There was much scorn in the neighborhood for Mr. Coppola being so stupid, getting caught selling some lousy shirts, when the store also stocked nice shoes.
I didn't second-guess the adults. I knew no one was perfect. I also knew not to note too hard what didn't involve me, and especially, not to ask stupid questions about things adults did. You can just as easily learn from bad examples as good.
Missing Mass on Sunday was a mortal sin. In our house, everybody went, every week. But not all families went, particularly not all fathers.
Some fathers got migraine headaches a lot. It was practically epidemic on Sunday mornings. It was transmitted by bottles the night before.
Most women didn't drive, so if the fathers didn't go, nobody went, although some kids with compelling fear of Hell would walk it, if they were old enough. If the mother had a baby, or babies, walking was out, unless the mother had a notion to shame the father, which of course could be as compelling as avoiding Hell.
You weren't supposed to curse, or take the Lord's name in vain, and this never happened in our house; our parents were good communicators, and could express bad feelings without vulgarity.
But this was not common, and even good kids learned powerful lexicons, and creative ways to use them.
With immigrant grandparents, some kids could curse internationally. We learned the expression "Tre cipolle culo di tuo fratello," or "Three onions up your brother's ass," from Cathy Dimarinis's grandmother. She would say it to people she didn't like, who didn't capish Italian, in a cheery tone of voice, and they would smile and wave.
You weren't supposed to steal, but sometimes the men found things, and would trade them for money, or for things other guys found, such as cartons of cigarettes, frozen meats, and new clothing.
Once, Jamesy Coppola's father actually went to jail for a misunderstanding about selling some shirts he had. The misunderstanding was with the owner of the House of Ivy clothing store on Church Avenue, where Jamesy's father worked.
There was much scorn in the neighborhood for Mr. Coppola being so stupid, getting caught selling some lousy shirts, when the store also stocked nice shoes.
I didn't second-guess the adults. I knew no one was perfect. I also knew not to note too hard what didn't involve me, and especially, not to ask stupid questions about things adults did. You can just as easily learn from bad examples as good.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Last Name Basis
From the first days of school, we manly fellows addressed each other by last name.
It was not James, Danny, Stephen, John, but Behan, Boylan, Burke, Calabrese, et al.
It didn't have to do with being seated alphabetically. The girls were, too, on their half of the room, but they were Angela, Patty, Gianna, Karen, not Accardi, Achacoso, Alonzo, Amato.
It projected toughness and authority in a setting where you were pretty vulnerable, psychologically and physically.
If I am "Burke" to you, you are certainly not "Jimmy" to me. You're lucky you're not "pal."
St. Catherine's recognized our vulnerability by putting first- and second-grade boys in the girls' schoolyard, rather than with the third- through eighth-grade boys.
The schoolyards were separated by a big wire fence. You weren't scared or anything, but it was smart to stay away from the perimeters, where through the fence there was ribald taunting of first-grade babies and second-grade tots, and the occasional well-placed clam, or gob of spit.
In the boys' schoolyard were games of dodgeball and punchball. In the girls' was tether ball and jump rope.
Of course, for a boy, these activities were out of the question - the jump rope categorically, and tether ball by association. Once, James Fiore tried a little jump rope. There was an immediate, rabid raid from the boys' schoolyard. He was abducted and deposited into the St. Vincent de Paul dropbox in the boys' yard. It was a big metal box with a pretty small slot.
So, younger boys spent recess and lunch time flipping baseball cards or pitching pennies. I did a certain amount of that, but wasn't very good at it, and didn't have much money to lose. So I spent a lot of time just hanging around, talking and joking with last-name guys and first-name girls. I must have realized on some level that never again would I be in a daily social situation with females outnumbering males 4 to 1.
It was not James, Danny, Stephen, John, but Behan, Boylan, Burke, Calabrese, et al.
It didn't have to do with being seated alphabetically. The girls were, too, on their half of the room, but they were Angela, Patty, Gianna, Karen, not Accardi, Achacoso, Alonzo, Amato.
It projected toughness and authority in a setting where you were pretty vulnerable, psychologically and physically.
If I am "Burke" to you, you are certainly not "Jimmy" to me. You're lucky you're not "pal."
St. Catherine's recognized our vulnerability by putting first- and second-grade boys in the girls' schoolyard, rather than with the third- through eighth-grade boys.
The schoolyards were separated by a big wire fence. You weren't scared or anything, but it was smart to stay away from the perimeters, where through the fence there was ribald taunting of first-grade babies and second-grade tots, and the occasional well-placed clam, or gob of spit.
In the boys' schoolyard were games of dodgeball and punchball. In the girls' was tether ball and jump rope.
Of course, for a boy, these activities were out of the question - the jump rope categorically, and tether ball by association. Once, James Fiore tried a little jump rope. There was an immediate, rabid raid from the boys' schoolyard. He was abducted and deposited into the St. Vincent de Paul dropbox in the boys' yard. It was a big metal box with a pretty small slot.
So, younger boys spent recess and lunch time flipping baseball cards or pitching pennies. I did a certain amount of that, but wasn't very good at it, and didn't have much money to lose. So I spent a lot of time just hanging around, talking and joking with last-name guys and first-name girls. I must have realized on some level that never again would I be in a daily social situation with females outnumbering males 4 to 1.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
No, We'll Call You
The repercussion for me having a theological bent as a youthful youngster was not any reproach from my nuns, but instead their encouragement, which was slightly worse.
I liked thinking and talking about this other world they had a bead on.
But this innocent proclivity turned out to be a topic in a parent-teacher conference, which my mother recounted to me.
- Sister says you ask a lot of questions in Religion class.
Now, if I say anything to my mother at this point, rather than just raising my eyebrows, I am making a tactical mistake. Not a serious one, just slight, but I try to do my best around my mother, who is skilled in debate.
- In a good way, Sister told me. Not being disrespectful. The opposite. Paying attention. Thinking about things.
- Yes, I say.
This is a good stalling response, lacking anything stronger.
- She says she thinks you might have a calling. Do you know what that means?
- No, I say.
- It means a vocation. That's a bigger word, that means the same thing. A calling comes from God to us. To some of us. Special people, who God wants and needs to do his work. It comes to nuns and priests. It's how they know they should become nuns and priests, in the first place. God calls them.
- How does He call them?, I ask.
- Well, in different ways, my mother says. - I guess. It never happened to me, of course, so I don't exactly know. But Sister does, of course. And she is wondering. If you feel anything you would like to talk about.
- Well, I say. - I don't want to be a priest, if that's what you mean.
- That's okay, my mother says. - But can you tell me why you feel that?
- Well. They don't do anything all day, do they?
- Of course they do, don't be silly. They take care of the parish and the people. They pray. They perform the sacraments.
- I guess. But they don't go anywhere to work, like Dad. They stay in the rectory and live together there. I wouldn't like that. I would want - like here, to be married and have kids and eat dinner together.
My mother seemed to relax a little. Maybe because of the way we were talking as much as for what we were saying. Well, maybe both. In those days it was considered pretty reputable, even prestigious, for a son to become a priest. But that was changing, and I think my mother was among the changed.
- Well, she said. - I hope I haven't worried you or made you nervous talking like this. I do it because I care about you. So does Sister.
- Okay.
- So what is it you would like to be when you grow up? Have you ever thought about that?
- A baseball player, I said.
- That's good, she said. I know you like baseball.
- And an airplane pilot.
- Both, she said.
- Baseball players have to have a job for the winter, I said.
I wasn't really a uniform type of person, so it is sheer conicidence that my two jobs of choice involved uniforms. At least they were snazzy. I wasn't stupid enough to mention to my mother how opposed I was to the dingey, same clothes on the priests, day in and out. I wish I had taken the chance, though, to make her laugh.
I liked thinking and talking about this other world they had a bead on.
But this innocent proclivity turned out to be a topic in a parent-teacher conference, which my mother recounted to me.
- Sister says you ask a lot of questions in Religion class.
Now, if I say anything to my mother at this point, rather than just raising my eyebrows, I am making a tactical mistake. Not a serious one, just slight, but I try to do my best around my mother, who is skilled in debate.
- In a good way, Sister told me. Not being disrespectful. The opposite. Paying attention. Thinking about things.
- Yes, I say.
This is a good stalling response, lacking anything stronger.
- She says she thinks you might have a calling. Do you know what that means?
- No, I say.
- It means a vocation. That's a bigger word, that means the same thing. A calling comes from God to us. To some of us. Special people, who God wants and needs to do his work. It comes to nuns and priests. It's how they know they should become nuns and priests, in the first place. God calls them.
- How does He call them?, I ask.
- Well, in different ways, my mother says. - I guess. It never happened to me, of course, so I don't exactly know. But Sister does, of course. And she is wondering. If you feel anything you would like to talk about.
- Well, I say. - I don't want to be a priest, if that's what you mean.
- That's okay, my mother says. - But can you tell me why you feel that?
- Well. They don't do anything all day, do they?
- Of course they do, don't be silly. They take care of the parish and the people. They pray. They perform the sacraments.
- I guess. But they don't go anywhere to work, like Dad. They stay in the rectory and live together there. I wouldn't like that. I would want - like here, to be married and have kids and eat dinner together.
My mother seemed to relax a little. Maybe because of the way we were talking as much as for what we were saying. Well, maybe both. In those days it was considered pretty reputable, even prestigious, for a son to become a priest. But that was changing, and I think my mother was among the changed.
- Well, she said. - I hope I haven't worried you or made you nervous talking like this. I do it because I care about you. So does Sister.
- Okay.
- So what is it you would like to be when you grow up? Have you ever thought about that?
- A baseball player, I said.
- That's good, she said. I know you like baseball.
- And an airplane pilot.
- Both, she said.
- Baseball players have to have a job for the winter, I said.
I wasn't really a uniform type of person, so it is sheer conicidence that my two jobs of choice involved uniforms. At least they were snazzy. I wasn't stupid enough to mention to my mother how opposed I was to the dingey, same clothes on the priests, day in and out. I wish I had taken the chance, though, to make her laugh.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Church and the Child
Catholic school was a thing apart from everything else, and set you apart from your (non-Catholic) neighbors once you started.
Not in an inimical way. More an inevitable one. After all, Catholicism would teach you that this entire world and existence are just a blip, nothing, a test for you to pass to reach the real, eternal world of God's kingdom. So, naturally, you started thinking differently from the people who went to public school and didn't learn this.
You were set apart in looks, in a uniform. For boys, white shirt, navy blue pants, navy blue tie. For girls, white blouse, navy blue jumper with school insignia.
You were dressed better than public school kids, or for that matter, most adults. So you felt special and like you should be achieving something.
Religion was the foremost subject. All the loose ends, or actually starts, of things you had learned from your parents would be formalized.
It was tough, because you had to not only learn it, but believe it. That's a lot of requirement for a 6-year old.
Your religious instruction even set you apart from your prior self. As a child, baptised, you were free of sin, and even of the possibility of it, until age 7.
Age 7 loomed like a call to the military. Until age 7, they said, a child was incapable of understanding the nature of sin, thus of committing it. Then, at 7, bam. You were considered responsible for your words and deeds - conscripted into the army of the guilty, or inevitably, eventually so. The religious training you began in first grade, at 6 or 7, prepared you for your guilt.
I sort of looked forward to the instruction, because I sure had questions.
I thought the free pass until age 7 was kind of a hoax, because I sure knew when I did wrong, but I wasn't about to divest myself of any amnesty I could get. I wasn't afraid of God's anger over it; I figured it was a present He pretty much dropped in my lap, and We'd probably laugh over it some day. So I never mentioned it to Sister.
But, one of the first days of school, I brought up a related issue that had to do with even a little more liberty that I thought I, and my first grade compatriots, deserved.
I knew that we would prepare for the sacrament of Confession next year, in second grade. My question was, how could we be considered guilty of sin if we didn't have the opportunity to repent?
Sister Anna St. James? Say I see candy on a shelf and I take it. Then you tell me I'm not allowed to - but you don't let me put it back? Am I supposed to go to jail for that?
She gave me a good answer. She said that if I knew I was stealing, I was stealing, and the opportunity to put it back didn't make it not at least trying to steal, which is wrong in itself. As far as not being able to confess it, she said, you can't officially yet, as in a sacrament, but you can certainly explain yourself to God in prayer, and acknowledge your sin and ask to be forgiven. See how that goes.
Sister Anna St. James was a sport, I found, and I felt free to ask poignant questions like this as they occurred to me, and even less poignant ones, such as the part in the Bible when they talk about being unworthy to tie the laces of Christ's shoes. He wore shoes?, I asked. Not sandals? She actually laughed at this and she said, Stephen, if you are going to be so technical about things, I am going to have to be the same way grading your tests, because the Bible says you will reap what you sow, do you understand that?
The Bible is supposed to be perfect, I said.
Yes, she said, it is in its way. If you have ears to hear, Jesus says. There is such a thing as listening too closely and then the fault is really yours, you know. Now be quiet and let me teach.
I never knew, until years later, that nuns had a reputation for toughness, that they were supposedly uncaring, authoritarian, even sadistic. That was a huge surprise. To me they were as open and nice as family. I meant it when I said Sister.
Not in an inimical way. More an inevitable one. After all, Catholicism would teach you that this entire world and existence are just a blip, nothing, a test for you to pass to reach the real, eternal world of God's kingdom. So, naturally, you started thinking differently from the people who went to public school and didn't learn this.
You were set apart in looks, in a uniform. For boys, white shirt, navy blue pants, navy blue tie. For girls, white blouse, navy blue jumper with school insignia.
You were dressed better than public school kids, or for that matter, most adults. So you felt special and like you should be achieving something.
Religion was the foremost subject. All the loose ends, or actually starts, of things you had learned from your parents would be formalized.
It was tough, because you had to not only learn it, but believe it. That's a lot of requirement for a 6-year old.
Your religious instruction even set you apart from your prior self. As a child, baptised, you were free of sin, and even of the possibility of it, until age 7.
Age 7 loomed like a call to the military. Until age 7, they said, a child was incapable of understanding the nature of sin, thus of committing it. Then, at 7, bam. You were considered responsible for your words and deeds - conscripted into the army of the guilty, or inevitably, eventually so. The religious training you began in first grade, at 6 or 7, prepared you for your guilt.
I sort of looked forward to the instruction, because I sure had questions.
I thought the free pass until age 7 was kind of a hoax, because I sure knew when I did wrong, but I wasn't about to divest myself of any amnesty I could get. I wasn't afraid of God's anger over it; I figured it was a present He pretty much dropped in my lap, and We'd probably laugh over it some day. So I never mentioned it to Sister.
But, one of the first days of school, I brought up a related issue that had to do with even a little more liberty that I thought I, and my first grade compatriots, deserved.
I knew that we would prepare for the sacrament of Confession next year, in second grade. My question was, how could we be considered guilty of sin if we didn't have the opportunity to repent?
Sister Anna St. James? Say I see candy on a shelf and I take it. Then you tell me I'm not allowed to - but you don't let me put it back? Am I supposed to go to jail for that?
She gave me a good answer. She said that if I knew I was stealing, I was stealing, and the opportunity to put it back didn't make it not at least trying to steal, which is wrong in itself. As far as not being able to confess it, she said, you can't officially yet, as in a sacrament, but you can certainly explain yourself to God in prayer, and acknowledge your sin and ask to be forgiven. See how that goes.
Sister Anna St. James was a sport, I found, and I felt free to ask poignant questions like this as they occurred to me, and even less poignant ones, such as the part in the Bible when they talk about being unworthy to tie the laces of Christ's shoes. He wore shoes?, I asked. Not sandals? She actually laughed at this and she said, Stephen, if you are going to be so technical about things, I am going to have to be the same way grading your tests, because the Bible says you will reap what you sow, do you understand that?
The Bible is supposed to be perfect, I said.
Yes, she said, it is in its way. If you have ears to hear, Jesus says. There is such a thing as listening too closely and then the fault is really yours, you know. Now be quiet and let me teach.
I never knew, until years later, that nuns had a reputation for toughness, that they were supposedly uncaring, authoritarian, even sadistic. That was a huge surprise. To me they were as open and nice as family. I meant it when I said Sister.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Working Life
Brooklyn 3 was a neighborhood of working people and there wasn't anyone who didn't work. You could see all the people without jobs you wanted walking around from the mental hospital and if that didn't encourage you to go to work and be grateful, nothing would.
Everyone knew where everyone worked. On our street, 878 Clarkson owned a produce business. 880 was us and our father ran a print shop at Pan American. 882 was shipping and receiving. 884 worked for the phone company; 886 at the Navy Yard; 888 were two secretaries; 890 worked in cargo at Idlewild airport; 892 was a cop.
888 was a household of two sisters, their two adolescent children, and the women's father. The sisters worked as secretaries in the city. Their father was retired and minded the house. This was an unorthodox lineup, but driven by necessity, and we all knew what that was.
We were particularly proud of our father because he worked in the city, for a big company everyone knew, in an office. He was the only guy on the block who wore a tie to work, unless you count the cop.
In those days Pan Am's offices were in Long Island City. In 1963, they moved to Manhattan, a gigantic building with their name on top. It meant prestige although to my father I think it meant most notably a shorter commute.
When he came home at night we kids would shout and run to the door and ride his legs and feet around. My mother never got the opportunity for that kind of greeting which of course is emblematic of the kind of deal women got. The men might have complained about work but you did not hear of them offering to trade places.
Everyone knew where everyone worked. On our street, 878 Clarkson owned a produce business. 880 was us and our father ran a print shop at Pan American. 882 was shipping and receiving. 884 worked for the phone company; 886 at the Navy Yard; 888 were two secretaries; 890 worked in cargo at Idlewild airport; 892 was a cop.
888 was a household of two sisters, their two adolescent children, and the women's father. The sisters worked as secretaries in the city. Their father was retired and minded the house. This was an unorthodox lineup, but driven by necessity, and we all knew what that was.
We were particularly proud of our father because he worked in the city, for a big company everyone knew, in an office. He was the only guy on the block who wore a tie to work, unless you count the cop.
In those days Pan Am's offices were in Long Island City. In 1963, they moved to Manhattan, a gigantic building with their name on top. It meant prestige although to my father I think it meant most notably a shorter commute.
When he came home at night we kids would shout and run to the door and ride his legs and feet around. My mother never got the opportunity for that kind of greeting which of course is emblematic of the kind of deal women got. The men might have complained about work but you did not hear of them offering to trade places.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Pre-School Resistance
The streets of the neighborhood were full of activity but you could also be isolated, if you wanted. There was enough going on that no one really cared what you were doing, or if you existed, with the possible exception of your loved ones, with whom you could check in a couple of times a day, to keep them satisfied, and get something to eat.
There was not much greenery around, but there was enough dirt to meet a kid's desire to dig and bury. When it rained, water ran through the gutters, and you could float sticks.
Streets and schoolyards were for games, and alleys for skulking, or sitting or walking alone.
When it came time for my first remove from this world - for kindergarten -I balked.
I knew a bit about kindergarten. P.S. 268, on the corner, ran a summer program every year, which introduced me to the building and activities.
Outside, in the schoolyard, was fine. There was stickball, sprinklers, and running around.
The cafeteria was good, too. Cartons of milk and juice, nok-hockey and other games.
But deep inside was different. Hallways were dim and echoey quiet. Doors were forbidding and heavy, with glass up too high. There were flags and mottoes on the walls. It smelled like glue.
Sneaking around, I got a load of the kindergarten space.
This laboratory of learning consisted primarily of cheap-looking toys (not real toys; educational toys), books (not real books; picture books), and musical instruments, or sort-of musical instruments, like triangles and tom-toms.
I saw pictures of past classes. They didn't look too smart. Well, the girls looked all right; but the boys wore these little ties, or had their shirts buttoned all the way to the top.
I thought, did they get that way here? Or come in like that?
Probably both. But I wasn't taking any chances.
I talked to my parents about not going.
I don't see the point, I said. I already know how to read; I'm ahead of schedule. You don't see anybody else who knows how to read hanging around kindergarteners. They're going to have me looking at snap-together cards with big letters on them.
They'll teach you other things there, my parents said.
They won't, I said. I've been asking around. There's no subjects, no lessons, no homework. You sing songs, clap hands, and take naps. I could be here reading and doing things.
But all the other kids will be there, my parents said.
Exactly, I said. I'll have the neighborhood to myself.
I don't know if their reaction was more exasperation or resignment. But they granted my request. I never went.
I don't know if it was legal. Probably not, because it made good sense for someone.
There was not much greenery around, but there was enough dirt to meet a kid's desire to dig and bury. When it rained, water ran through the gutters, and you could float sticks.
Streets and schoolyards were for games, and alleys for skulking, or sitting or walking alone.
When it came time for my first remove from this world - for kindergarten -I balked.
I knew a bit about kindergarten. P.S. 268, on the corner, ran a summer program every year, which introduced me to the building and activities.
Outside, in the schoolyard, was fine. There was stickball, sprinklers, and running around.
The cafeteria was good, too. Cartons of milk and juice, nok-hockey and other games.
But deep inside was different. Hallways were dim and echoey quiet. Doors were forbidding and heavy, with glass up too high. There were flags and mottoes on the walls. It smelled like glue.
Sneaking around, I got a load of the kindergarten space.
This laboratory of learning consisted primarily of cheap-looking toys (not real toys; educational toys), books (not real books; picture books), and musical instruments, or sort-of musical instruments, like triangles and tom-toms.
I saw pictures of past classes. They didn't look too smart. Well, the girls looked all right; but the boys wore these little ties, or had their shirts buttoned all the way to the top.
I thought, did they get that way here? Or come in like that?
Probably both. But I wasn't taking any chances.
I talked to my parents about not going.
I don't see the point, I said. I already know how to read; I'm ahead of schedule. You don't see anybody else who knows how to read hanging around kindergarteners. They're going to have me looking at snap-together cards with big letters on them.
They'll teach you other things there, my parents said.
They won't, I said. I've been asking around. There's no subjects, no lessons, no homework. You sing songs, clap hands, and take naps. I could be here reading and doing things.
But all the other kids will be there, my parents said.
Exactly, I said. I'll have the neighborhood to myself.
I don't know if their reaction was more exasperation or resignment. But they granted my request. I never went.
I don't know if it was legal. Probably not, because it made good sense for someone.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Brooklyn State Hospital
Most households had multiple children and not much square feet, so we were encouraged to be outside a lot. "Children should be seen and not heard," goes the expression, although the "should be seen" part did not seem heart-felt with most families I knew.
So you were shooed outside early in the day. It was okay because there were plenty of kids to play with, and adults to bother.
One slight complicating factor was Brooklyn State Hospital, home to a large and special population you couldn't play with and shouldn't, as a good person, bother.
Brooklyn State was a mental hospital, with many, many residents.
The hospital stretched long blocks north to south, and ten blocks east to west. Our side, east, was the only one with stores. So we had lots of visitors from the hospital, at all times.
The cautionary catechism from parents to kids was that "they" were like children, harmless, and wouldn't bother you if you didn't bother them.
We did find them to be harmless, though this made them unlike children, in our experience.
Good kids did not need to be warned about bothering them, and bad kids had the idea that it was bad luck to pick on on people "like that," so there was no trouble, or not much.
We didn't really speak of them much, prevalent as they were, and what you might call occasionally obvious. Bad luck or not, such mention was considered rude.
Of course, we were not always so genteel, and the words "retards" and "nuts" were used freely.
But we felt bad for them, because they caught a bad break; and the common wisdom seemed to be that hospitalization made the bad break worse, rather than helping.
There was sometimes shouting on the street, for no good reason, by a person to himself. But to be fair, this was not restricted to hospital residents, in Brooklyn 3. At least, we thought, the guys in green pants and laceless shoes had an excuse. More than one.
So you were shooed outside early in the day. It was okay because there were plenty of kids to play with, and adults to bother.
One slight complicating factor was Brooklyn State Hospital, home to a large and special population you couldn't play with and shouldn't, as a good person, bother.
Brooklyn State was a mental hospital, with many, many residents.
The hospital stretched long blocks north to south, and ten blocks east to west. Our side, east, was the only one with stores. So we had lots of visitors from the hospital, at all times.
The cautionary catechism from parents to kids was that "they" were like children, harmless, and wouldn't bother you if you didn't bother them.
We did find them to be harmless, though this made them unlike children, in our experience.
Good kids did not need to be warned about bothering them, and bad kids had the idea that it was bad luck to pick on on people "like that," so there was no trouble, or not much.
We didn't really speak of them much, prevalent as they were, and what you might call occasionally obvious. Bad luck or not, such mention was considered rude.
Of course, we were not always so genteel, and the words "retards" and "nuts" were used freely.
But we felt bad for them, because they caught a bad break; and the common wisdom seemed to be that hospitalization made the bad break worse, rather than helping.
There was sometimes shouting on the street, for no good reason, by a person to himself. But to be fair, this was not restricted to hospital residents, in Brooklyn 3. At least, we thought, the guys in green pants and laceless shoes had an excuse. More than one.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Reading Billboards For Dimes
"Even Y.A. Tittle isn't afraid to tackle a book," went a ditty on a TV ad for reading.
I knew early, through my own precocity in it, that reading could be profitable as well as fun. My parents took a quiet pride in it, but my uncles - my father's 6 brothers - were willing to pay to see me do it.
They seemed to regard it as freakish, or a trick. Their entreaties were like challenges.
I remember reading aloud a lot of newspaper stories about Berlin, Khrushchev, bombs, and space, with uncles over my shoulder. I got dimes and quarters for it. (I was discouraged (by my mother) from reading about Kitty Genovese, though I did. Despite her disapproval, Mother acquiesced enough to define for me the term "cocktail waitress.")
I earned money in cars reading billboards for these guys. "What does that one say?...Alright, how about that one?" As if I didn't really know what I was doing, but had somehow memorized every printed word in our house, but on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway they would trip me up.
The one uncle who just seemed to enjoy the spectacle was Jimmy. Uncle Jimmy was kind of a sport - not married, a bit of a black sheep. He had a kind of natural exuberance, which included swearing, which no one else in the family did, at least not much.
Jimmy had the aspect of a compulsive gambler in this enterprise. I remember riding in a car with him, Uncle Robbie (the second oldest brother; quiet, a cop) and my father. We had gone through all the reading material around and about, so Jimmy started pulling things out of his pockets.
"What does this say?"
"Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco."
"Holy shit!"
"Hey," said my father.
"How about this?"
"Close Cover Before Striking."
"Holy shit!"
"Hey, I said."
"Sorry. But this kid is either a genius or psychosomatic or something." I might have gotten my hair tousled at this point.
Silence for a while. Then all of a sudden taciturn Uncle Robbie pipes up. He sees something he recognizes. "Stephen," he said from the front seat.
"Yes?"
"What do the words say on that building?"
I looked around, but before I could see it, Uncle Jimmy, sitting next to me, grabbed me and turned my head away.
"Hey, what are you, kidding? Don't make him look at that."
Robbie smirked. I was confused.
"What is it?," I asked.
"Prison," Jimmy said, in a whisper. We were on Atlantic Avenue. The words in question were probably House of Detention. Something like that.
"What's wrong with reading 'prison'?," I said.
"You should never even look at a prison," he said.
He drew in close.
" 'Peepings might be catchings.' You ever hear that saying?"
"No," I said.
"Well, remember it," he said with the air of a mentor. "The next time you might find yourself on the inside. If you want to look at it so bad. You know what I mean?"
Remarkably, maybe, I did. And I realized that reading was getting me into the world of grown-ups pretty quickly. I was getting pretty privy to their thinking. Also, their dimes.
I knew early, through my own precocity in it, that reading could be profitable as well as fun. My parents took a quiet pride in it, but my uncles - my father's 6 brothers - were willing to pay to see me do it.
They seemed to regard it as freakish, or a trick. Their entreaties were like challenges.
I remember reading aloud a lot of newspaper stories about Berlin, Khrushchev, bombs, and space, with uncles over my shoulder. I got dimes and quarters for it. (I was discouraged (by my mother) from reading about Kitty Genovese, though I did. Despite her disapproval, Mother acquiesced enough to define for me the term "cocktail waitress.")
I earned money in cars reading billboards for these guys. "What does that one say?...Alright, how about that one?" As if I didn't really know what I was doing, but had somehow memorized every printed word in our house, but on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway they would trip me up.
The one uncle who just seemed to enjoy the spectacle was Jimmy. Uncle Jimmy was kind of a sport - not married, a bit of a black sheep. He had a kind of natural exuberance, which included swearing, which no one else in the family did, at least not much.
Jimmy had the aspect of a compulsive gambler in this enterprise. I remember riding in a car with him, Uncle Robbie (the second oldest brother; quiet, a cop) and my father. We had gone through all the reading material around and about, so Jimmy started pulling things out of his pockets.
"What does this say?"
"Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco."
"Holy shit!"
"Hey," said my father.
"How about this?"
"Close Cover Before Striking."
"Holy shit!"
"Hey, I said."
"Sorry. But this kid is either a genius or psychosomatic or something." I might have gotten my hair tousled at this point.
Silence for a while. Then all of a sudden taciturn Uncle Robbie pipes up. He sees something he recognizes. "Stephen," he said from the front seat.
"Yes?"
"What do the words say on that building?"
I looked around, but before I could see it, Uncle Jimmy, sitting next to me, grabbed me and turned my head away.
"Hey, what are you, kidding? Don't make him look at that."
Robbie smirked. I was confused.
"What is it?," I asked.
"Prison," Jimmy said, in a whisper. We were on Atlantic Avenue. The words in question were probably House of Detention. Something like that.
"What's wrong with reading 'prison'?," I said.
"You should never even look at a prison," he said.
He drew in close.
" 'Peepings might be catchings.' You ever hear that saying?"
"No," I said.
"Well, remember it," he said with the air of a mentor. "The next time you might find yourself on the inside. If you want to look at it so bad. You know what I mean?"
Remarkably, maybe, I did. And I realized that reading was getting me into the world of grown-ups pretty quickly. I was getting pretty privy to their thinking. Also, their dimes.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Emergence of Words
I don't really remember a time when I couldn't read - only when I couldn't read so well, though that barely lasted past age 3.
I wasn't prodigious on all fronts. I didn't speak until age 2, except for two words: "Popeye" and "cookie."
It was a meager vocabulary, I guess; or perhaps a select one. The problem with learning more words than you personally need is that then people expect things of you, like responses. Why not put that off as long as possible, is possibly an advanced way to think.
So I always got to see Popeye on TV, with cookie(s), and everything else was somebody else's problem, at least for a while.
Of course, concerns of idiocy arose, but there again: someone else's problem.
At any rate, those concerns evaporated when I began to speak, in complete sentences, and apparently in rather an adult style. Then there was a concern about what gives with this kid, or more accurately what doesn't give, like hints of normal development before achievement.
That concern intensified with reading.
I don't remember any kid's books around our house. But we had the Daily News, which my father read every night, and I would look at with him. I remember seeing certain words a lot - Kennedy, Capitol, Yankee, Yogi - and getting the idea of how to write down what you say.
When I turned 3, or actually slightly before, there was a massive flood of words in the house, and my head, when my older brother Eddie started school.
He brought home books. I guess because he looked at them all day he didn't care about them at home. I looked at them every afternoon.
It was fascinating to me that they had stories that stayed the same. The newspaper changed every day. But readers, as they were called, had dozens of stories, with numbers on the pages. With the numbers, you could go back to where you were before, and try to figure out the words and story.
So this was my hobby in our sunny autumn bedroom every day. Somehow the words came readily, so to speak.
One day I had trouble with a word. It looked like it meant a piece of furniture, but that didn't make sense. No way I looked at it made sense.
Outside, my mother was hanging clothes in the yard. I stuck my head out the window. "Hey, Mom?"
She turned from the clothesline and looked at me. "Yes?"
"What does c-o-u-n-t-r-y spell?"
She was silent, with a strange look on her face.
"Why are you asking me that?"
"Because I'm reading this book and it says something about 'a city mouse and a c-o-u-n-t-r-y mouse'."
"It spells 'country'."
"Oh - yeah! A city mouse and a country mouse. That makes sense! Thank you."
In a minute, I had company. My mother came in from her work and asked me to read her the book. I showed her a couple of stories I liked. I got a lot of questions that had more to do with reading than with the stories.
She got a look on her face that seemed both happy and sad. It was a look I would come to know well, yet puzzle about, too.
I wasn't prodigious on all fronts. I didn't speak until age 2, except for two words: "Popeye" and "cookie."
It was a meager vocabulary, I guess; or perhaps a select one. The problem with learning more words than you personally need is that then people expect things of you, like responses. Why not put that off as long as possible, is possibly an advanced way to think.
So I always got to see Popeye on TV, with cookie(s), and everything else was somebody else's problem, at least for a while.
Of course, concerns of idiocy arose, but there again: someone else's problem.
At any rate, those concerns evaporated when I began to speak, in complete sentences, and apparently in rather an adult style. Then there was a concern about what gives with this kid, or more accurately what doesn't give, like hints of normal development before achievement.
That concern intensified with reading.
I don't remember any kid's books around our house. But we had the Daily News, which my father read every night, and I would look at with him. I remember seeing certain words a lot - Kennedy, Capitol, Yankee, Yogi - and getting the idea of how to write down what you say.
When I turned 3, or actually slightly before, there was a massive flood of words in the house, and my head, when my older brother Eddie started school.
He brought home books. I guess because he looked at them all day he didn't care about them at home. I looked at them every afternoon.
It was fascinating to me that they had stories that stayed the same. The newspaper changed every day. But readers, as they were called, had dozens of stories, with numbers on the pages. With the numbers, you could go back to where you were before, and try to figure out the words and story.
So this was my hobby in our sunny autumn bedroom every day. Somehow the words came readily, so to speak.
One day I had trouble with a word. It looked like it meant a piece of furniture, but that didn't make sense. No way I looked at it made sense.
Outside, my mother was hanging clothes in the yard. I stuck my head out the window. "Hey, Mom?"
She turned from the clothesline and looked at me. "Yes?"
"What does c-o-u-n-t-r-y spell?"
She was silent, with a strange look on her face.
"Why are you asking me that?"
"Because I'm reading this book and it says something about 'a city mouse and a c-o-u-n-t-r-y mouse'."
"It spells 'country'."
"Oh - yeah! A city mouse and a country mouse. That makes sense! Thank you."
In a minute, I had company. My mother came in from her work and asked me to read her the book. I showed her a couple of stories I liked. I got a lot of questions that had more to do with reading than with the stories.
She got a look on her face that seemed both happy and sad. It was a look I would come to know well, yet puzzle about, too.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Goyish Supermarket
Once a week, on Saturdays, we went to a supermarket. I say we because my mother didn't drive, so my father had to go, and they couldn't leave us kids home alone, so we all went.
The supermarket, King Kullen, was a mile away in distance; miles away otherwise. It wasn't fancy. But it had chicken in packaging, not on hooks. It had bread on Passover. It had a parking lot.
They spoke English there, presumably, although no one ever talked to you. At any rate, they didn't speak Yiddish.
You couldn't tell who owned it. They had a symbol of a cartoon character King Kullen who looked like Mr. Monopoly with a crown, but he didn't seem to represent anyone in the place.
We liked this weekly trip because it was a regular thing we could do all together. Our parents didn't particularly want us there in the first place and they did not seem to consider this all that much fun, so we could run around. No one working there knew you, so you could misbehave.
It was also an opportunity to refine your pestering skills. You needed practice against our mother, who was full of surprise in battle.
"Ma, can we get this?": Hershey's syrup.
"No."
"Why not?"
"It makes you drink too much milk." Tough, you see.
The supermarket, King Kullen, was a mile away in distance; miles away otherwise. It wasn't fancy. But it had chicken in packaging, not on hooks. It had bread on Passover. It had a parking lot.
They spoke English there, presumably, although no one ever talked to you. At any rate, they didn't speak Yiddish.
You couldn't tell who owned it. They had a symbol of a cartoon character King Kullen who looked like Mr. Monopoly with a crown, but he didn't seem to represent anyone in the place.
We liked this weekly trip because it was a regular thing we could do all together. Our parents didn't particularly want us there in the first place and they did not seem to consider this all that much fun, so we could run around. No one working there knew you, so you could misbehave.
It was also an opportunity to refine your pestering skills. You needed practice against our mother, who was full of surprise in battle.
"Ma, can we get this?": Hershey's syrup.
"No."
"Why not?"
"It makes you drink too much milk." Tough, you see.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Navigating the Neighborhood
The streets of the neighborhood were easy to navigate: 51st, 52nd, 53rd, etc. Officially, they were all "East," but it was a lost point. We didn't know any Western ones.
The two-way streets were called avenues, and named for cities in upstate New York - Albany, Troy, Schenectady, Utica - providing not just order, and a theme, but appropriate grandeur.
We lived in a row house, about 15 feet wide, in a stretch of them that ran one side of the block. On another side were bigger houses, some stand-alone, some attached. The other two sides of the block were apartment buildings. By code, a six floor building requires an elevator. Therefore, in lowdown and unshmancy Brooklyn 3, all were five, tops. Walk-ups.
Most apartment buildings had retail on the ground floor. Most commercial buildings had some housing above. Altogether it made for a lot of people and commerce.
Across the street from us were a dry cleaner, a dress shop, Louie Fink's luncheonette, Smilin' Jack's Appetizing, and a butcher shop. The butcher shop was known as Jerry the Jew's - even among Jews; even though Jerry seemed no more Jewish than 90% of the neighborhood population, i.e., Jews. I suppose it was just the allure of alliteration.
That was one block. On the next were a pharmacy, a variety store, a luncheonette, a fish monger, another butcher (live chickens in the yard), the Egg Man (from the chickens next door?), a hardware store, TV and radio repair, a bakery, a barber, a small grocery, a small supermarket, and another luncheonette.
On the next, a kosher restaurant, a pizzeria, a shoemaker, a Chinese laundry, a beauty salon, another barber, and another luncheonette. (It was not that we ate so much lunch, but that they all made book.)
There was a lot more than this, too, on streets I never traveled, near as they were. The density of your own few blocks made others seem strange. People on 54th Street seemed distant. 55th, foreign. I never went out there but once a year, to Trick-or-Treat.
The two-way streets were called avenues, and named for cities in upstate New York - Albany, Troy, Schenectady, Utica - providing not just order, and a theme, but appropriate grandeur.
We lived in a row house, about 15 feet wide, in a stretch of them that ran one side of the block. On another side were bigger houses, some stand-alone, some attached. The other two sides of the block were apartment buildings. By code, a six floor building requires an elevator. Therefore, in lowdown and unshmancy Brooklyn 3, all were five, tops. Walk-ups.
Most apartment buildings had retail on the ground floor. Most commercial buildings had some housing above. Altogether it made for a lot of people and commerce.
Across the street from us were a dry cleaner, a dress shop, Louie Fink's luncheonette, Smilin' Jack's Appetizing, and a butcher shop. The butcher shop was known as Jerry the Jew's - even among Jews; even though Jerry seemed no more Jewish than 90% of the neighborhood population, i.e., Jews. I suppose it was just the allure of alliteration.
That was one block. On the next were a pharmacy, a variety store, a luncheonette, a fish monger, another butcher (live chickens in the yard), the Egg Man (from the chickens next door?), a hardware store, TV and radio repair, a bakery, a barber, a small grocery, a small supermarket, and another luncheonette.
On the next, a kosher restaurant, a pizzeria, a shoemaker, a Chinese laundry, a beauty salon, another barber, and another luncheonette. (It was not that we ate so much lunch, but that they all made book.)
There was a lot more than this, too, on streets I never traveled, near as they were. The density of your own few blocks made others seem strange. People on 54th Street seemed distant. 55th, foreign. I never went out there but once a year, to Trick-or-Treat.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
He Quit
Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Dolan, did not have a medical degree, and in fact did not even trust or like doctors, but he was convinced that cigarettes were evil, and a great hazard, and had to be eradicated from life.
He would discuss this while smoking at our dining room table.
Mr. Dolan came to our house often after dinner. My father was a good listener, and they were best friends.
Mr. Dolan was a great talker, practically Olympian. He could talk on any topic and, strictly speaking, did not even need particular topics.
But one of his favorites was smoking.
The monologue was frequent, with minor variations.
"They're killing us, Burke. You know that, don't you? We sit here sucking on these things, and we're sucking on death. Deep into our lungs, and our hearts." Like my parents, Mr. (and Mrs.) Dolan smoked unfiltered cigarettes, and had for a long time.
Jimmy Dolan was a strapping guy, prepossessing, loud, undaunted by anything in life, it seemed, strolling the street in plaid pants and shiny shoes. His name was Irish, but his mother was Italian, and Mr. Dolan had a personal blend of Italian toughness and Irish gab.
But for all his confidence, he was afraid of cigarettes. He tried, and tried, to quit.
In the midst of successful respite, he was a pleasure to hear, describing to my father the blessings of life without smoking.
"Burke," he would say. "You walk down the block and feel free. You're not a slave anymore. You know what a beautiful thing that is?
"You can hear the birds in the trees. The air smells better. Food tastes better. A meatball sub is like filet mignon. This beer tastes unbelievable to me," pointing at his bottle of Rheingold. "What does it taste like to you? Smokey piss.
"That's terrible. To me it tastes like Champagne. That's what my life is like now. Like a big glass of Champagne that never stops. And you don't have to pay for. How much are you paying for cigarettes a week? That you could put away for the future? If you have a future? You know what your future is, with those things? A coffin. A coffin for a tragic, early death.
"Don't get me wrong. I'm not gloating. I'll miss you. I'll speak at your funeral and I'll probably cry like a baby. I'll never mention this, but I'm asking you now: quit. Like me. Do it for me. Holy Christ, do it for yourself! For your kids! What are those kids going to do without a father? And a mother, God forbid? Jesus. You got to talk to Pat. I'm talking to Barbara. But she's thick. She's hooked, like you. Like all of yous. You know, time is fleeting. Do it now, before it's too late."
This kind of talk would go on for weeks, or even days, until Mr. Dolan succumbed, and started smoking again.
And then it would go like this:
"You don't know what it's like, Burke. It's not easy. It's the hardest thing you could ever try to do.
"It's like moving a mountain. Like moving it, then moving it over and over again, every day. Back and forth, like unbelievable torture.
"You get up in the morning and you know that's what you face. Another day of hell. And the cigarettes are right there. They'll save you from this hell.
"Oh, yeah, they'll take you to a deeper one. A cold, dark grave. But, Jesus Christ. What am I supposed to do, live in torture every day? Even a war ends. This don't end.
"But you wouldn't know. You don't know about the torture. You don't know about the pain. You never tried. You never been in the war. Well, I'm telling you, pal. Here's a report from the front. It's a killer. And we're losing.
"It don't look good. The prospects are dim. There's no way out. It's like we're in our graves prematurely. Right now. This very day is just a stop post to your grave. And these cigarettes are taking you there. You and me.
"But I don't know why I'm talking. It's like a veteran in the war doesn't tell the folks back home. There's no way they could know. No way they could understand. It's a hell I know, but you don't know, because you never been in the war."
I heard all this countless times, sitting on my father's lap at the table. There was practically nothing I liked more than hearing any summation of life or observational thing from Mr. Dolan.
Usually, my father didn't say much. But this time, stabbing out his cigarette in the ashtray between them, he said to Mr. Dolan,
"You see that cigarette?"
"Yeah, I see it," Mr. Dolan said. "What am I looking at?"
My father looked at him, then pointed at the butt. "That's the last cigarette I ever smoke in my life."
Mr. Dolan was silent. Uncharacteristically. But, in character, not long.
"Yeah, right!," he said, with big laughter. "You think it's that easy! You'll see, my friend. Now you'll see. I wish you luck. But you don't know what you're up against. I'm glad you're trying. Now you'll finally know what I'm saying."
My father didn't save the stub. Too bad. It was exactly what he said. It would have made a nice artifact.
He would discuss this while smoking at our dining room table.
Mr. Dolan came to our house often after dinner. My father was a good listener, and they were best friends.
Mr. Dolan was a great talker, practically Olympian. He could talk on any topic and, strictly speaking, did not even need particular topics.
But one of his favorites was smoking.
The monologue was frequent, with minor variations.
"They're killing us, Burke. You know that, don't you? We sit here sucking on these things, and we're sucking on death. Deep into our lungs, and our hearts." Like my parents, Mr. (and Mrs.) Dolan smoked unfiltered cigarettes, and had for a long time.
Jimmy Dolan was a strapping guy, prepossessing, loud, undaunted by anything in life, it seemed, strolling the street in plaid pants and shiny shoes. His name was Irish, but his mother was Italian, and Mr. Dolan had a personal blend of Italian toughness and Irish gab.
But for all his confidence, he was afraid of cigarettes. He tried, and tried, to quit.
In the midst of successful respite, he was a pleasure to hear, describing to my father the blessings of life without smoking.
"Burke," he would say. "You walk down the block and feel free. You're not a slave anymore. You know what a beautiful thing that is?
"You can hear the birds in the trees. The air smells better. Food tastes better. A meatball sub is like filet mignon. This beer tastes unbelievable to me," pointing at his bottle of Rheingold. "What does it taste like to you? Smokey piss.
"That's terrible. To me it tastes like Champagne. That's what my life is like now. Like a big glass of Champagne that never stops. And you don't have to pay for. How much are you paying for cigarettes a week? That you could put away for the future? If you have a future? You know what your future is, with those things? A coffin. A coffin for a tragic, early death.
"Don't get me wrong. I'm not gloating. I'll miss you. I'll speak at your funeral and I'll probably cry like a baby. I'll never mention this, but I'm asking you now: quit. Like me. Do it for me. Holy Christ, do it for yourself! For your kids! What are those kids going to do without a father? And a mother, God forbid? Jesus. You got to talk to Pat. I'm talking to Barbara. But she's thick. She's hooked, like you. Like all of yous. You know, time is fleeting. Do it now, before it's too late."
This kind of talk would go on for weeks, or even days, until Mr. Dolan succumbed, and started smoking again.
And then it would go like this:
"You don't know what it's like, Burke. It's not easy. It's the hardest thing you could ever try to do.
"It's like moving a mountain. Like moving it, then moving it over and over again, every day. Back and forth, like unbelievable torture.
"You get up in the morning and you know that's what you face. Another day of hell. And the cigarettes are right there. They'll save you from this hell.
"Oh, yeah, they'll take you to a deeper one. A cold, dark grave. But, Jesus Christ. What am I supposed to do, live in torture every day? Even a war ends. This don't end.
"But you wouldn't know. You don't know about the torture. You don't know about the pain. You never tried. You never been in the war. Well, I'm telling you, pal. Here's a report from the front. It's a killer. And we're losing.
"It don't look good. The prospects are dim. There's no way out. It's like we're in our graves prematurely. Right now. This very day is just a stop post to your grave. And these cigarettes are taking you there. You and me.
"But I don't know why I'm talking. It's like a veteran in the war doesn't tell the folks back home. There's no way they could know. No way they could understand. It's a hell I know, but you don't know, because you never been in the war."
I heard all this countless times, sitting on my father's lap at the table. There was practically nothing I liked more than hearing any summation of life or observational thing from Mr. Dolan.
Usually, my father didn't say much. But this time, stabbing out his cigarette in the ashtray between them, he said to Mr. Dolan,
"You see that cigarette?"
"Yeah, I see it," Mr. Dolan said. "What am I looking at?"
My father looked at him, then pointed at the butt. "That's the last cigarette I ever smoke in my life."
Mr. Dolan was silent. Uncharacteristically. But, in character, not long.
"Yeah, right!," he said, with big laughter. "You think it's that easy! You'll see, my friend. Now you'll see. I wish you luck. But you don't know what you're up against. I'm glad you're trying. Now you'll finally know what I'm saying."
My father didn't save the stub. Too bad. It was exactly what he said. It would have made a nice artifact.
They Smoked
In Brooklyn 3 New York, cigarettes weren't bad for you.
Everybody smoked. All adults, and lots of kids.
People smoked indoors and out. In cars with the windows closed. In supermarkets. While pregnant.
The only adults who didn't smoke were sick, frail, or fussy. Smoking was for good healthy people.
People smoked on TV. TV had a million cigarette ads, with sayings and songs.
It was the ads that disinterested me in cigarettes. The songs were lousy and the sayings made no sense.
The things I knew were good, like bagels, didn't have ads on TV. So I had the vague idea somebody was kidding with these cigarettes.
Suddenly, they decided cigarettes were bad for you. Just like that. Not just bad like to stunt your growth - which had always been a rumor, but clearly untrue, as many tall people smoked plenty - but like to kill you.
Now on TV, new commercials said that the Surgeon General, who was like the sheriff of health, said that cigarettes could give you lung cancer.
Lungs. I knew what they were. They were disgusting. You didn't want anything to happen to them. You didn't even want to know you had them.
These health commercials didn't have songs. They had pictures of hearts beating slow, slow, slow, then stopping. Announcers talked low and scary.
But they still had the ads telling you to buy cigarettes. So which was it?
I asked my mother and she said cigarettes are rotten and you should never smoke.
So why do you?, I asked.
Because I started young, she said, and it is a very hard habit to break. Maybe I will someday but it is better never to start.
Why did you start?, I asked.
Because my friends smoked, she said. Isn't that stupid?
I could never think of my mother and stupid in the same sentence, so I didn't say anything.
She smoked a lot. She would send me to Mickey and Sarah's luncheonette sometimes to buy her a pack when her carton ran out. It was hard for her to leave the house, with my little brother Paddy and baby sister Maryann.
I would tell Sarah they were for my mother, not me. She would make me hide them and tell me, run home. Don't get caught. She must have laughed as I scrambled. I never liked this errand.
I don't remember the first time I tried one. I must have fairly young, as they were all around. But I don't remember it. My older brother, Eddie, started early - at age 11, about a year after the surgeon general's report. It was a secret I didn't know. He told us when he was 16. He wanted to be able to smoke at home. There was a big argument, maybe the worst ever in our house. He got his way. Sadly.
Everybody smoked. All adults, and lots of kids.
People smoked indoors and out. In cars with the windows closed. In supermarkets. While pregnant.
The only adults who didn't smoke were sick, frail, or fussy. Smoking was for good healthy people.
People smoked on TV. TV had a million cigarette ads, with sayings and songs.
It was the ads that disinterested me in cigarettes. The songs were lousy and the sayings made no sense.
The things I knew were good, like bagels, didn't have ads on TV. So I had the vague idea somebody was kidding with these cigarettes.
Suddenly, they decided cigarettes were bad for you. Just like that. Not just bad like to stunt your growth - which had always been a rumor, but clearly untrue, as many tall people smoked plenty - but like to kill you.
Now on TV, new commercials said that the Surgeon General, who was like the sheriff of health, said that cigarettes could give you lung cancer.
Lungs. I knew what they were. They were disgusting. You didn't want anything to happen to them. You didn't even want to know you had them.
These health commercials didn't have songs. They had pictures of hearts beating slow, slow, slow, then stopping. Announcers talked low and scary.
But they still had the ads telling you to buy cigarettes. So which was it?
I asked my mother and she said cigarettes are rotten and you should never smoke.
So why do you?, I asked.
Because I started young, she said, and it is a very hard habit to break. Maybe I will someday but it is better never to start.
Why did you start?, I asked.
Because my friends smoked, she said. Isn't that stupid?
I could never think of my mother and stupid in the same sentence, so I didn't say anything.
She smoked a lot. She would send me to Mickey and Sarah's luncheonette sometimes to buy her a pack when her carton ran out. It was hard for her to leave the house, with my little brother Paddy and baby sister Maryann.
I would tell Sarah they were for my mother, not me. She would make me hide them and tell me, run home. Don't get caught. She must have laughed as I scrambled. I never liked this errand.
I don't remember the first time I tried one. I must have fairly young, as they were all around. But I don't remember it. My older brother, Eddie, started early - at age 11, about a year after the surgeon general's report. It was a secret I didn't know. He told us when he was 16. He wanted to be able to smoke at home. There was a big argument, maybe the worst ever in our house. He got his way. Sadly.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Peace In the Alley
There was yelling in households, and scuffling in schoolyards, but violence rarely raged in the neighborhood. People seemed not to hate each other enough to bother acting on it.
We were so close together, it would be hard to get away with criminal violence. We heard through walls between houses and apartments, and through windows outside them.
Summer nights, when tempers might have flared, there were ball games to watch on television, and people would turn their TVs to the windows and sit and watch outside. So there was wholesome outdoor entertainment, and a lot of beach chair vigilantes, or potential ones.
Usually, violence comes with drugs, and their illegal trade. In Brooklyn 3, drugs were limited to alcohol and airplane glue.
Drinking was done at home, and presumably was tolerated. It was known as "a good man's failing." It was all right, as long as he got up and went to work.
There were no bars in the immediate vicinity, which was mostly Jewish. Bars were concentrated where there were more Irish. On Church Avenue, you would see cops outside whiskey bars like Buckley's throwing flailing guys into squad cars.
But any neighbor of ours on Clarkson drinking on Church had a good hike home, with time to fall down once or twice, and forget what he was so mad about.
Airplane glue was a phenomenon among teenagers. There probably wasn't enough per tube to cause respiratory failure. Once in a while a guy would get it in his hair.
You could get it at variety and toy stores, and even candy stores and luncheonettes. They sold models just for the glue trade. You had to buy a model to get the glue.
On Friday nights, you could get all the models you wanted for free. Kids would come out of the store with the glue and throw the models on the ground. They were all over the streets. But I never developed an interest.
We were so close together, it would be hard to get away with criminal violence. We heard through walls between houses and apartments, and through windows outside them.
Summer nights, when tempers might have flared, there were ball games to watch on television, and people would turn their TVs to the windows and sit and watch outside. So there was wholesome outdoor entertainment, and a lot of beach chair vigilantes, or potential ones.
Usually, violence comes with drugs, and their illegal trade. In Brooklyn 3, drugs were limited to alcohol and airplane glue.
Drinking was done at home, and presumably was tolerated. It was known as "a good man's failing." It was all right, as long as he got up and went to work.
There were no bars in the immediate vicinity, which was mostly Jewish. Bars were concentrated where there were more Irish. On Church Avenue, you would see cops outside whiskey bars like Buckley's throwing flailing guys into squad cars.
But any neighbor of ours on Clarkson drinking on Church had a good hike home, with time to fall down once or twice, and forget what he was so mad about.
Airplane glue was a phenomenon among teenagers. There probably wasn't enough per tube to cause respiratory failure. Once in a while a guy would get it in his hair.
You could get it at variety and toy stores, and even candy stores and luncheonettes. They sold models just for the glue trade. You had to buy a model to get the glue.
On Friday nights, you could get all the models you wanted for free. Kids would come out of the store with the glue and throw the models on the ground. They were all over the streets. But I never developed an interest.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Syreens
The streets of East Flatbush were corridors to Kings County Hospital, with ambulances wailing all day, and especially night.
One of the first words I learned, then unlearned, was "syreen," the noise-maker on ambulances and cop cars. I never heard it pronounced any other way until school, where our nuns, who were from Baltimore, told us the word was "siren."
They had to use their full authority to convince us of that. We gave it to them, but kept our pronunciation anyway. It sounded truer - or, as I learned much later, more onomatopoetic.
We were close enough to the hospital to drive there ourselves, when necessary, rather than by ambulance. Faster and cheaper both, I suppose.
I never knew an adult to go to the hospital. Kids did, with lifestyle mishaps: Deirdre Morgan, who once ate some shoelaces and drank bleach in the laundry; Jimmy Dolan, who liked to shove mothballs up his nose, but occasionally overdid it; and me, once, at age 4.
At Easter, I was entertaining some company at our house, running in circles and shouting "Heyyy, Abbott," to fine comic effect.
But you can't please everybody, and at one point Mary Sullivan, a full ten years my senior who should have known better, or at least been kinder, stuck her foot out in front of me in full throttle and sent me flying head-first into an iron radiator.
I remember the flight, and the passage from consciousness out of it. Apparently there was a good deal of blood, and some concern about loss of life. Thus, a trip to the hospital.
It turned out all right; my only hospital visit ever. Unlike Jimmy Dolan, I learned a little lesson, in deciding to never go back, if I could help it. Of course, maybe he simply couldn't.
One of the first words I learned, then unlearned, was "syreen," the noise-maker on ambulances and cop cars. I never heard it pronounced any other way until school, where our nuns, who were from Baltimore, told us the word was "siren."
They had to use their full authority to convince us of that. We gave it to them, but kept our pronunciation anyway. It sounded truer - or, as I learned much later, more onomatopoetic.
We were close enough to the hospital to drive there ourselves, when necessary, rather than by ambulance. Faster and cheaper both, I suppose.
I never knew an adult to go to the hospital. Kids did, with lifestyle mishaps: Deirdre Morgan, who once ate some shoelaces and drank bleach in the laundry; Jimmy Dolan, who liked to shove mothballs up his nose, but occasionally overdid it; and me, once, at age 4.
At Easter, I was entertaining some company at our house, running in circles and shouting "Heyyy, Abbott," to fine comic effect.
But you can't please everybody, and at one point Mary Sullivan, a full ten years my senior who should have known better, or at least been kinder, stuck her foot out in front of me in full throttle and sent me flying head-first into an iron radiator.
I remember the flight, and the passage from consciousness out of it. Apparently there was a good deal of blood, and some concern about loss of life. Thus, a trip to the hospital.
It turned out all right; my only hospital visit ever. Unlike Jimmy Dolan, I learned a little lesson, in deciding to never go back, if I could help it. Of course, maybe he simply couldn't.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
A Good Clout
Neither of my parents were hitters, though they often were forced to threaten it.
My father, like many fathers of the time, I guess, had the role of punisher when he came home from work, and heard all the bad things we did that day.
If hitting were warranted, he would discuss it first, in a way that was so rote, and comical to me, the hardest thing was trying not to laugh.
"I'm gonna take off my belt," he would say, "and...I'll hit ya; and you'll cry..." and his voice would trail off in the sad inevitability of it all.
So I would say I was sorry, maybe crying a little for authenticity, thus avoiding any smacking, and then I would rush off and imitate the ritual for my siblings. It got us every time.
My mother also would allow us the chance of an out through words. Caught at something, or simply annoying her, she would turn and say, eerily deadpan, "Do you want a good clout?" - our introduction to the rhetorical question.
Once and only once she ever hit me. There was no question first. It was when President Kennedy died.
He was shot and killed on a Friday. I was in first grade. They didn't tell us at school. I remember getting off the school bus, and all the mothers were there. That was unusual, as they usually took turns meeting us.
They took our hands, which was also strange.
I remember coming home, and the news on TV - all day, and into the night.
When I woke on Saturday, my mother was up, standing in front of the TV.
I stood next to her. She wasn't speaking and might have been crying.
Personally, I was wondering what was happening with cartoons. I was a big fan of a new show, Tennessee Tuxedo and His Tales.
"Is this going to be on all day?," I asked.
"Of course," my mother said, and not kindly. "The president is shot dead."
It sank in. I shook my head - at the thought of the morning ruined; and said, as I gazed at the TV:
"Why did stupid President Kennedy have to get shot on a Friday?"
Wham, came the answer, a swing of my mother's arm, with the back of her hand to my face. She was crying now, and I sure knew why.
I found my footing, and looked up at her with tears in my eyes. She looked shocked, and sad, but she didn't say she was sorry.
My father, like many fathers of the time, I guess, had the role of punisher when he came home from work, and heard all the bad things we did that day.
If hitting were warranted, he would discuss it first, in a way that was so rote, and comical to me, the hardest thing was trying not to laugh.
"I'm gonna take off my belt," he would say, "and...I'll hit ya; and you'll cry..." and his voice would trail off in the sad inevitability of it all.
So I would say I was sorry, maybe crying a little for authenticity, thus avoiding any smacking, and then I would rush off and imitate the ritual for my siblings. It got us every time.
My mother also would allow us the chance of an out through words. Caught at something, or simply annoying her, she would turn and say, eerily deadpan, "Do you want a good clout?" - our introduction to the rhetorical question.
Once and only once she ever hit me. There was no question first. It was when President Kennedy died.
He was shot and killed on a Friday. I was in first grade. They didn't tell us at school. I remember getting off the school bus, and all the mothers were there. That was unusual, as they usually took turns meeting us.
They took our hands, which was also strange.
I remember coming home, and the news on TV - all day, and into the night.
When I woke on Saturday, my mother was up, standing in front of the TV.
I stood next to her. She wasn't speaking and might have been crying.
Personally, I was wondering what was happening with cartoons. I was a big fan of a new show, Tennessee Tuxedo and His Tales.
"Is this going to be on all day?," I asked.
"Of course," my mother said, and not kindly. "The president is shot dead."
It sank in. I shook my head - at the thought of the morning ruined; and said, as I gazed at the TV:
"Why did stupid President Kennedy have to get shot on a Friday?"
Wham, came the answer, a swing of my mother's arm, with the back of her hand to my face. She was crying now, and I sure knew why.
I found my footing, and looked up at her with tears in my eyes. She looked shocked, and sad, but she didn't say she was sorry.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Brooklyn 3
Brooklyn 3, New York was my address as a kid: 880 Clarkson Avenue, Brooklyn 3, New York.
We didn't move, but in 1964 it changed: to Brooklyn, New York, 11203.
It had to do with mail. There was no actual Brooklyn 3. The 3 had simply meant postal code 3, that's all.
That was a shock. Until then, I'd wondered why we were Brooklyn 3. Where were Brooklyns 2 and 1? Were they vastly different? Was there a Brooklyn 4? 5? 6? How many Brooklyns were there?
Or did it mean time, not place? Was Brooklyn 2 when they had the Dodgers? Brooklyn 1, horses?
It turns out, now, that Brooklyn 3 does mean a time. It also means a place, distinctly, if an indistinct place.
The place was East Flatbush. How it got a number so high, a place so low-down, I don't know. It was so undistinguished, it barely got a name.
Elsewhere in Brooklyn were places. Sheepshead Bay. Brooklyn Heights. Bensonhurst. Bushwick. Bay Ridge. Gravesend. Coney Island. Bed-Stuy. Flatbush. Distinct places, with names.
Our place was so devoid of anything, it had to cop a name. East of someplace? That's it?
It was fitting, though. In a borough everyone knows, and has always known, we were unknown.
There are no famous sites in East Flatbush. No famous streets (East Flatbush Avenue?). No tourist attractions. No parks. No subway stop.
No one comes from there. No one goes there, unless they live there, or get shot.
Shot, because East Flatbush has Kings County Hospital - our one thing. That, and next door to it, Brooklyn State Hospital: a mental hospital, immense, half a mile long.
The wounded and shot. The crazy, caught or not. East Flatbush, Brooklyn 3, New York.
We didn't move, but in 1964 it changed: to Brooklyn, New York, 11203.
It had to do with mail. There was no actual Brooklyn 3. The 3 had simply meant postal code 3, that's all.
That was a shock. Until then, I'd wondered why we were Brooklyn 3. Where were Brooklyns 2 and 1? Were they vastly different? Was there a Brooklyn 4? 5? 6? How many Brooklyns were there?
Or did it mean time, not place? Was Brooklyn 2 when they had the Dodgers? Brooklyn 1, horses?
It turns out, now, that Brooklyn 3 does mean a time. It also means a place, distinctly, if an indistinct place.
The place was East Flatbush. How it got a number so high, a place so low-down, I don't know. It was so undistinguished, it barely got a name.
Elsewhere in Brooklyn were places. Sheepshead Bay. Brooklyn Heights. Bensonhurst. Bushwick. Bay Ridge. Gravesend. Coney Island. Bed-Stuy. Flatbush. Distinct places, with names.
Our place was so devoid of anything, it had to cop a name. East of someplace? That's it?
It was fitting, though. In a borough everyone knows, and has always known, we were unknown.
There are no famous sites in East Flatbush. No famous streets (East Flatbush Avenue?). No tourist attractions. No parks. No subway stop.
No one comes from there. No one goes there, unless they live there, or get shot.
Shot, because East Flatbush has Kings County Hospital - our one thing. That, and next door to it, Brooklyn State Hospital: a mental hospital, immense, half a mile long.
The wounded and shot. The crazy, caught or not. East Flatbush, Brooklyn 3, New York.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)