Wednesday, November 23, 2016

The bittersweet memories of childhood Thanksgiving . . . enjoy your holiday everyone.

 
“As the month of November wound to a close, Thanksgiving arrived with the usual bustle inside our household. With my birthday on November 28 typically falling close to Thanksgiving Day, any kind of singular celebration of my birth was little more than a passing notion amongst the extended family – barely celebrated except by my mother and sister. My first Bronx Thanksgiving, when I turned six and we had just arrived, was nearly a week after the holiday and therefore never registered as other than a mere afterthought. My seventh birthday actually coincided with Thanksgiving and thereby got completely lost in the holiday preparations. Curiously, this third Thanksgiving fell the day before my birthday. Perhaps, given past experiences of my birthday getting lost in the shuffle, I found myself surprisingly less concerned with my own day and, instead, was determined to observe the family dynamics a bit more astutely.

“From the moment I woke up on Thanksgiving morning, I watched as my mother, Aunt Evelyn, and Uncle Chuck, virtually pirouetted hither and thither to prepare the house for the arrival of family members and in preparation for the grand meal. My sister Peggy, I, and my cousins did our best to avoid being underfoot, spending most of the day outside with periodic forays into the house just to imbibe the aromas, or grab a handful of nuts from ubiquitous bowls scattered throughout, only to be shooed out instantly by the adults who simply could not be bothered given the tasks demanded by such a holiday feast. Each breach into the house only ratcheted up our anticipation for the arrival of dinnertime.

“Dense, spicy odors emanated from the kitchen, getting stronger as the morning turned toward mid-afternoon. Smells of turkey, sweet-and-sour string beans, mashed potatoes, carrots, jockeyed for position within my olfactory chambers, not to mention the intermingled smells of the mincemeat and pumpkin pies baking in the oven. There was the steady, rhythmic clunk and scrape of pots being stirred or their contents being scooped into serving dishes. My grandmother, wielding the baster like a magical culinary wand, methodically opening and closing the oven door to “check on the bird,” unleashed more and more wonderful smells into the already rapturous atmosphere.

“The good china and silverware and glasses made music together as they were properly arranged on the dining room table with the formality of creating an altarpiece. The dining room table had sprouted accommodating wings on either side and now completely filled the room. Six matching high-backed wooden chairs sat stiff and erect, three on each side, dedicated by their very sternness to reinforcing proper dining manners; at each end of the table sat near-identical chairs, different only in the fact that these possessed armrests that immediately and regally designated them as reserved for my grandfather and grandmother. Additionally, there were always one or two mismatched chairs taken from the kitchen and designated for whatever kids had reached the magic age whereby an invitation was extended to them to sit at the Great Table with the adults; this was always a welcomed reprieve from continuing another year inhabiting the kids’ table, relegated as it was like an outpost in the living room in order that the youngest children in all their holiday excitement would barely be seen and only partially heard.

“When I was ten and finally invited to sit in the dining room during the holidays, I studiously tried to mimic the formalities that seemed requisite to moving the serving dishes around the table, echoing the “thanks you’s” and the “no thank you’s” uttered with barely audible politeness. I was paralyzed by the phalanxes of silverware that stood guard on each side of my plate, holding the undecipherable secrets to what to eat when, what to eat with, and how to eat it. Yet within all my confusion I was ecstatic to be at the table, happy to look around at all the adult faces gathered there. At times like this I could pretend that I was truly wanted here and that tomorrow’s return to eating in the kitchen could be postponed indefinitely." ("The Rail," Chapter Eight, "Daddy I Hardly Knew You") 

 

Monday, November 7, 2016

Rites to Manhood in the Bronx

“AS PANTHERS, WE MOVED IN PACKS. Whether it was going to Frank’s Pizza on Jerome Avenue, or to the nearby David Marcus ...movie theater, or to Schweller’s or Epstein’s deli for a corned beef on rye, we felt like we owned that stretch between Gun Hill Road and Mosholu Parkway, that it was an extension of our neighborhood. But when it came to meandering up and down Fordham Road and the Grand Concourse, going to the Loew’s Paradise movie theater or Jahn’s Ice Cream Parlor, trying our hand at shoplifting in the aisles of Alexander’s department store, perusing the 45’s in myriad record shops, it was a different story. Even with five or six of us Panthers banding together and strutting our stuff, we kept our eyes ever peeled for the infamous Fordham Baldies gang who were known to hang out between the Army and Marines recruiting stations situated on the Fordham Road overpass. Even when we moved out of our Gale Place turf to the playground, or to EM’s candy store, we sauntered through the streets of the neighborhood, ignoring the catcalls from some of the older guys, while reveling in the disapproving stares from the adults and the wide-eyed awe in the faces of the younger kids. Like all true gangs, we forged our identity in opposition to another group, who we began to harass and challenge every time we saw them. Visit www.the-rail.net or tommydonovan@therail1950.

Sunday, October 16, 2016

Turbulent Seas

"I had never been on the ocean before, much less in a storm. This was my first ship. It was our third day out of the Sea-Land docks at their Port Elizabeth Terminal in New Jersey, and my third day of looking green and feeling sick as a dog. I was not used to an environment that rolled and pitched like this, making every movement a study in balance. I had already broken the big toe on my right foot by dropping an acetylene tank on it as I wrestled against the bucking of the ship to move it into place on orders of the First Engineer. The ocean had become so rough that one night we had to secure ourselves into our bunks; I did this by lacing rope back and forth through the bed frame from my mid-chest down to my thighs. This way, if the movement of the ship tried to eject me while I was sleeping, the rope would act as preventative webbing and keep me from flying out of my top bunk onto the steel deck. This being an old vintage World War Two Liberty ship our quarters were at the fantail; officers slept at midship, as did the galley crew, both closer to the mess hall. The weather got so bad the captain restricted us from using the deck to make our way from our quarters to the mess hall, and commanded that we traverse the shaft alley instead.
"The shaft alley was a cramped passageway that allowed seamen access to the propeller shaft in order to check oil levels and temperature gauges to see if all was well, and for maintenance and repair. It led from the engine room aft, to a ladder that led upwards into our quarters. Because of the severity of the weather we now had to use this cramped and circuitous route each and every mealtime. One evening as I lay nauseous and moaning in my bed, I decided I had to try to eat something. I stood up unsteadily, left my foc'sle and instead of climbing down into the shaft alley I confusedly stepped out onto the deck instead. The air was instantly refreshing; I felt immediately exhilarated. To hell with the shaft alley, I thought; I can make it. I grabbed the deck railing with one hand and stretched the other toward the bulkhead for balance and slowly made my way toward midship and the hatch that led to the mess hall. Holdiing on for dear life, the waves undulating wildly and dashing water onto the deck and across my feet with every roll of the ship, I inched my way forward. Just as I was reaching to open the hatch, the ship rolled violently starboard, slamming me up against the deck railing at hip height. I knew I was about to go overboard. All I could see as I looked down was the outstretched arms of the ocean reaching for me." ("The Rail," Chapter Twenty-Two, "Turbulent Seas").

Sunday, October 2, 2016

L' Shana Tova


"While the holiday traditions touched nearly everyone, being Jewish in our neighborhood was hardly monolithic; instead, just like the joke about the two Rabbis debating the deeper points of the Torah and possessing at least three perspectives between them, Judaism was approached from a variety of angles and outlooks. Given that the creation of the neighborhood was first imagined under the auspices of the Amalgamated Clothing Workers of America (ACWA), Judaism in our neighborhood had a certain progressive, labor-centric cast to it. What this often meant was that observance and participation in Jewish traditions and holidays were primarily a means to foster cultural identification rather than serving as an ongoing, devout religious practice. It was a way of straddling the post-war world of America, driven by science and progress and the image of one great melting pot, while never forgetting one's Jewish heritage, especially after the Shoah. As a result, for many families seeking a sense of assimilation, the larger holidays, like the High Holy Days, Passover, and especially Hanukah, morphed into ways of primarily maintaining Jewishness within the dominant culture rather than serving as devoted religious exercises. Even the weekly, Friday-at-sundown celebration of Shabbat, complete with the ritual lighting of the menorah and the sharing of fresh, braided Challah from Manna Bakery, was buffeted by the pressures to identify as American first and Jewish second. And, frankly, after the Shoah, there were some who did not want to emphasize their Jewishness in any way whatsoever for fear of stirring the ever-lurking beat of pogrom. . . .

"Nevertheless, while strict orthodoxy was hardly the tenor of how Judaism was practiced by most people in our neighborhood, nearly all my male friends had their Bar Mitzvah at age thirteen (and, thanks to the progressive outlook of Rabbi Sodden, so did some of the girls have a Bat Mitzvah when they reached twelve). This meant hours of after-school education at the Shul, learning Hebrew and learning a specific Torah portion to be recited at their Bar Mitzvah under the tutelage of the esteemed Rabbi, the officiant of the synagogue congregation. Other Hebrew school teachers over the years included" Abe Sodden, Mrs. Danzig, Mr. Bernstein, Mrs. Inzelbuch, Mr. Goodfriend, and Rabbi Grossman. Yet, while the neighborhood was unmistakably imprinted as a Jewish one, the upheavals of the Sixties would exert a powerful push-pull on many of my friends. I would watch them oscillate between appreciating and celebrating their Judaism and distancing themselves in the spirit of breaking with the old ways that so often provided the tenor of the times." ("The Rail," Chapter Five, "The Rhythms of Judaism").

 


Wednesday, August 17, 2016

The Sheer Poetry of Basketball

They call it "the city game," and for me it was never a game:

"IT WAS BASKETBALL THAT SAVED MY YOUNG SOUL. Between the relentless self-esteem pummeling that permeated the environment within my grandparents’ house, and my utter dislike of the entrapment called “going to school,” the playground basketball courts felt like another place where I gained respect and admiration. . . .

"I was not particularly graceful, but I possessed a blue-collar ethic and gave everything I had in ...every game. As one of the older guys once remarked about my presence on the courts, he just “liked to watch me work.” I felt as if I’d found the secret poetry of the game in the dueling dance movements with opponents, in the newfound freedom and artistry that every new game offered, and in discovering my own unique self-expression. Perhaps, most importantly, I was sought after to be on everyone’s team, and even after losing a game I never sat out waiting for “next.”

"As a result of the erratic quality and conditions of the other basketball venues, the heart and soul of neighborhood basketball, therefore, resided in the playground. This became my home. This was the place where I first felt loved and admired from so many in the neighborhood; this is where I first felt sought after, wanted in a way that never manifested in my home life. When my team won, we stayed on the court; when my team lost I was instantly picked to return to the court without having to wait for what could be a number of games, depending on the size of the crowd. I could literally play all day, from ten in the morning until suppertime in the summer and on the weekends.
 
"And I wanted to play all day. I wanted to be seen, to bask in the oohs and aahs when I blocked a shot and sent it flying onto the benches; when I flew upwards into the rarified atmosphere at hoop-level and tipped in an errant shot high above everyone else; when after a rebound I launched a full-court pass for a successful fast break. It was sheer poetry and every move, every scrape of our sneakers, every foul and subsequent argument, and every play – defensively and offensively – sang both within and to my soul. And I danced to that music to the point of ecstasy." (From "The Rail." Chapter 14: "The Sheer Poetry of Basketball").

Sunday, July 31, 2016

Tell me about your neighborhood . . .

"Our neighborhood arose upon a vision.

 "Unlike most neighborhoods in New York that simply evolved willy-nilly, where a few immigrant families established a foothold and others of similar race, religion, or ethnicity followed -- only to yet again have the environment metamorphize when economic conditions shifted and another wave of different faces speaking different languages appeared -- our neighborhood was truly the first intentional com...munity in the five boroughs. The vision of the Amalgamated Housing Cooperative was simple and profound: create affordable housing that was cooperatively owned and democratically managed. . . .

 "Led by the Secretary-Treasurer of the ACWA's credit union, Abraham E. Kazan, and supported by Sidney Hillman, President of the ACWA -- as well as by people gathered around "Forverts" ("The Forward," a Yiddish-language daily newspaper) -- a sparsely populated region of the north Bronx became a living field of dreams. It seemed only fitting that the formation of the Amalgamated Housing Cooperative in 1927 (referred to simply as "The Amalgamated"), was inspired by the Rochdale Society of Equitable Pioneers in Rochdale, England, the birthplace of the modern cooperative movement in 1844. Rochdale was England's center for the burgeoning textile and weaving industry; therefore, what better models for the ACWA visionaries than these original "cooperators," these kinsman-by-trade. . . . It was as if simultaneous with the first groundbreaking, the seeds of a modern Rochdale were also sown, providing these earliest cooperative pioneers, now settling in the Bronx, with a root system that would blossom and guide them and this nascent community across the twentieth century. Both the tangibles and intangibles within their founding principles provided the cornerstone and the scaffolding for this project: voluntary and open membership; democratic governance; surpluses belonging to cooperative members; no social or political discrimination; education of members and the public in the cooperative movement; cooperation with other cooperatives; and care for the community. It was impossible to live in our neighborhood without both touching and being touched by this progressive and communal spirit that seemed to be everywhere." ("The Rail," Chapter 3, "The Neighborhood -- Oasis in Brick").

Monday, July 25, 2016

"The Rail" Heads to California

Hello One & All:

In less than two weeks -- the weekend of August 6-7 -- I will be in the San Francisco Bay Area to read and sign my book, The Rail: What Was Really Doin' in the 60's Bronx.

On Saturday, August 6, at 7:00 p.m., I will be at Copperfield's Books in Petaluma, CA (140 Kentucky Street).

On Sunday, August 7, at 1:00 p.m., I will be at Book Passage in Corte Madera, CA (51 Tamal Vista Blvd.). http://www.bookpassage.com/event/tommy-donovan-rail

Come one, come all! Spread the word! I can't wait to see you all!

Monday, July 11, 2016

Music to My Ears

"On that jaw-dropping night, even the usual stolid and conservative energy that normally permeated our living room whenever the television was on was no match for The Beatles. We all sat there stunned. My mother and grandmother, slowly shaking their heads in a silent disapproval of what they were beholding; my sister, simply happy to be there at all, bobbing her head to the music. Me? I was completely blown away, like Moses being handed the Ten Commandments by a transcendent... entity. . . . Each song that night shot through my veins with a jolt. First, I watched as "All My Loving" wrapped its words around the hearts of every girl in the audience and I wordlessly joined them in their screaming. Next, the lover's serenade, "Till There Was You," made romance suddenly palatable to by budding, confused teenage self. The final song in the first set was "She Love You," and that brought down the house. Even with a commercial break and the rest of Ed Sullivan's guests, I barely recovered by the time the second set commenced. When "I Saw Her Standing There," burst forth, I had to control myself from leaping to my feet and dancing up the walls and across the ceiling of my living room. When The Beatles signed off with "I Want to Hold Your Hand," I was smitten beyond belief.

 "As I looked around at the faces of my family members, I knew in that moment I wasn't really a part of them. I felt like my world had just been shattered open while their world had slammed shut as a result of their shock and rejection of what we had all witnessed. Beyond explanation and beyond my conscious awareness it felt like a path, vibrating with colorful paisley, had suddenly diverged from the drab and sepia road being offered by my family's values" ("The Rail," Chapter 13, 'Music to My Ears").

Monday, June 27, 2016

Bronx Interview About My New Book, "The Rail."


Here is the link for my first television interview about my book, The Rail: What was Really Doin' in the 60s Bronx. Please comment, if so moved.


http://bronxnet.org/tv/open/360-open-featured-interviews/7639-the-rail

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

The Long & Winding Road

Greetings, Everyone:

It's been a while since I last scribed this blog. Things are moving fast with The Rail. Last week I drove to Los Angeles to pick up 1,500 copies of the book. Now, this coming Monday, I will drive to my old neighborhood in The Bronx to do my first book reading and book signing. Wow! I can hardly believe it. Who would've thunk?

There is nothing like a road trip to allow the mind flights of freedom, unfettered imagination, retrospective clarity. Even more fantastic is a road trip back home. Despite Thomas Wolfe's novel, titled, You Can't Go Home Again, I intend to do just that. I intend to do it as an act of remembering, celebrating, and honoring my formative roots. 

Oddly, I have less nostalgia for the past this time around. Or, perhaps it's better described as nostalgia for the future. What I mean is that I've taken the lessons of my coming-of-age and have applied them to my life as I am living it. Mostly it has been the power of community, the durability of initiatory experiences, and the resiliency of friendships forged so long ago. 

The long and winding road beckons from one chapter of life, back to another, and then back again. I am deeply grateful, humbled, and excited.     

Tuesday, May 31, 2016

The Soil that Grows a Neighborhood

[Greetings One & All. I trust your Memorial Day weekend was restorative. I've been feeling the pull of the old neighborhood as my date with Vladeck Hall draws closer. Below is an excerpt from my memoir, The Rail: What was Really Doin' in the 60's Bronx. I hope it inspires memories from your own neighborhood experiences, wherever you grew up Enjoy. Tommy]
 
 
Our neighborhood arose upon a vision.

Unlike most neighborhoods in New York that simply evolved willy-nilly, where a few immigrant families established a foothold and others of similar race, religion, or ethnicity followed – only to yet again have the environment metamorphize when economic conditions shifted and another wave of different faces speaking different languages appeared – our neighborhood was truly the first intentional community in the five boroughs. The vision of the Amalgamated Housing Cooperative was simple and profound: create affordable housing that was cooperatively owned and democratically managed.

The post-World War I period was marked by droves of returning veterans and thousands fleeing war-ravaged Europe. These conditions impacted all of New York City, especially in the poorer neighborhoods, spawning a severe housing shortage that initiated, and was in turn fueled by, rapacious speculation. The nightmare slums of the Lower East Side, the capriciousness of avaricious landlords, and the grim impossibility of ever being able to afford the exorbitant costs of moving to a nicer neighborhood (much less buying a home of one’s own), drove the mostly Jewish members of the Amalgamated Clothing Workers of America (ACWA) clustered in this area to demand a different world; they looked to their labor associations for its realization. As a result, the housing issue was a central topic at the ACWA’s 1924 convention.

   Led by the Secretary-Treasurer of the ACWA’s credit union, Abraham E. Kazan, and supported by Sidney Hillman, President of the ACWA – as well as by people gathered around Forverts (The Forward, a Yiddish-language daily newspaper) – a sparsely populated region of the north Bronx became a living field of dreams. It seemed only fitting that the formation of the Amalgamated Housing Cooperative in 1927 (referred to simply as “The Amalgamated”), was inspired by The Rochdale Society of Equitable Pioneers in Rochdale, England, the birthplace of the modern cooperative movement in 1844. Rochdale was England’s center for the burgeoning textile and weaving industry; therefore, what better models for the ACWA visionaries than these original “cooperators,” these kinsmen-by-trade. Further, the spirit of the founding Rochdale Principles permeated the imaginations of these modern men, especially the visionary Abraham Kazan who led the cooperative housing revolution in New York – transforming these Bronx hinterlands into the nation’s first cooperative project. It was as if simultaneous with the first groundbreaking, the seeds of a modern Rochdale were also sown, providing these earliest cooperative pioneers, now settling the Bronx, with a root system that would blossom and guide them and this nascent community across the twentieth century. Both the tangibles and intangibles within their founding principles provided the cornerstone and the scaffolding for this project: voluntary and open membership; democratic governance; surpluses belonging to cooperative members; no social or political discrimination; education of members and the public in the cooperative movement; cooperation with other cooperatives; and care for the community. It was impossible to live in our neighborhood without both touching and being touched by this progressive and communal spirit that seemed to be everywhere.

Monday, May 23, 2016

The Complexty of Community

Greetings One & All:

As you can imagine, the writing of my memoir sent me into long reveries about the nature of community. What I tried to convey in my story is encapsulated in a quote I used by M. Scott Peck:

"When I am with a group of human beings committed to hanging in there through both the agony and joy of community, I have a dim sense that I am participating in a phenomenon for which there is only one word . . . glory."

I am struck by the words "agony" and "joy" paired in this quote. For I know deeply that this truly defines the roiling alchemy that is the communal vessel. It most certainly describes the way I grew up in the Bronx. The truth of the matter is that while many blossomed in the soil of our  neighborhood, others felt alienated, bullied, un-seen and un-heard; when it came time to organize a neighborhood reunion in 2003, it was these folks whose absence was felt acutely.

And yet, is this not what community means? Is it not a place, where especially as children, we seek -- mainly by way of social Braille -- places of safety and adventure? Is growing up not a process of groping our way into discovery and revelation of what draws us close and what repels us? Could this process be any other way than a combination of agony and joy? Would we want it any other way?

When I was growing up, we swarmed with feral innocence across our environment and amongst each other. Like stones in an onrushing stream, tumbling and bumping and spinning over and into each other, we stone-washed our bodies, minds, and spirits in ways that seem all but lost in these over-protected times. There was hardly an adult in sight, only neighbors who periodically intervened to help us draw a boundary. And this was how resiliency was birthed. Even those who found more agony than joy in our neighborhood experience, I am willing to bet, fashioned their own resiliency with which to navigate the world they grew into beyond the neighborhood.

In scribing my memoir, I have looked at the gem of my neighborhood, my community. I have turned it to and fro, examining it's many facets. Amidst the agony and the joy -- nay, as a direct result of this complexity -- I tapped into an enormous well-spring of gratitude for the people and the place that honed me into the person I am today. 

There is much to remember. There is much to learn. And, there is much to cherish.      

  

Thursday, May 19, 2016

Who Remembers How to Get to Vladeck Hall?

Warmest Greetings Everyone:

My first blog post is to announce the publication of my coming-of-age memoir: The Rail: What was Really Doin' in the 60's Bronx. As the son of an Irish immigrant, growing up in a Jewish neighborhood near the Amalgamated Housing in the Van Cortlandt Park area during the 1950s (in the aftermath of WW2 and the Holocaust) and during the earthshaking 1960s, I have written a love story to the people and place that ultimately saved my life. Read more about it on my website, www.the-rail.net

Equally exciting is that in five weeks I will be journeying back to my old neighborhood to read from my book at one of the iconic locations, Vladeck Hall.

Vladeck Hall is an auditorium located at 74 Van Cortlandt Park South, part of the 6th Building in the Amalgamated complex. Over the years this location has been the site of summer camp gathering, ballet classes, all manner of performances, art shows, and more. I am honored to be taking the stage to share my story, the story that could not have been written without the people who shaped me into the person I've become. 

Join me, at Vladeck Hall, on Sunday, June 26th, 5:00 p.m. It will be a wonderful neighborhood reunion.