Mommy sick
Mommy, Laurie and me
When I was in the first grade, my mother became very ill with Rheumatic fever. This caused my sister and me to be sent to stay with our grandparents. Laurie went to live with Mama (Valentina Lugo, my mother’s mother) and me with Laura Rosa, Abuelita. The illness effects lasted almost a year and caused me to be ‘left back’ because of missing so much school. This period marked my sister and I in the same way, as each of us stayed closer to the side of the family we lived with ever after. Although each of us went to visit the aunts, uncles and cousins from both sides, the natural affinity imprinted by having lived with each side, became lifelong.
Most of my memories of this time consist of worrying about my mother and the stories of food spoken of earlier. But the subconscious ones are like a metal stamp. It was this period that always made me think of myself as being from South Brooklyn, having a close association with the Italians who still comprised most of the residents and the sights, sounds and smells of the neighborhood, especially Columbia Street which was the main strip. There was a more commercial thoroughfare, Smith Street, but most of the people from this area, just a few blocks over, rarely went there. The irony is that Mama’s (my mother’s mother) apartment where Laurie was staying, was actually on Smith and so, her experience was reversed.
In those days every Italian neighborhood had a street festival that was celebrated on the day dedicated to whoever the local patron saint ‘back home’ was. Henry Street had its local variation and it was the highlight of the year. For those who have been to The Feast of Saint Genaro in Little Italy, picture it before all the modern commercial ventures took over. In fact one of these feasts has a version beautifully documented in Godfather 2, which although it is timed in the early nineteen hundreds, is about what the celebration I remember was like. There were many Italian social clubs but as far as I know only one is still left and each sponsored the festival. The best part of it was that it was literally on the cross street from Abuelita’s house and that year I was allowed to go stroll it, each day, by myself or in company with the Italian boys of the block. All the local stores had booths and for whatever reason that sausage sandwich tasted a lot better when you bought it yourself...
This neighborhood was a throwback even back then. I have many memories of it that a New Yorker my age shouldn’t have, as this was one of the last enclaves to ‘modernize’. The fact that is was in an out of the way area, much of it had been cut off by The Brooklyn Queens Expressway, with no subway stops close by probably helped preserve it, at least in my time. There is a bit of irony as that Same BQE, also earlier had ripped the heart out of the neighborhood. The area along the waterfront was something most would not recognize or even remember, after most of it was torn down years later to build the huge container port. Many of the stores along Columbia Street catered to the Merchant Mariners and Longshoremen and that was especially true of the bars. Because of who my father was and the lax attitude of the times I could easily go in and out of them at will. In fact I had a great aunt who owned one, on one of those no longer existent streets, that was in a building she had bought years earlier. She lived upstairs and had a huge beautiful parrot that could curse it 20 languages. The men who frequented her joint with rough and tumble, from many countries and had either just gotten back from a cruise or were about to go on one.
The housing stock were of basically two types, apartment / tenements and single family homes, many of which were brownstones and a few carriage houses. These were mostly mixed through although most of the tenement were below the BQE and. There are ‘carriage houses’ that are now worth millions, where old men once kept carts that would go up and down the streets to collect rags, sharpen knives and sell fruit. Most of these types of vendors had disappeared in the early 1950’s but here I was in the middle 60’s taking them for granted.
Candelario Lugo (Papa)
Because of the circumstances that separated Laurie and I, my familial connection was most cemented with my father’s side, but that didn’t mean that I didn’t know and love my maternal side. Mama (Valentina Lugo) lived above Smith Street and her children were the younger siblings on my mother. The fact is that the families were intermingled by more than just my parents’ marriage as her two older brother were ‘associates’ of my fathers for many years. Tony Lugo was always opening a restaurant, bar or after hours. As these were local hangouts, my father would often stop while on his rounds. I also went to some, at least the restaurants, with my mother.
Eddie was a bit different. As an uncle he was a great guy, fun, beautiful smile and a ladies man. But years later there were rumors of a much darker side, one that included words like ‘hit man’ and ‘enforcer’. He was rarely with my father when we made the rounds or shopping trips, but was often at the clubs and bars we wound up in.
My mother’s sisters were also ‘in the life’ at least for a while. There were rumors that they had been ‘working girls’, but by the time I got to know them, they had been married and had a set of girls each. So between four female cousins Nancy’s Lizzy & Ruby, Carmen’s Rita and Valley and my little sister, I spent a lot of time with girls in mama’s house. In fact the only male was a second cousin, Raymond.
Valentina Lugp (Mama)
Mama herself was very different from Abuelita. Where Abuelita was a white Jibaro from the mountains of Puerto Rico, Mama was a ‘negrita’ from the coast, a mixture of African and Taino roots. Papa, her husband had died while I was very young, so my memories of him consist of a tall man, who barely spoke English who worked at a commercial laundry. Mama on the other hand learned English quickly, albeit not very well and took to modern fashion and hairstyle. I assume my mother may have had a lot to do with that once she graduated high school (first in family)
With my mother finally on the mend, both Laurie and I would go home and join her to re-start a ‘normal’ life. But the patterns for both of us were set and we would each remain oriented to the side of the family we had stayed with during this period.
THEY CAME FOR ME
That inconceivably pointed elimination from Planet Earth of 12,000,000 souls, including 6,000,000 people of the Hebrew Faith; the sexually non-conformists; the Roma (Gypsies); the physically and mentally other-abled; as well as those who otherwise did not fit n socially or politically – this did not take place in the Roman Coliseum, nor in the Dark Ages, nor during the Crusades. These horrors took place when I was in junior high and high school. At the same time, my own country was allowing selective, individual horrors of a similar nature to be perpetrated against my own people, a people marginalized within a society that hypocritically posed as a protector of human equality.
At the time I was learning to read and write, Germany’s Weimar Republic was under political and economic siege. Bit by deceptively strategic bit, the government was weaseled away from the people by a man who had learned how to combine his hypnotic oratorical skills with the inexplicable hatreds that had overtaken his whole being. This particularly potent alchemy was first transmitted to a small cadre, then to an army, then to a whole people. It mattered not whether you personally were affected by the alchemy, you were required to perform as though you had (Note present U.S. Congress). Thus it was that this alchemy came close to overtaking the whole planet.
In elementary school, in Philadelphia, we started the day by saying the Pledge of Allegiance (Prior to, “Under God”) The right hand was placed over the heart, then the right arm was thrust out stiffly in the direction of the flag. When the newsreels from Germany became more ominous, in the Pledge, the right hand no longer left the heart!
Ultimately, the rhetoric of hate, supplemented by jack-booted enforcement, brought about compliance-or-else within that captured nation. Laws were promulgated, covering every facet of the nation’s life -- under the personal control of this one man! (USA take note) All institutions, education medicine, law, religion, etc., had to conform to the demonic dictates of this singular power. Those who resisted were dealt with harshly. Many times, death was kinder than the alternative.
Amidst all this madness, there lived Martin Niemöller (approximately my father’s age). He was the pastor of a Protestant church. Martin had served in the German army during WWI. Like many Germans, he was resentful of the draconian, post-war reparations imposed upon Germany by its allied enemies. Those reparations caused longtime negative effects upon the economy. This brought on challenges by opposing political groups. The winner, of course, was our flamboyant orator of the venomous alchemy.
Martin Niemöller held many of the same beliefs as the Leader. He went so far as to edit Christian doctrine to accommodate some of those beliefs. He supported the Leader at first, thinking the country needed his bold oratory and unconventional deportment in order to resolve some of the stickier problems. (Sound familiar?) Martin Niemöller was convinced of that, until the new order imposed by the Leader began to clamp its clammy claws onto to church. This was a bridge too far for Martin and his cohorts, so he made a personal pitch directly to the Leader. As a result of his resistance, Martin Niemöller ultimately found himself in the Dachau concentration camp, where he spent the war years. Somehow or other, he managed to survive until the end of the war, and on into the Ronald Reagan era.
Martin Niemöller became an international activist, promoting justice for the human condition. He never quite forgave himself for the anti-Semitism that came so naturally for him in the Germany of that time. For him, it was a continuous, “Mea Culpa.” In many of his post-war speeches, Martin Niemöller has become noted for describing his experience under one-man rule through a phrase that has been repeated many times. The order and content changed according to his mood and the audience. Basically, the thoughtful phrase is this:
“First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
Here, in the 21st century, within easy sensibility-shot of all that horror, my country has elected a leader with the same alchemy as the Leader indicated above. He is releasing the same, sublimated animus against my people and others that was displayed in our country when I was starting school. He has the same disregard for well-established authority and systems as the Leader indicated above.
When I was a kid, the advent and total intent of the above Leader of toxic alchemy was so bizarre that it remained outside the capacity of normal consciousness to predict. I am still here. Are we still that historically tone deaf?
***** ***** *****
I stood alone; I would not see
That world of which I would not be.
Quiet I’d remain;
Thus, escape the pain.
So I thought, ‘til they came for me.
John brown – Antebellum Avenger
William Lloyd Garrison headed the Abolitionist Movement. Both he and Frederick Douglass used flaming oratory alone in furtherance of their cause. These impassioned men could only sit and pat their feet as the religious zealot John Brown set about attempting singlehandedly to abolish slavery.
New Englander John Brown got caught up in the raging forces propelled by the Kansas-Nebraska Act of 1854, which subsequently brought on the terrible violence known as, “Bleeding Kansas.”
After John Brown and his sons had added profusely to Kansas’ hemorrhaging appellation, he upped his game by attempting to take over the United States Arsenal at Harpers Ferry, Virginia (now West Virginia). His rash strategy was to arm other abolitionists and enslaved men, thus putting an end to the offending practice. Apart from his flawed tactics, it is ironic that it was the still-U.S.-loyal Robert E. Lee who put a crimp in his plans.
After a well reported trial, which many felt materially added to the agitation for war between the states John Brown was executed on December 2, 1859. The night before he was hanged, he wrote this final note, which he handed to a jailor on his way to the gallows.:
Here is another irony: John Wilkes Booth was present at John Brown’s execution. Although Booth was pro-slavery, Lincoln’s subsequent assassin expressed sympathy for John Brown’s plight; the fact that he must have felt dejected and abandoned when no one came to his rescue. Of course, this was six years before the ultimate humiliation of the South and the abrupt cessation of its inhumane, “Peculiar Institution.”
ABRAHAM, MARTYRS AND JOHN
Don’t you worry ‘bout old John Brown;
He’s got the plushest grave in town –
Here, before the Blue and the Gray,
And finally, Old Abe Lincoln lay.
I’m the one whose body
Lies molderini’ in the grave.
For reasons not shoddy,
Some may say I was brave.
“Rash”, would better tell it;
I could not bear the lie.
They could never sell it
To me – I’d rather die.
There, in bloody Kansas,
With my sons by my side,
Just as Right commands us,
We traded blood for pride.
Later, Harper’s Ferry
Would cause it all to end,
And for them to bury
This soul, which would not bend.
(Repeat beginning bridge)
Not too long thereafter,
Hundreds of thousands more
Joined my joyous laughter
Here, down under the floor.
Yes, John Brown’s body lies
A- A-molderin In the grave.
B- It takes a lot of tries
C- To make bad men behave.
The hundred thousand more
Who for so long were mum,
Jumped right in to assure
A better “Kingdom Come.”
The Union, thus, was saved,
And bondage dealt a blow.
Although the road was paved,
It’s progress, though, is slow.
History will remember
The passion of John Brown.
He died a full member
Of Life, without a frown.
(Repeat beginning and middle bridge.)
LITTLEFIELD CHALLENGED THE BIG FIELD BOYS
As the newspaper obituaries will show, Jacquelyn Littlefield challenged to big boys on a diamond that stretched from Beverly Hills through New York City and back west again to San Diego / La Jolla.
I met Jacquie in 1979, on my return to San Diego, after a second extended stay in Puerto Rico. It was a whirlwind, professional relationship, centered in the master suite of the now-historic Spreckels Building and Theater in downtown San Diego.
The last time I saw Jacquelyn Littlefield was when the Spreckels Building and Theater celebrated their 100th birthday, in 2012.
Rather than attempt to repeat my telling of the Jacquelyn Littlefield story as it appears in my memoir, “Manzanero – Mexico – My Dear Old San Juan – Moi,” I thought if more practicable to reprint that portion here below:
Jacquelyn Littlefield was the owner of the Spreckels Building and Theater, a perennial landmark at Broadway and First Avenue. After a short stint as Mrs. Littlefield's secretary and office manager, and after the unceremonious departure of her building manager, I was suddenly installed as temporary manager of the building and the theater (there were pending performances of "Chicago" and "Jesus Christ Superstar," for which I was now responsible in all respects). The Spreckels Building, which at that time housed the downtown redevelopment commission, was itself listed as an historic building, with all the protections prescribed therein. The only part of the redevelopment that would affect the Spreckels concerned a vacant area directly adjacent to the rear of the building which, if not incorporated within a plan for the Spreckels that would be acceptable to the commission, would be designated for other use. That area behind the building was the key to José Rosa's vision of dramatically raising its profile.
The old theater building was quite prominent among other structures that were subject to similar height restrictions in the formerly sleepy Navy town. Jose's concept was–without affecting the original building–to construct a skyscraper directly over it. The new structure would be designed to blend in with the old Spreckels appearance, thereby giving the illusion of a single building. José shared his idea to Fred Meyer, the architect with whom he was working, and they came up with a striking artist's conception of how the completed project might appear. It was a very impressive undertaking.
Now, this is where I come in. Cognizant of my position, José felt that if he were able to hold Mrs. Littlefield down long enough for her to absorb the drawing and his spiel–in other words, get her in his corner–the battle would be half won. The problem was that Mrs. Littlefield was not that available–at least in the flesh. Her visits to the office were rare, and only upon specific occasions. Usually, she could be found in La Jolla or Beverly Hills–and, upon lesser occasion, New York City would complete her triangle of residence. The custom was that I would receive a telephone call, on a daily basis, from some point along the triangle. But, this was not always the case, and a particularly drawn-out departure from this routine caused me considerable angst and required that I draw upon all of the impromptu reflexes I had managed to internalize over many years of uncertainties and unrequited expectations.
Suite Number 666 of the Spreckels Building was a spacious enclave inhabited only by Mrs. Littlefield, the building manager, a female bookkeeper and me. It can already be seen that Jacquie Littlefield is not the ordinary, run-of-the-mill businesswoman. I have not mentioned the diversity of her personality. The variety of her reactions during interpersonal encounters ranges from being completely solicitous up to the highest point of the mercury thermometer. I mentioned the sudden departure of the building manager; he left with the high point of the thermometer protruding prominently from his derrière. Upon that occasion, and completely without any fanfare, I was advised that I would have to take over the building until arrangements could be made to interview building manager candidates. I assumed that this would involve merely a perfunctory holding-down of the fort, where all but routine matters would be suspended. That could not have been further from the truth. I had not a single communication with Mrs. Littlefield for a whole week thereafter!
Fortunately, the building maintenance crew had a foreman through whom I was able to coordinate its activities. Then, I began receiving telephone calls from new office lessees, wanting to know when they could come in to sign their contracts. I discovered that they were ready to move in and that the leases had not been written. I knew from experience that contracts in like situations tend to be basically the same, so I perused the files and was able to adapt the new information appropriately. It turned out that other lessees were not that advanced, and I was required to negotiate even the type and color of carpet to be installed. I had known about the musicals that were scheduled to start the next week, but had no idea I would wind up having to coordinate all of the intricate components, including the box office personnel; ordering the popcorn, candy and soft drinks, as well as hiring the counter crew; arranging for the backstage deliver of scenery; and accommodating the producers and cast. Mrs. Littlefield did not call until two days before the first production was to start. She was in New York! She wondered why I was all excited, saying she would be there by opening night. She arrived the day of the performance, and graciously received the theater people in her office as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
So, here was José with his beautiful drawing, asking me simply to arrange a sit-down with La Folle de San Diego. However, before managing to set up anything, I was off to the Computer Science Corporation at El Segundo (near Los Angeles) to participate in what was the first computer-assisted translation unit formed in the United States, with half of the crew assigned to Mexico City (I had already been there–done that).
Subsequently, I asked José to refresh my memory as to whether he and Fred Meyer actually got to see Mrs. Littlefield. Here is his reply.
No. She had us meet with her "board". They were very conservative and backwards, as is proven out by the fact that rather than use our proposal or at least something else, they lost 25% of her property to the city. I remember being in the meeting and telling them that because of fuel prices and other economic factors the U.S. would "tilt over" and the population come tumbling down into the Southwest. They laughed in a very condescending way, like they were listening to a "kid" who was blowing smoke. Sometimes, it's a curse to be able to see the future.
VIRULENT LETTER PROMPTS CRY FOR PUERTO RICO INDEPENDENCE
Disrespect and mistreatment of Puerto Rico and Puerto Ricans spans centuries. It starts with the island being handed over as a prize of war after Spain’s defeat in the Spanish-American War of 1898. For some time, Puerto Ricans were merely residents of a U.S. possession. Later, they were made partial citizens without a vote in national elections. Ultimately, the island was designated as a Commonwealth or Free, Associated State.
In the 1930s, little was heard about independence for Puerto Rico. After the revelation of a vitriolic, racist letter, written by a U.S. oncologist sent to the island for research, expressing complete and utter contempt for Puerto Ricans, and his opinion that the beautiful island would be much better off without them, a fired-up independence movement was begun. The letter put a face on what must have been Puerto Ricans’ feelings of U.S. contempt and bigotry. It also gives more meaning to Puerto Ricans shooting up the U. S. Congress and their attempt on the life of President Harry S. Truman, in the 1950s.
Since U.S. possession and non-citizenship in the late 19th and early 20th centuries; the Cornelius Rhodes’ incendiary letter in the 1930s; plus my personal perceptions in the 1960s’ and 70’; and the idiotic, paper-tossing antics of an unempathetic POTUS, who to this day still spews his venom toward the island its people; the slights against Puerto Rico and the ignorance of its history have been long running. I cite one of many such examples:
During a part of my residence on the island, I managed the office of a U.S. company doing business in Puerto Rico. The mainland sent a representative to visit the office. When the route from the airport passed a low-cost housing project, this man asked the driver, “Where did all of these colored people come from?”
The letter-writer in question, in this article, is Cornelius Rhodes, an oncologist and researcher. In early 1930s, Rhodes was sent to the island by the Rockefeller Foundation, to do cancer research. This article will end with the letter he wrote, which exploded after Independence heroe Albizu Campos made it public, which sent Rhodes scurrying back to the mainland. Following a face-saving coverup by the Rockefeller’s and time-cleansing of WWII, Rhodes bounced back with successful research projects with the Army. He went on to head the Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center.
Some of the points of the Rockefeller investigation were 1) that he was drunk; 2) it was a dumb joke; 3) he was only Imagineering a la Jonathan Swift. They did a good job of burying it. With all of my Puerto Rico experience and reading, it was only recently I heard about it – on C-SPAN or NPR:
After complaining to a colleague about a job he coveted being given to someone else, “he continues...they are beyond a doubt the dirtiest, most degenerate and thieving race of men ever inhabiting this sphere. Makes you sick to inhabit the same island with them. They are even lower than Italians. What the island needs is not health work, but a tidal wave, or something, to totally exterminate the population.
It might then be livable. Have done my best to further the process of extermination by killing off and transplanting cancer to several more. The latter has. not resulted in any other fatalities, so far. The matter of consideration of patients plays no consideration here. In fact, all physicians take delight in the abuse and torture of the unfortunate subjects.
Sincerely,
Cornelius V. Rhodes”