***A Pauper Comes Of Age- For the
Adamsville South Elementary School Class Of 1958-Chuck Berry’s Sweet Little Sixteen
From The Pen Of Frank Jackman
This is the way my old corner boy,
Fritz Taylor, from down in “the projects” told me the story one night years
later when we were sitting on the grey granite steps of North Adamsville High.
Sitting there, no dough in our pockets, our main guy for a ride out of town on
a family vacation, no girls in hand, talking slowly, kind of softly for us,
kind of dreamy really about the first times we had been smitten by a girl, not
necessarily a forever smitten thing (forever then being maybe a month or six
weeks) but with a bug that disturbed our sleep. Yeah, that is exactly the way
to put it, when some frail disturbed our sleep, the first of many sleepless
nights on that subject. (That “frail” a
localism for girl, heavily influenced by watching too many 1930s and 1940s
gangster and hard-boiled private detective movies.) So we were sitting there
thinking about how we were now chasing other dreams, well, maybe not other
dreams but older versions, sweet sixteen versions of that same dream. Of course at sixteen it was all about girls
but as it turned out that subject had its own pre-history way back when. Just
ask Fritz Taylor if you see him.
Fritz Taylor, if he thought about it at
all and at times like that dream vision night at sixteen on the step in front
of the high school he might have, probably would have said that he had his
history hat on again like when he was a
kid, loving history or even the thought of history since some teacher blew him
away with talk of ancient Greeks and Roman, blew him away more when she freaked
him out with talk of Egypt Pharaoh time and he ran all the way over to the art
museum in Boston to look at old
Pharaoh. That sixteen summer night
when out of the blue, the memory time blue, he thought about more modern
history, thought about her, thought about fair Rosimund.
No, before you get all set to turn to
some other thing, some desperate alternate other thing, to do rather than read
Fritz’s poignant little story, this is not some American Revolution founding
fathers (or mothers, because old-time Abigail Adams may have been hovering in
some background granite-chiseled slab grave in very old-time Adamsville
cemetery while the events to be related occurred) or some bold Massachusetts
abolitionist regiment out of the American Civil War 150th anniversary memory
history like Fritz used to like to twist the tail around when you knew him, or
his like. This is about first love so rest easy.
Fritz, that early summer’s night, was
simply trying to put his thoughts together and figured that he would write
something, write something for those who could stand it, those fellow members
of his who could stand to know that the members of the North Adamsville High
School Class of 1963 were that year celebrating the 5th anniversary of their
graduation from elementary school. In Fritz’s case not North Adamsville
Elementary School like many of his fellows but from Adamsville South Elementary
School across town on the “wrong side of the tracks.” And although, at many
levels that was a very different experience from that of the average, average
North Adamsville class member the story had a universal quality that he thought
might amuse them, amuse them that is until the name, the thought of the name,
the mist coming from out of his mouth at the forming of the name, holy of
holies, Rosimund, stopped him dead in his tracks and forced him to tell me that
story and to write that different story later.
Still, once the initial trauma wore
off, Fritz thought what better way to celebrate that milestone on the rocky
road to surviving childhood than to take a trip down memory lane, that
Rosimund-strewn memory lane. Those days although they were filled with
memorable incidents, good and bad, paled beside this Rosimund-related story
that cut deep, deep into his brown-haired mind, and as it turned out one that
he have not forgotten after all. So rather than produce some hokey last dance,
last elementary school sweaty-palmed dance failure tale, some Billie
Bradley-led corner boy down in the back of Adamsville South doo wop be-bop into
the night luring stick and shape girls like lemmings from the sea on hearing
those doo wop harmonies, those harmonies meant for them, the sticks and shapes
that is, or some wannabe gangster retread tale, or even some Captain Midnight
how he saved the world from the Cold War Russkies with his last minute-saving
invention Fritz preferred to relate a home truth, a hard home truth to be sure,
but the truth Here is his say:
At some point in elementary school a
boy is inevitably supposed to learn, maybe required to, depending on the whims
of your school district’s supervisory staff and maybe also what your parents
expected of such schools, to do two intertwined socially-oriented tasks - the
basics of some kind of dancing and to be paired off with, dare I say it, a girl
in that activity. After all that is what it there for isn’t it. At least it was
that way in then a few years back, and if things have changed, changed
dramatically in that regard, you can fill in your own blanks experience. But
here that is where fair sweet Rosimund comes in, the paired-off part.
I can already hear your gasps, dear
reader, as I present this scenario. You are ready to flee, boy or girl flee, to
some safe attic hideaway, to reach for some dusty ancient comfort teddy bear,
or for the venturesome, some old sepia brownie camera picture album safely
hidden in those environs, but flee, no question, at the suggestion of those
painful first times when sweaty-handed, profusely sweaty-handed, boy met
too-tall girl on the dance floor (age too-tall girls hormone shooting up first,
later things settled down, a little). Now for those who are hopped up, or even
mildly interested, in such ancient rituals you may be thinking, oh well, this
won’t be so bad after all since I am talking about the mid-1950s and they had
Dick Clark’s American Bandstand on the television to protect us from having
to dance close, what with those funny self-expression dance moves like the
Stroll and the Hully-Gully that you see on re-runs. And then go on except,
maybe, the last dance, the last close dance that spelled success or failure in
the special he or she night so let me tell you how really bad we had it in the plaid
1960s. Wrong.
Oh, of course, we were all after school
black and white television-addled and addicted making sure that we got home by
three in the afternoon to catch the latest episode of the American Bandstand
saga about who would, or wouldn’t, dance with that cute girl in the corner (or
that leering Amazon in the front). That part was true, true enough. But here we
are not talking fun dancing, close or far away, but learning dancing,
school-time dancing, come on get with it. What we are talking about in my case
is that the dancing part turned out to be the basics of country bumpkin
square-dancing (go figure, for a city boy, right?). Not only did this clumsy,
yes, sweaty-palmed, star-crossed ten-year-old boy have to do the basic “swing
your partner” and some off-hand “doze-zee dozes(sic)” but I also had to do it while I was paired, for
this occasion, with a girl that I had a “crush” on, a serious crush on, and
that is where Rosimund really enters the story.
Rosimund see, moreover, was not from
“the projects” but from one of the new single-family homes, ranch-style homes
that the up and coming middle-class were moving into up the road. In case you
didn’t know, or have forgotten since elementary school days, I grew up on the
“wrong side of the tracks” down at the Adamsville Housing Authority apartments.
The rough side of town, okay. You knew that the minute I mentioned the name,
that AHA name, and rough is what you thought, and that is okay. Now. But
although I had started getting a handle on the stick "projects" girls
I was totally unsure how to deal with girls from the “world.” And Rosimund very
definitely was from the world. I will not describe her here; although I could
do so even today, but let us leave it at her name. Rosimund. Enchanting name,
right? Thoughts of white-plumed knighted medieval jousts against some
black-hooded, armored thug knight for the fair maiden’s hand, or for her favors
(whatever they were then, mainly left unexplained, although we all know what
they are now, and are glad of it)
Nothing special about the story so far,
though. Even I am getting a little sleepy over it. Just your average
one-of-the-stages-of-the-eternal-coming-of-age-story. I wish. Well, the long
and short of it was that the reason we were practicing this square-dancing was
to demonstrate our prowess before our parents in the school gym. Nothing
unusual there either. After all there is no sense in doing this type of
school-time activity unless one can impress one's parents. I forget all the
details of the setup of the space for demonstration day and things like that
but it was a big deal. Parents, refreshments, various local dignitaries, half
the school administrators from downtown whom I will go to my grave believing
could have cared less if it was square-dancing or basket-weaving because they
would have ooh-ed and ah-ed us whatever it was. But that is so much background
filler. Here is the real deal. To honor the occasion, as this was my big moment
to impress Rosimund, I had, earlier in the day, cut up my dungarees to give
myself an authentic square-dancer look, some now farmer brown look but back
then maybe not so bad.
I thought I looked pretty good. And
Rosimund, looking nice in some blue taffeta dress with a dark red shawl thing
draped and pinned across her shoulders (although don’t quote me on that dress
thing, what did a ten-year old boy, sister-less, know of such girlish fashion
things. I was just trying to keep my hands in my pockets to wipe my sweaty
hands for twirling time, for Rosimund twirling time) actually beamed at me, and
said I looked like a gentleman farmer. Be still my heart. Like I said I though
I looked pretty good, and if Rosimund thought so well then, well indeed. And
things were going nicely. That is until my mother, sitting in a front row
audience seat as was her wont, saw what I had done to the pants. In a second
she got up from her seat, marched over to me, and started yelling about my
disrespect for my father's and her efforts to clothe me and about the fact that
since I only had a couple of pairs of pants how could I do such a thing. In
short, airing the family troubles in public for all to hear. That went on for
what seemed like an eternity. Thereafter I was unceremoniously taken home by
said irate mother and placed on restriction for a week. Needless to say my
father also heard about it when he got home from that hard day’s work that he
was too infrequently able to get to keep the wolves from the door, and I heard
about it for weeks afterward. Needless to say I also blew my 'chances' with
dear, sweet Rosimund.
Now is this a tale of the hard lessons
of the nature of class society that I am always more than willing to put in a
word about? Just like you might have remembered about me back in the day.
Surely not. Is this a sad tale of young love thwarted by the vagaries of fate?
A little. Is this a tale about respect for the little we had in my family?
Perhaps. Was my mother, despite her rage, right? Well, yes. Did I learn
something about being poor in the world? Damn right. That is the point. …But,
oh, Rosimund.
Speaking
during the ceremony will be Tina Chery, President and CEO of the Louis D.
Brown Peace Institute. After her oldest son passed away due to gun violence, she
founded this institute to educate and outreach to the families of homicide
victims. She subsequently developed the Peace Curriculum with the aim of
creating a safe environment for young people. Integrating classroom discussions
and community service with an emphasis on peace and peacemaking, this curriculum
is an effective intervention for reducing juvenile
crime. 
The Palestinian
death toll continues to rise, surpassing 500 as Israeli forces surrounded and
attacked Gaza communities such as Shujaiyeh. Israel ignored pleas to halt its
invasion from the Pope, the United Nations, and Civil Society around the world
and proclaimed instead that the invasion might last months. Please join us to
protest the horrendous slaughter in Gaza, and demand an immediate Israeli
withdrawal.. 
