Part
II
Tiger
Tiger Tiger
Before the Japanese
navy could begin their assault on
Pearl Harbor
in early December of 1941, they needed the coded command “Tora, Tora,
Tora”. That was Japanese for tiger, tiger, tiger. They were well aware
of the ferocity and power the name symbolizes. Today the tiger is an
endangered animal and I think is only found in parts of
Asia.
In the sixties there were still some in
Vietnam.
I know this because our platoon was stalked one night by a tiger. We
had made camp and dug our foxholes in the usual circular perimeter. As
the night wore on, we began to hear low growling in the jungle around
us. At first, we thought it could be a leopard but after the growling
grew louder, we knew it had to be a tiger. He circled the foxholes
slowly as if he, like the enemy, was probing for a weakness in the
perimeter. At first, the growling and occasional roar of the beast was
intimidating. After awhile, reality set in.
The tiger, for sure, is usually king of all he surveys. This
night was different. Tonight he might be the prey. Looking around at
all the soldiers and their machine guns, grenade launchers, and
rifles, I was reminded of an ominous line in the Walt Disney movie-
BAMBI- “The hunters are in the forest”.
Yes, the hunters were indeed in the forest that night. I doubt
there was any soldier, myself included, who wasn’t ready to kill that
tiger should he charge the camp. After a few moments of more
compassionate thought, I was hoping that beast would surrender the
evening to us. I wondered if he was aware of the danger that lurked in
the darkness. Yes, he had a cat’s night vision, and could see much
better than we could. Still, he could not know the pain and lethality
that was contained in the sticks we carried. Thankfully, after about
an hour of stalking growling and roaring, he reluctantly gave up that
portion of his territory to us. I was also reminded of Kipling's poem-
Tiger tiger, burning bright, in the forest of the night, what immortal
hand or eye, could frame thy fearful symmetry Yes it sounds poetic but
man is still the most frightening animal in the forest.
The
Assassinations
On April 4th
The Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. was murdered. I, along with other
white soldiers went around to our black comrades to express our
sympathy. The assassination had sparked riots and violence back home.
Of course we all knew that we couldn’t have that same reaction in the
field. We were all too dependent on each other. The black soldiers
just quietly grieved among themselves knowing they had
lost a great leader and a symbol of much hope for the future
.Though I was very impressed with Dr. King’s oratory, his non-violent
commitment and his cause, I didn’t think that I could fully comprehend
the despair his death brought to my black friends. I simply gave them
all some time to grieve. Two months later, a black soldier walked up
to me and said, “John, they got your boy” He then informed me that
Bobby Kennedy had been murdered. It was at that time hat I began to
comprehend the magnitude of the loss that they had experienced with
Dr. King’s death. How
could it have happened? How could the two most charismatic leaders of
our time have been killed within two months of each other? How was
that possible in
America?
Who could have done these things? We all wondered in our grief, were
these mere coincidences or was this a plot? Of course, we all
remembered that terrible day in
Dallas
on November 22nd in 1963. We wondered if there was a
connection. It seemed very unlikely. Still, within two months the
anti-war movement had lost its most powerful leaders. Was this a clue?
By 1968, any one who had ever fired a gun and hit a target knew that
president Kennedy was killed by a bullet fired from his front right.
The Zapruder film made that obvious to any of us who had been shooting
the M-16 for a few months. A bullet fired from a rifle packs a mighty
wallop and hits you with the force of a bat swung by a major leaguer.
If it’s fired from the front, it will knock you backwards. If it’s
fired from the rear, you will be thrown forward.
The bullet that shattered the president’s head was fired from
the front unless the laws of Physics had taken that day off.
Obviously, someone in the country wanted everyone to believe that Lee
Harvey Oswald was a lone assassin. No one, it seemed, could ever solve
that dilemma. Who would want to kill the president and why?
Now we had his
brother and another great leader dead. Who could have wanted them
killed and why? What did they all have in common? I could only come up
with one thing-Peace. Marin Luther King was killed exactly one year
after he came out against the war. Bobby Kennedy was campaigning on an
anti-war platform. As for the President, he had taken the rap for the
C.I A. after the Bay of
Pigs fiasco in
Cuba.
He had prevented the military hard-liners from invading
Cuba
during the missile crisis of 1962. It appeared he was not as enthused
as others were about getting deeper into the
Vietnam
quagmire. I recalled what my father had told me once- You can preach
hate or love but it is very dangerous to preach peace. Think of
Gandhi, Kennedy, Lincoln, Jesus. All were men who preached peace or
conciliation. All were assassinated. I wondered if there somehow was a
connection between the Kennedy and King murders. We couldn’t totally
see it but for now we could not dwell on such things. We had our own
assassins to deal with. Out in the jungles and rice paddies lurked our
own Oswalds, Rays and Sirhans- the Viet-Cong.
Guard
Duty- Let the Soldiers Sleep
When we were out in
the field, which was most of the time, we had to pull guard duty.
That’s when two, three or four men are assigned a foxhole or position
and at least one man has to be awake through the night. Each man would
take anywhere from two to three hours or more per night to be awake
and "On Guard" During this time the other men at his post or foxhole
would sleep. I remember what I used to say to the man who would follow
me on guard duty each night. After making sure he was truly alert and
ready to stay up throughout his allotted time, I would always say the
same thing. I would lie down inside my poncho and say, "Wake me when
the war is over". It was
just a routine I had and I'm sure no one else except me thought that
it was such a clever or witty thing.
Still, I persisted in doing it every evening. Being on guard
was such an immense responsibility that hardly anyone, other than
José, ever went to sleep on their watch. One time however, after an
unusually long march, I awoke in the middle of the night to find no
one else awake at my post. I was pretty surprised because out in the
field we rarely let out guard down and seldom fell asleep unless the
assigned soldier was up and alert. I rose and walked over to the next
foxhole. No one was awake there either. At the position beside that
one, a couple of my Mexican American friends were up. They were
Laredo
whose real name was Ricardo Guajardo and Robert Sanchez a
machine-gunner from another squad. It was common for people to be
called by their hometowns, cities or states.
Laredo
was one of those cases. It was too bad because his Spanish name had a
nice musical feel to it-Ri-Car-Do Gua-Jar-Do. Still, he was called
Laredo.
Like many other soldiers, they were sharing a portion of their guard
duty. In other words, one of them was up for the last part or the
first part of the other’s assigned time. You would end up serving more
time this way but for at least some of your duty, you would have
company. Also, there would be an extra pair of eyes. I told them that
some of the foxholes were unguarded and then proceeded around the
perimeter. To my amazement, we three were the only ones up. I
immediately went to David’s position. Without hesitation I woke him.
He walked around our whole camp with me. Only the four of us were now
awake. The camp was in the open and was about the size of a football
field minus the end zones. It was oval shaped and had about fifteen
foxholes or posts. It was in a wide-open space and the nearest jungle
or cover for the enemy was hundreds of yards away. David surveyed the
situation. He knew that we hardly ever fell asleep on guard. He
realized that most of the men were completely exhausted. He also knew
that our perimeter and position was actually fairly safe as long as a
few of us remained alert. He was also aware that if the Captain or the
wrong lieutenant found out we would all be in for an even longer march
in the morning. He looked
at me with that clever handsome smile of his and I knew right away
what he was going to do. He said, Johnny, you take one corner,
Laredo
and Sanchez will take a corner each and I’ll take the last corner. In
about an hour and a half, we’ll wake up one man on each position. Now,
you might ask where are the corners in an oval perimeter. Well they
call a boxing square a ring don’t they.
Without any questions or grumbling we followed David’s order.
As I stood watch over
my “corner”, I was struck by the peacefulness of the night. It was not
quite a full moon but it was very clear. Many stars were visible. By
now, I had my night vision and could clearly see for hundreds of
yards. With the four of us on guard, our contingent of about eighty
men was safe. Safest of all were the Captain and other officers
sleeping quietly in the middle of the perimeter. You do a lot of
thinking when you’re awake at about three A.M.
and I always did my share. I thought again about my fear of being one
of those forgettable souls who go away to war and don’t come back.
Someone no one quite seems to recall that clearly and is remembered as
a friend of this person or that person and that he was killed but
never had done anything that caused people to remember him. It was
then that I decided to write down, as soon as I could, every single
relatively important event of my brief life. I couldn’t write just
then as I was on guard, but I began to recall moments and feelings for
later recording. I would leave behind my own brief history so if I
didn't come home people could still read my story and know that I was
a person, I was a soldier, I did exist. Gazing up at the beautiful
night sky, I stared across the open fields, I breathed the cool night
air and once more I began to think of my childhood
I Grew
Up In Heaven or How I Became Color Blind
I had the great
fortune of growing up in Roxbury
Massachusetts
in the 50's. I considered it the most wonderful place on earth. To
this day, I remember almost every minute detail of my childhood there.
My first memory is of my father rocking me to sleep while he played
his harmonica. I was about four years old and he would often tickle my
neck with the short whiskers of his five o'clock shadow. This would
immediately send me into convulsions of laughter and I'd almost fall
off of his lap. He would always catch me just before I hit the floor.
From those moments on I seemed to live a charmed existence. Although I
didn't like school, I did well academically. With the nuns'
disciplined style it was often sink or swim. I thought I'd take a dip.
Of course when, as a third grader, you witness another boy getting his
mouth washed out with soap, you tend to walk the straight and narrow.
In the first grade I remember singing "Immaculate Mary" every day
before our spelling quiz. It always made me feel good. It wasn't
because I liked to sing or that it was a beautiful song. Like most
religious songs, other than Christmas Carols, it lacked complex lyrics
or a pleasing melody. What I enjoyed was the fact that immediately
following the hymn we would get our spelling books out and be tested
on ten words. Each word was worth ten points. If you spelled all ten
correctly you got a hundred. That meant you would get a perfectly
formed red letter C on that page of your spelling book. It was
absolutely wonderful, in my mind, to receive that letter in your own
personal book. Next to recess, it was the greatest thing about school
that year. I did avoid a temporary setback in the second grade though.
By that time I had established myself as a very obedient, quiet, and
pliable student. I was a nun's delight. The very first day of school,
however, a great dilemma was forced upon me. You see that was also the
first day of school for my younger brother Dan. He has been a free
spirit his whole life and he didn't waste any time getting into that
mode. I was growing up in the 50's in
Roxbury
Mass.
and going to St.
Patrick's grammar
school. Dan was, on the other hand, fifteen years ahead of his time
and going to be the first six-year-old revolutionary.
It should have been no surprise to me when the first day of
school. Dan and a few other miscreants were paraded into my classroom.
While they took their places in the front of the class, the nuns began
their verbal assault. I don't recall the exact words but the gist of
it was that these kids up here are very bad boys. They should be
avoided at all costs. They were disobedient, fresh punks and probably
communists. Actually they might not have used the word communist.
While my classmates gasped in horror and fear I wondered how my
brother had been able to, at the age of six, convert so many
followers. Now of course, after investing nine months in establishing
myself as a spineless obedient running dog of the nuns and priests, I
didn't want to go down in my brother's ship. I slowly bent down behind
the student in front of me praying that they would take my brother and
his hooligans to another classroom. No such luck. My brother Dan
caught my slinking body out of the corner of his eye. “Hey Johnny”, he
yelled. It was like being hit with a rock. My wonderful world of happy
illusions was about to come crumbling down. How could I, an “A”
student and teacher’s pet, be in any way connected with this devil
child? At such a young age I was facing a cataclysmic decision. Do I
recognize my beleaguered brother and lose my hard won reputation or do
I deny him. To most it might seem like a difficult decision. To me it
was not. The student to my right asked me, “Do you know that boy?”
Immediately and without the slightest trepidation, I denied my
brother. Before I could even feel guilt, I said, “No I don't know that
kid”. To this day, I am perplexed by my lack of sensitivity. Anyhow I
survived that terrible day and continued on as a goody two shoes. Of
course my brother Dan was not too happy on our walk home that day. We
both continued down our different paths. For eight years I remained a
good student and Danny went after any known records for detentions,
suspensions, and corporal punishments. We both succeeded in our
quests.
As I recall St.
Patrick's
School, I do have many fond memories and the kind nuns always
outnumbered the volatile ones.
I remember the hard wood floors of the school and how they
creaked and groaned under your feet as you walked from class to class.
The noise was even more pronounced if you were late. I was rarely
late. I remember the ink wells in the desks and the dark indigo ink we
filled them up with. I remember the boxes of candy they gave us each
Christmas. I remember My First Communion and not being able to eat
meat on Friday. That was a Mortal sin. You go to Hell for that. I
remember that venial sins are the little ones like stealing a candy
bar from the corner store. There seemed to be a lot of territory to be
covered between Mortal and Venial sins. The strangest one of all was
Original sin. That was the one you got for just being born. It could
keep you out of heaven. You had to be baptized to get rid of Original
sin. Anyone who didn't get baptized before they died went to Limbo.
Limbo was between Heaven and Hell. It wasn't beautiful like Heaven but
it wasn't as hot as hell. Actually, nobody ever really described Limbo
that well. So, although my visions of heaven and hell were relatively
clear, my picture of Limbo was rather clouded. When I was first
informed that mortal sins like not going to church on Sunday could
send you to hell, I was terribly frightened for my father. I knew he
hadn't been to church in a long time. He also liked pepperoni and
often ate it on Friday night while watching the boxing matches on T.V.
That was another bad one. I was so worried that one day after school.
I let all of my friends go home before me. I was on a mission from
God. I had to get home safely and not get killed by a car or truck or
even the "Rag Man" in his horse and carriage. If that happened, I
couldn't warn my father about his impending trip to hell. It took me a
long time to get home that day. I was so careful crossing the streets.
When I arrived, he was already home. Immediately I informed him that
he had to go to confession. Confession was where you go into a cubicle
and tell a priest the bad things you've done. He listens and then
forgives your sins if you do your penance. Penance is usually a number
of prayers. The more sins the more prayers.
I told my father that he had Mortal sins on his soul and he
would go to hell if he didn’t confess them. He laughed and said,
“Johnny, there ain't no hell. Everyone goes to heaven”. I was stunned.
In one sentence he had negated two years of constant religious
indoctrination. It was an epiphany for me. The ponderous weight of my
Church’s teachings was immediately lifted from my small shoulders. I
felt instant relief knowing that my dad was not doomed. From that day
on I didn't allow the inflexibility of my religion to trouble my mind
too much. After all I was living in Roxbury in the 50's things
couldn’t have been better.
Marbles, Penny Candy, Bicycles, Ice Cream and the Tree of Heaven
When I was five, my
family moved from one section of Roxbury, near the
City
Hospital
to Cleveland St.which was in St.
Patrick’s
Parrish. As soon as we arrived in the apartment, I remember riding my
bicycle through the opened double doors that separated the three
bedrooms. The bicycle rolled smoothly along the hard wood floors. I
would spend the next few years, with my siblings, playing on these
same floors. I loved rolling marbles, which we called “Aggies”, across
the hard wood surface. We had a nice backyard, a long driveway which
eventually would be called
Cleveland Park
and a huge field to the rear of the house behind us. There seemed to
be a million places to play and things to do. I felt like I was in a
kind of “Heaven on Earth”. Upstairs, my cousins Tommy and Stephen
lived. Tommy and I were about the same age but because he had started
school very early, he was a grade above me. Stephen, who was younger,
became one of my closest friends. Our gang consisted of my younger
brother Dan my cousins and a few other boys from down the street. Of
course, we never considered ourselves to be anything as unruly as a
gang. The worse thing we did was to steal the pears off of the trees
in the neighborhood. On occasion, one of us would commit the near
mortal sin of taking a whole candy bar from The First National or
Dinty’s Corner store. On Saturday mornings, we’d run down to the
Rivoli Theatre near Dudley Street Station to see two full length
movies, a Three Stooges short and some painful sing along song. The
charge for this priceless entertainment was a dime. As I said, “It was
Roxbury,
Massachusetts
in the 50’s and I was in Heaven”. If you didn’t have enough money for
popcorn and a drink, you could always stock up on penny candy in the
stores on the way. Root Beer Barrels could last a long time and were a
sure fire way to guarantee a trip to the dentist.
The movies of the time were absolutely
incredible, especially the Science Fiction ones. There was The
Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Earth vs. the Flying Saucers, War of
The Worlds, The Creature From The Black Lagoon and The Revenge of The
Creature. These were followed by the final episode of the trilogy- The
Creature Walks Among Us where the monster becomes almost human and
shows more compassion than many of the other characters. I have to say
though that two of my most favorite were The Incredible Shrinking Man
and The Day The Earth Stood Still. Both movies had powerful and
ominous endings. In the Day The Earth Stood Still Aliens warn the
people of earth to terminate there war like ways or face the wrath of
peace loving entities who are organized and from many other far flung
galaxies. Too bad not many adults were listening. In the last scene of
The Incredible Shrinking Man, the title character ponders his future.
He concludes that it is possible that he may continue to shrink as
long as he is alive. He wonders if it is possible that the
infinitesimally small might at some place and time merge with the
infinitely large. Incredibly powerful stuff for a ten year old to
ponder. I remember that tiny man walking through the screening of a
window in his basement and outside to an even vaster universe. He
realizes that though he continues to shrink, he remains alive. To this
day, I can hear him say, "I Still Exist". To compare these Classics
with the computer generated, special effects strangled and poorly
written science fiction of today is like comparing fine wine to mud.
You can have your "Matrix Unloaded'. Give me some classic 50's Science
Fiction. Case Closed.
I remember the first time I walked to the store
by myself to get an ice cream cone. As I was returning from the drug
store and walking up Moreland Street
to Cleveland Street,
I was jumped by a Doberman pinscher. The scare caused me to drop my
precious ice cream to the ground where the pig of a dog lapped it up.
I have had no use for Dobermans ever since.
One of my most indelible memories was my first
ride on a bicycle. It came shortly after my older brother and sister
had somehow removed the training wheels from my bike. They told me
that they were going to teach me to ride like a big boy. They told me
to mount the bicycle which, despite my misgivings, I did. As I held on
tight, they proceeded to push me rather quickly down
Cleveland
Park in the general direction of
Cleveland Street. Now my older brother was
the fastest runner around of his age. My sister Joanmarie, once lost a
boyfriend because she had beaten him in a race and he was the fastest
kid his age around. As you can see there was a lot of foot power at
their disposal in their earnest quest to teach their little brother to
ride in a relatively safe fashion. They began to push me and my bike
slowly down the street. In a moment I was hurtling at warp speed down
Cleveland Park
on a collision course with any car that might be going by on
Cleveland Street. I had two choices. One
was to stay with the bike and possibly die. The other was to crash.
Now my siblings maintain to this day that I was not going that fast
when I jumped from the bicycle and crashed onto the concrete pavement.
They did however, slowly come over to me just to see if I were still
breathing. My loving brother and sister asked me if I was ready to try
again. Knowing that we already had a rather large family of six and
that my mother was a devout Catholic and my father was Italian and
that more siblings were probably in the plans I paused for some
serious thought. If my older brother and sister succeeded in their
plans to kill me, that would mean one less mouth to feed and one less
kid to clothe. Therefore, they would probably not receive a punishment
proportional to their crime. It was then that I decided I needed to
learn to ride my bike real soon. Not long after that day, I found
myself peddling down the alley between my house and the next-door
neighbor's. Balancing on the bike was a new achievement but there was
something incredible about the bike's moving although, I was no longer
pedaling. This was the first bicycle I owned where the wheels would
roll though I was not pedaling. Up to this time, the wheels and the
pedals of my bikes moved in unison. That was a bit tedious and
restrictive for a little boy who wanted to fly. To be able to coast on
my bike was so magical to me. I pushed the pedals just a few times and
then cruised down the red brick sidewalk of
Cleveland Street. I turned right onto
Winthrop Street still coasting. Across the
Street was the house of the girl I would have a crush on for seven
years without ever mentioning it to her even once. That was my shy
period. I kept rolling down Winthrop Street
past the field that we often played in. It's official name was
appropriately enough, "The Field". Inside the field was a large group
of lilac bushes in the form of a circle. In the spring I would often
stand in the middle of the bushes bathed in the aroma of their
blossoms. I continued down Winthrop
passing the home of the Pozehls. They were long time, very close
friends of our family. The older sisters Paula and Jackie often
babysat us. The younger sisters, Pam and Andrea, were closer in age to
us and more like friends than guardians. We always enjoyed having them
around. When their family moved, I felt terrible. Eventually they
ended up in Alexandria
Virginia. As a young man, I spent many
enjoyable summers vacationing at their expense in the
Washington
D.C. area. To this day, we remain very close
and I can always count on them to put up with me when I arrive
unannounced on their doorstep. The bike rolled on. I couldn't believe
how long it would coast without pushing the pedals. I might have just
pedaled it two more times before I crossed
Mt. Pleasant Avenue. That was the street
St. Patrick’s School was on. As soon
as I crossed that road, I was at Scobie
Park. This park marked the
unofficial end of our neighborhood. I now knew how to ride and was
safe from my older siblings.
Next to riding my bike, I have to say that
playing marbles was one of my most favorite activities as a child. I
would often roll some marbles up against one of the walls in my
parents' bed room. I would have other marbles which I would “shoot” at
the rolling ones preventing them from reaching me. You would “Shoot”
the aggies by pressing one between your thumb and index finger. With a
lot of practice, a kid could get pretty accurate and hit even moving
targets. The marbles that were rolling toward me were, in my mind,
Indians. The ones that I shot at them were the Cavalry. Sometimes I
would change it around and I would shoot the cavalry as they charged
the Indians. If any of the opposing force's marbles succeeded in
rolling into me as I kneeled on the floor, I would lose the game. The
one rigid rule was that the blue aggies, which were called "catseye"
were always the cavalry and that the multi-colored marbles were the
Indians in their distinctive native clothing. I would play this game
for hours to the consternation of my grandmother who would be startled
by the ringing noise the marbles made as they hit the pipe that ran up
through the ceiling to her apartment. I had to wrap a towel around
that pipe so as not to disturb her. It was a small price to pay for
the many years of fun I had playing with those marbles. The game
probably is most like today's video game "Galaga"
One day I introduced my cousins and some friends
to an even more exciting game. We were on the front porch when I
noticed that it sloped downward toward the street. I rolled one of my
aggies up to the top of the porch and sure enough it rolled back. I
asked everyone to pick a marble. They did, I then rolled them all
together up the porch. Once they reached the top, they all, at varying
speeds, turned and rolled back to us. As they rolled, some would
increase in speed while others slowed, totally independent of the
unbridled exhortations of the boys. I didn't have to inform anyone
that whichever marble got back to us first was the winner. It was the
Cleveland Street Kentucky Derby for aggies. It was a lot of fun for a
few days, but the noise was just too much for my grandmother. We had
to find a new game to play. That, of course, would be no problem. Now,
before you get the wrong idea about my grandmother, there are a few
things you should know. She lived through the Great Depression and two
World Wars. She was about sixty at the time and like me, she couldn't
stand loud noises. To this day, I am tremendously indebted to her for
teaching me one of life's great lessons. One day, we were in Filenes'
Basement, a fairly well known shopping place in the city of
Boston. A cookie vendor offered me a cookie for
free. Since I was only about six and very shy, I refused and hid
behind my grandmother. In a flash, she grabbed me by the collar and
shoved me across the floor toward the vendor saying, "Take it while
the getting's good". It was a valuable lesson and one that I remember
to this day.
During my youth, as I have said, I had more than
my share of fun playing with my marbles. Though I treasured those
aggies, there came a day when, for reasons unknown, I was down to only
a handful of them. Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Dymond, found out and
offered to take me to the store to buy some. Now Mr. Dymond, whose
name was pronounced diamond, was a colored man who was so close and
friendly to all of the children in the neighborhood that he had
achieved almost mythical status. He seemed to be the biggest,
strongest, happiest man that any of us ever knew. Often times, he
would pick us up by our ears and lift us high over his head. Of course
he didn't actually pick us up by our ears but rather we would grab
hold of his massive forearms while he held his hands to the side of
our heads. No matter how many times we pleaded with him to perform
this or any other trick, he never refused. I have never known a man
who was so enthralled with children. After we had gotten to know him
for awhile, he had told us not to call him a Negro but rather a
colored man. Years later when the equally nondescript title of "Black"
came into vogue, Mr. Dymond informed us that he still considered
himself a "Colored Man". Since he was the nicest kindest man we had
ever met, we all agreed to call him whatever he wanted. When he and I
arrived at the store that day, we went to the section where the
marbles were. There were different sized bags of marbles. One was much
larger than the other. He asked me which bag I wanted. I pointed to
the smaller one. He laughed and insisted I get the big bag. I was
overjoyed. I had never had so many marbles before in my life. I still
remember getting home and opening the bag on the floor. The aggies
rolled across the kitchen floor and seemed to cover the whole room.
This was only one of countless gifts that Mr. Dymond would give to the
neighborhood children. What was also unusual about these acts of
kindness was that all of the neighborhood kids were "White". Of
course, I don't think he really saw children in colors. To tell the
truth, our neighborhood was considered white because most of the
families with children were white. In an unusual twist, our house was
bordered on three sides by black families whose children had either
grown up or had not yet been born. The black men in those houses were
the first ones we would get to know. They couldn't have been any more
friendly, dignified or helpful to us. Mr. Mewitt, who lived in the
apartment above The Dymonds, was the tallest man in the neighborhood.
He always wore a suit and seemed to be a college professor or business
executive. Mr. Wright, who lived on the other side of our house was
also very friendly and possessed the biggest muscles we had ever seen.
We were always pestering him to show us his huge arms. Then there was
the Protestant Minister who lived behind us- Mr. McLoud, who was the
biggest tipper in the neighborhood when it came to taking in the trash
barrels. He, like the other three, was forever in a good mood and
always concerned with our physical safety.
I think though, in the back of his mind he was actually
inquiring about our moral safety. He was totally unlike our formal and
stern priests. We were worried about him going to hell because he
wasn't Catholic. That was a troubling paradox for such young children.
How could such a nice man be going to hell just for being a minister
in the wrong church? It was not long after that idea came to my mind
that my father informed me that there was no such thing as hell. So it
was that I grew up thinking that black men were more friendly, better
dressed and calmer in demeanor than white men. As you might expect, it
would not be long before I came to know that the truth was that
neither black men nor white men were better than the other. The truth
was that by a strange coincidence, the four gentle men who lived
around our house happened to be colored.
The Tree of Heaven
It was always a treat each summer when we would
climb the local pear trees and eat the green pears long before they
were due to be harvested. By the end of the summer, only the pears on
the very top of the trees would ripen. Those were the real sweet ones.
Those were the treasures. There was only one kid around who had the
sufficient combination of courage and carelessness to go after those
beauties. We all knew that this was his time, his moment, his day in
the sun. He was the "Daredevil"- my younger brother Dan. To the
cheers, horror and admiration of our gang, Dan would scale the highest
trees on the thinnest branches to throw down those precious pears. You
could never count how many green pears we had eaten but the ripe
yellow ones were only received through Danny's graces. Each yellow
pear was a singular delicacy. Only a chosen few of us had ever eaten
more than one or two each summer. The "Tree of Heaven" was not a pear
tree or a cherry tree or any other fruit bearing tree. The "Tree of
Heaven" in fact, is considered by many to be a weed. I believe its
scientific name is "Aelanthus Altissima". It grows to about the same
size as most other city trees but it has peculiar branches and leaves.
Protruding from each branch are several long stem like appendages. On
each stem there are about seven to ten long leaves, one on each side.
I would often pull the leaves off of the stem and it could be used as
a whip. Unfortunately, it was too effective as a whip and I couldn't
bear to use it on any one. If you took all of the leaves off of one
side, and then wrapped it around your head, it looked very much like a
green American Indian headdress. If you took all but one or two of the
leaves of, it would look like an Indian’s headband with eagle feathers
on the back. I can still remember the scent of the leaves on my
fingertips after I pulled the leaves from the stem. The most amazing
thing about the tree of heaven was the fact that it seemed to be
capable of growing absolutely anywhere. You could often see it
protruding from beneath fences or even cracks in the pavement or brick
sidewalks. It was an almost indestructible plant or tree depending on
your point of view. As I said, I believe it is considered, by some, to
be a weed. Still I am sure it provides as much oxygen for humans as
most any other tree. In late summer the trees emitted a powerful but
easily identifiable odor. It was then that their seeds would form in
huge one foot diameter clumps. Each clump held hundreds of seeds. Each
seed had two wing like appendages. When the seeds fell the “wings”
would help to float them far from the tree. The sailing seeds, riding
soft winds, signaled the coming end of another summer in heaven.
The Devil’s Music and the Voices
Crying in the Wilderness
During my days in Roxbury a new kind of music was
emerging in America.
To most people, it was known as Rock& Roll. To really stupid people it
was “The Devil’s Music. To them it was leading the youth of the
country to hell. Anyhow, many politicians, religious leaders and
sociologists thought that Rock&Roll was going to undermine the morals
of young people. They were worried that it could make the youth
rebellious and angry. Today it’s pretty difficult to think of Elvis
Presley, Buddy Holly and Chuck Berry as rebels. In those conservative
times it was not so hard. I found the music to be pleasing and
innocent and more like dance music than anything else. At that time
there was some revolutionary music “In the wind” but it wasn’t coming
from the rock and rollers. It was emerging from the most popular music
of all- the peoples’ music- Folk Music. People like Bob Dylan and Phil
Ochs were just now beginning to pen the lyrics of the truly
revolutionary sounds of the times. They were the voices crying in the
wilderness. The times were indeed changing. The Civil rights movement
was exploding onto the scene and Folk Music was at the vanguard of
that movement. Folk music had already been closely tied to the union
movement. It should have been no surprise to the "Authorities", that
it would be at the forefront of the Anti-war movement during
Vietnam. It wasn’t the devil’s music
any more than Rock&Roll but it was surely going to change the times.
The End of Heaven
As the fifties were drawing to a close, a couple
of events occurred in my neighborhood that signaled the end on
innocence and the arrival of reality. The first was the day my cousin
Tommy went to the hospital. I remember a few days earlier asking him
if he would ride me on his bike to the store. He told me that his knee
was hurting and he couldn’t. Since we did not always get along even
though his younger brother was my closest friend, I wasn’t totally
convinced that his knee was really bothering him. I remember exactly
where he was on his bike that day in
Cleveland
Park and exactly where I was when I
asked him for the ride. I remember exactly how I felt and exactly
which direction I walked off to go to the store. I turned and walked
between Mr. Dymond’s house and my own and proceeded down
Cleveland St. I remember this because not
long after this I was told Tommy was coming home from the hospital and
he would be missing a leg. This was an event so painful and profound
as to mean the end of total happiness in the neighborhood. For the
first time ever a child would be so hurt and so challenged that it
would directly affect all of the other children. It took all of us a
long time to get over Tommy’s loss. This was the single most negative
moment of our thirteen years in Roxbury. Tommy would have to carry
that burden for the rest of his life. Today he has completely survived
that challenge and has a family, a full working career, and incredibly
still performs as a magician and stand-up comic in the
Boston
area.
The second event that helped bring about the end
of our perfect life was the beginnings of racial hostility. I would
learn years later that Mr. Dymond came to see my parents to warn them
of the coming storm. He told them that people were moving into the
neighborhood who didn’t like “Whites”. I’m sure that my father was
already aware of the brewing hostilities for my parents were then
planning a move to the suburbs. It must have been very hard on Mr.
Dymond to have to do that. While acknowledging his gesture, I believe
my father was well aware that for every black who blindly hated whites
there would be a white to return the favor. He knew that there was
racism on both sides. The times were changing in more ways than one.
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