This diary was inspired by Eclectablogs' beautiful diary titled, 'I was Born a Poor Bla Kid. ( 'http://www.dailykos.com/ ) In his diary, I posted the comment, ' i'm wha, my ma was wha and we were on welfare too.' and it seemed to resonate with 52 rec's. So I thought I would expand on that comment, in the spirit in which his diary was written and provide a little of the backstory, because there is one.
So as not to make this another impossibly long read, I've split the diary into two parts.
The Memories
For the first twelve years, my family and I, lived on Long Island, in a one story house, that looked like all the others on my block. Walk around the corner and you would see the same house, different brick and address number on the door. The subdivision was created by Robert Lefrak, a powerful, influential developer during the 1950's and ours was not the only American Dream, Lefrak built on this island that was, for decades, a prosperous, thriving farming community.
The beautiful 2 story, wood framed farmhouse, still stood around the corner, on the corner and across from the graveyard, all that was left, after the crops were flattened, corn and potato fields paved over for progress. I remember the farmers' widow, who slowly walked her two identical collies, around the entire neighborhood every morning, as if she was walking, what she remembered to be, her acreage.
My family had a dog and two cars in the driveway, almost everyone did. We all dutifully did, what we were told. Whas lived on my block and around the corner. Drive anywhere, because no one walked on Long Island, except the woman with the collies, and you would see whas. Long Island was populated by whas. You might say it was the land of wha and you'd be right.
My elementary school principal, all the teachers, the bus driver and the maintenance crew, were wha. All the students and the classmates, in my fourth grade class, were wha too, that's just how it was; a given, our, everyday.
The principal, a perpetually, unhappy woman with thin lips and tight wiry hair, for some reason and despite the weather, always wore a tailored, wool skirt, pleated, that fell just below her knees. There was always a matching short jacket, and a broch. She and her outfit, opened the door to our classroom, one humid morning and announced stiffly, that we were getting a new classmate and her name was Carol. She escorted Carol by her shoulders and parked her awkwardly, in front of the blackboard and quickly left, as the solid heavy door, echoed loudly, through the cinderblock hallway, behind her.
I can't remember if I was eight or nine but I do remember, with detailed clarity, some fifty years later, the crisp, navy blue dress, the bright, white ankle socks above shiny, black, patent leather shoes, the two red bows in her hair and her bright eyes, that matched Carols' beaming smile. I remember her skin too, because Carol was the first bla person, I had ever, laid my eyes on.
As kids, my classmates and I, didn't understand the significance of this event. We folded Carol into our class, just like any other kid. That's how kids are. She took a seat at the front and it became apparent, rather quickly, that Carol was not only engaging, she was brilliant. She knew every answer, to every question, and then some. She introduced us to classical music and would give short histories, of each composer, before performing their music on the piano, in our auditorium. Her personality was bigger than life and she was also much taller, than the rest of us in our homeroom. We found out later, why, when Carol told a few of us at the lunch table, one afternoon. Although she had graduated the fifth grade, from the school she had transferred from, our school, placed her, in our fourth grade class.
I still remember the feeling of wrong, that darkened my innocence, that day.
The poor, blue collar neighborhood where we landed, after my parents divorced, a few years later, was as foreign to me, as someone else's country, considering where we had come from. There were no trees, none, just blocks and blocks of continous, three and four floor apartment buildings, all surfaced with faux brick, asphalt shingles, built to house the labor for the beer breweries, that anchored the economy. Piels, Rheingold, Pabst, Schlitz and Schaefer beer, was brewed and shipped from this neighborhood. Most men on my block, marched every morning, with aluminum lunch pails that resembled and were as big as mailboxes, to the breweries. Everyone had a thermos. The smell that hung in the air and on your clothes, was stifling, but you got used to it, you had no choice.
My mom had no marketable skills. She was a homemaker and not in good health, which was not helped any, by the trauma, the upside down our life had just become, post divorce. She waited nervously for months, for financial support from an ex husband, who didn't care and it never came. So she reluctantly and with great shame, applied for welfare and was given enough of an allowance, to rent a $69.00 a month, third floor walkup, railroad style apartment.
Her brother, whose similar apartment we all crammed into, while all the paperwork was processed, lived right next door and drank beer, from the moment he opened his eyes. I'd never seen a drunk person before that, and his drunks, never ended well. Inevitably, he'd find his dirty old, white seamans cap, plop it crookedly on his head and cry for hours. His words never made sense. I found out much later, that Uncle Jimmy, drank to forget what he'd seen as a seamen, in World War Two.
Mom did her very best to create a new home from nothing, to recreate the sense of stability, that just disappeared. We accepted loans and donations, of clothing and furniture from family and new neighbors, who were relatively poor themselves. She was a good cook and her creativity helped gloss over the cheap, processed food, we could afford, on our food stamp allowance. We also traveled by bus to pick up our monthly food box, from the welfare office.
Shame, I learned at Marinos', our neighborhood corner grocer. Frank, a lanky, large nosed man with sunken eye sockets and a pencil thin moustache, extended 'credit' to those of us who ran out of food stamps, before the end of the month. He would always make a big production and sigh loudly, as he reached under the counter, for the black and white speckled, school notebook. And as he slammed it down on the laminate counter, 'Credit?', he would bellow for everyone in the small store to hear. They all knew what it meant. It signaled that they would have to wait, as Frank took his sweet time to record the charge, delaying everyone, to make his point. Often, I was in line behind other wha's, on welfare, who suffered the same fate. Frank didn't extend credit to blas and he marked up prices, on needed items, near the end of the month. I learned quickly to despise Frank, and his store, and have dreaded the end of the month, since then.
I was only twelve. Being poor, on welfare and food stamps and then shamed, skewed my perception of myself and others' perception of me. This is an impossible burden that no child should have to carry.
Years later, as blas began renting more and more apartments in the surrounding neighborhood, there was a tension building, that eventually could not, be contained. Forbidden to leave the house, I watched, transfixed, perched somewhat safely, in my third floor window, as bla and wha men, grabbed any weapon they could find and waged war, through the streets. It was a hot summer in 1969, and my blue collar, working class, neighborhood in Brooklyn had erupted into civil war. This battle raged on for a week. Businesses were shuttered and daily life came to a complete, halt. Fires burned and not once, did I hear a siren, see a firetruck, a cop car or even an ambulance. Our neighborhood and all it's inhabitants, had been left, to fend for itself. We were on our own. The violence eventually subsided but nothing, was ever the same.
Whas who could afford to, left, to wha neighborhoods in Queens; we stayed. My mom refused to leave, she wouldn't, even if she could afford to. She settled into her life and became a fixture, in our little neighborhood, a legend actually. She loved animals, she took in all strays, she fed them and healed all their wounds. She healed neighbors' pets, who owners couldn't afford a vet. She eventually learned enough, to disinfect and bandage scraped and badly cut knees and elbows of neighborhood kids. She diagnosed kids' illnesses, she recognized because my sister and I, had them all; mumps, chicken pox, measles, bronchitis, pneumonia and a bout of spinal menangitas for good measure. She delivered a baby, for a young bla woman, across the street.
I spent her last month with her, as I moved back, into the apartment, that was her life. She adamently refused, to die in the hospital, of the cancer that had spread quickly through her body. Doctor Joan, as she was affectionately called, wanted to be home, where she belonged.
I shudder a little, as I easily click the 'y' in fifty, realize, uneasily, as I mark my own human time, that I am now, old enough, to see that history does indeed, repeat itself, both figuratively and in metaphors, that define what is happening to all of us, in our country now.
I've seen a lot and experienced a great deal, during the almost sixty years I've been around, but I've never, ever, seen anything like what I see happening today, to our democracy, to our economy and to our people.