Readers Report
MY Brooklyn is one of two distinct childhood memories. I was born in old St. Catherine's Hospital and grew up in "The Garden Spot of the World"—Greenpoint. If there were ever a quintessential Brooklyn, "The Pernt" was it. I grew up on Java Street, between Manhattan Avenue and Oakland Street, in a three story house with my maternal grandmother on the bottom floor and my paternal uncle and aunt on the top floor. Every Friday I was sent to Arrigo Bros. fish store for the same order. I can still remember the first time went ALONE. I was seven. I clutched the money tight, strode the five blocks and walked in, full of myself. I ordered:"Three portions of shrimp, two of potatoes, one fillet and don't burn them." (My grandmother made me recite the order five times before I left.)Then old Mr. Jerry (an Arrigo brother?) threw a monkey wrench into the works. . . . "How about your grandmother's fish cakes?" he asked. I repeated the order as I was drilled.
"Whassamatta? Is Grandma sick or something? She always orders fish cakes." I panicked and ran out of the store. I ran home, fearing the humiliation of messing up the order. I told Grandma what had happened. She laughed. "You tell Jerry I only order fish cakes when Aunt Kate is here. I can't stand his fish cakes. Now you make sure and tell him that." I couldn't. I wouldn't. So Granma took me by the hand and dragged me back to Arrigo's. She proceeded to describe the taste, consistency and aroma of Jerry's fish cakes to all of the customers. He finally threw her order on the counter and told her to take her fish and get out. We grabbed the oily package and left. When we got outside, I realized we hadn't paid for the fish. I told Grandma. She stormed back in and threw the money on the counter.
When we got home and unwrapped the package, sitting on top were three fish cakes and a note, written on a greasy napkin: "You ALWAYS order fish cakes. Jerry.
My other Brooklyn is one of firehouses and firemen. My father was a Captain in the city Fire Dept. and I spent many days at the firehouse. I knew every piece of apparatus in Eng. 215, 271 and 206. I knew all of my father's friends as well as my biological relatives. I saw my father and his friends covered in soot and sweat after fighting a fire and learned that grown men DO cry when I saw them break down after losing a comrade in a fire. From these men, I learned about fellowship, trust and decency. Long before Martin Luther King spoke of the same thing in 1963, I learned to judge a man by the content of his character and not the color of his skin.
I got to know the neighborhoods my father's men protected—Ridgewood, Greenpoint, the Heights and South Brooklyn. I got to know the people, the restaurants, the cultures. I still drive through these neighborhoods and look for old familiar landmarks, but most are gone, like many of the men who protected them.
22 October 1995
It was 1961, and I was a senior at Brooklyn Technical High School. It was an all boys school then, and we were isolated and under great academic pressure. Thousands of us ate at the same hour in the cafeteria every day, and it was usually a cheerless occasion. On one memorable day, an announcement came over the PA system while we were eating. "Gentlemen, as an experiment, we are going to play fifteen minutes of 'your' music during the lunch hour. Should there be any disturbance, this experiment will cease at once." Without further explanation, the uptempo "Blue Moon" blared from speakers around the cafeteria. We sat stunned for a moment, unable to reconcile the music of our leisure hours with the all-business institutional surroundings. However, within seconds we recovered, and the boy next to me began to pound the table. Someone else threw his sandwich wrapper up in the air. By the second chorus, there were lunches flying everywhere. No one heard the next song or anything after that, and the experiment ended that day. The blame was placed on the music, which according to the explanation, "caused you normal boys to lose your sense of decency."
25 October 1995
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