**From The Archives (2012)-Reflections In The Dorchester Day Wind- From The Pen Of Peter Paul Markin
As I stepped up the steps from the Morrissey Boulevard entrance to the Columbia MTA station in the “high Dorchester” section of old home town Boston that noontime June 3rd morning I was suddenly overcome with thoughts of how much this old transit/transfer section of town from my neighboring North Adamsville grow up home to downtown and points north had been part of my growing up life. Oops on that Columbia station reference, except maybe for old-time townies. I ‘forgot’ that the station had long ago been renamed from old housing project ghetto hellhole dump for Boston’s poor, black and white, but increasing black as time wore on and the whites fled to neighboring North Adamsville and points south, Columbia Point. Of course the stop is now named the JFK (no need to identify those Boston-etched initials, even to newcomers, although for how much longer I don’t know)/ UMass MBTA station reflecting its new designation as the site of the JFK Presidential Library and the ever-sprawling although still commuter-bound Boston branch of the state university system.
The reason that I am taking these steps, these now suddenly fraught with memories steps, is in order to take the old Redline subway down the line a few stops to the still same old name Ashmont station. From there to then walk a few blocks (actually about twenty but memory failed) further down Dorchester Avenue (hereafter “Dot” Avenue, we don’t have to be formal here, not in Dorchester, christ, not in Dorchester) to meet up with some ex-military veteran activists united in Veterans for Peace who are marching this day in the annual Dorchester Day parade and have invited me to march with them. I can hardly believe though that this is actually my first Dorchester Day parade under any pretext (held annually on the first Sunday in June for about a billion years now in order to celebrate the landing party that founded the place. It was not always part of Boston but had its own separate history back about half a billion years ago). So this will be a story about memory, yes, always memory these days, about how the peace message that these gutsy veterans bring with them in hard-hit working class and immigrant- heavy Dot, and about the twelve millionth reworking of the “what goes around comes around.” But let’s get started.
Okay, so I “safely” entered the JFK/UMass station and after successfully passing my new “Charlie” card through the scanner (there is a story here but I will let that pass) I head downstairs almost automatically to the waiting platform. Except, as a fairly infrequent user of the “T” of late, and of this stop almost beyond memory, I almost went to the wrong platform. Reason: this Redline station separates one branch going to old traditional Ashmont the other winding its way to North Adamsville and points south as the public transportation system has grown tentacles to all reaches of the Greater Boston area. But I right myself in time, walk right, and wait a few minutes for the old redeye to come into the station with much fanfare.
The trip was uneventful as a ride, no screaming kids, no drunks riding the rails to shake the shakes on the cheap, no petty larceny eyes waiting to pounce, but was filled with memory tips as we joggle alone parallel to the ever present triple-deckers adjacent to line. House after house stuck almost together like one with their three back porches showing laundry and storage, In the old days these triple-deckers represented that first trek (including by some of my more distant relatives, the close ones hail from hard Irish South Boston, “Southie”) out toward the southern old suburbs and more space. Now they represent, increasingly, the lasting abode of blacks, browns, and immigrants who did not survive the seemingly never-ending 2008 home-ownership bubble, or who never got that far. Next stop Savin Hill, same comment, and same stuck together three-deckers along the line (although farther from the din of the tracks, closer to the bay, better housing stock can be found).
Ah, then the curve turn to Fields Corner and I see a couple of hats doffed from old- time passengers, one seemingly ancient beyond description and time, while we pass the ancient Roman Catholic Church (Saint Anne’s, maybe?) seen from the curve. (In the old days, jesus, the whole train load would be men doffing hats or women crossing themselves, including hatless kid me, I think).
Of course Fields Corner memory was more than just train doffs and crosses but was filled with treks from North Adamsville. Why? Well, kid why. See the train sprawl to the suburbs mentioned earlier started after I left this part of town. Back in the day (nice, huh) no Redline went to North Adamsville and so to get to town (or beyond to mecca Harvard Square) you waited, waited endlessly for the clickety-clack privately-run Eastern Massachusetts bus or just walked. Me, I walked, kid walked, hey it was only a couple of miles, just a lark most days except meltdown dog days August. Just go over the North Adamsville Bridge walk up Neponset Avenue, cut up Adams Street and then presto, take a token and take freedom (the why of freedom has been told before and need not detain us here) and hang-out Boston Common or Friday night/ early Saturday morning Harvard Square. Next.
Shawmut, seldom stopped at and known mainly for the white invasion into the area by young 1970s radicals (SDS remnants, Progressive Labor, all kinds of Maoists and Trotskyists beyond mention looking to immerse themselves in the tiny real Boston working class. Good luck, brothers and sisters). They mainly hovered around the Melville Street Victorians and big houses (simple math- divide up seven rooms among seven roommates and you could swing the rent, or in some cases afford the cheap mortgage). Somebody told me a while back , and I was amazed since most of those ancient minute warriors have long since gone to academia ghettos or at least the quiet, very quiet so as not to disturb their sleep, suburbs, that a few refugees still hold forth there and even make some noise on local issues. Hats off, if that is true. But time to move on.
Okay end of the line beautified Ashmont and walk. Ashmont of a thousand (maybe not that many, not as many as Southie anyway) Irish (Irish by bulk clientele and thus Irish) bars, ladies by invitation only, thus not invited, for manly bouts of whiskey straight up (and maybe, depending on dough and days, a beer chaser), furtive arguments about baseball or some misty sport or name, and a few busted ribs or noses. I knew the inside of a fair share of them, walking home, Dorchester home, not youth North Adamsville home, and was not welcome like the ladies in a couple of the rougher ones (“slumming” so it seemed ), no dough for carfare used for one last shot instead. And Ashmont of youth alternative to Field Corner home, sometimes when I had a pressing problem, a pressing kid problem, meaning, naturally, girls, or something like that, and the extra walk time down Gallivan Boulevard gave resolve to the question (hey, minute resolve on the girl thing, hell, even I knew, or suspected, eternity angst on that one)
Walk, human walk machine walk, since wee kid eternity down at the old Adamsville projects, and carless father, mostly carless father (or clunkers that meant carless in short order) , and too impatient to wait for another branch of that privately run Eastern Massachusetts bus, and so walk. And today I walk because in my planning I had assumed more time that I needed for random Sunday service trains and so I could old time walk to eat up time before the one o’clock step-off. And so walk, walk right in into that cluster of hard-bitten veterans (mainly now ancient times Vietnam era or older, jesus) getting ready to “show the colors” to do unequal “battle” once again against the American monster war machine. And we, they, do.
As I stepped up the steps from the Morrissey Boulevard entrance to the Columbia MTA station in the “high Dorchester” section of old home town Boston that noontime June 3rd morning I was suddenly overcome with thoughts of how much this old transit/transfer section of town from my neighboring North Adamsville grow up home to downtown and points north had been part of my growing up life. Oops on that Columbia station reference, except maybe for old-time townies. I ‘forgot’ that the station had long ago been renamed from old housing project ghetto hellhole dump for Boston’s poor, black and white, but increasing black as time wore on and the whites fled to neighboring North Adamsville and points south, Columbia Point. Of course the stop is now named the JFK (no need to identify those Boston-etched initials, even to newcomers, although for how much longer I don’t know)/ UMass MBTA station reflecting its new designation as the site of the JFK Presidential Library and the ever-sprawling although still commuter-bound Boston branch of the state university system.
The reason that I am taking these steps, these now suddenly fraught with memories steps, is in order to take the old Redline subway down the line a few stops to the still same old name Ashmont station. From there to then walk a few blocks (actually about twenty but memory failed) further down Dorchester Avenue (hereafter “Dot” Avenue, we don’t have to be formal here, not in Dorchester, christ, not in Dorchester) to meet up with some ex-military veteran activists united in Veterans for Peace who are marching this day in the annual Dorchester Day parade and have invited me to march with them. I can hardly believe though that this is actually my first Dorchester Day parade under any pretext (held annually on the first Sunday in June for about a billion years now in order to celebrate the landing party that founded the place. It was not always part of Boston but had its own separate history back about half a billion years ago). So this will be a story about memory, yes, always memory these days, about how the peace message that these gutsy veterans bring with them in hard-hit working class and immigrant- heavy Dot, and about the twelve millionth reworking of the “what goes around comes around.” But let’s get started.
Okay, so I “safely” entered the JFK/UMass station and after successfully passing my new “Charlie” card through the scanner (there is a story here but I will let that pass) I head downstairs almost automatically to the waiting platform. Except, as a fairly infrequent user of the “T” of late, and of this stop almost beyond memory, I almost went to the wrong platform. Reason: this Redline station separates one branch going to old traditional Ashmont the other winding its way to North Adamsville and points south as the public transportation system has grown tentacles to all reaches of the Greater Boston area. But I right myself in time, walk right, and wait a few minutes for the old redeye to come into the station with much fanfare.
The trip was uneventful as a ride, no screaming kids, no drunks riding the rails to shake the shakes on the cheap, no petty larceny eyes waiting to pounce, but was filled with memory tips as we joggle alone parallel to the ever present triple-deckers adjacent to line. House after house stuck almost together like one with their three back porches showing laundry and storage, In the old days these triple-deckers represented that first trek (including by some of my more distant relatives, the close ones hail from hard Irish South Boston, “Southie”) out toward the southern old suburbs and more space. Now they represent, increasingly, the lasting abode of blacks, browns, and immigrants who did not survive the seemingly never-ending 2008 home-ownership bubble, or who never got that far. Next stop Savin Hill, same comment, and same stuck together three-deckers along the line (although farther from the din of the tracks, closer to the bay, better housing stock can be found).
Ah, then the curve turn to Fields Corner and I see a couple of hats doffed from old- time passengers, one seemingly ancient beyond description and time, while we pass the ancient Roman Catholic Church (Saint Anne’s, maybe?) seen from the curve. (In the old days, jesus, the whole train load would be men doffing hats or women crossing themselves, including hatless kid me, I think).
Of course Fields Corner memory was more than just train doffs and crosses but was filled with treks from North Adamsville. Why? Well, kid why. See the train sprawl to the suburbs mentioned earlier started after I left this part of town. Back in the day (nice, huh) no Redline went to North Adamsville and so to get to town (or beyond to mecca Harvard Square) you waited, waited endlessly for the clickety-clack privately-run Eastern Massachusetts bus or just walked. Me, I walked, kid walked, hey it was only a couple of miles, just a lark most days except meltdown dog days August. Just go over the North Adamsville Bridge walk up Neponset Avenue, cut up Adams Street and then presto, take a token and take freedom (the why of freedom has been told before and need not detain us here) and hang-out Boston Common or Friday night/ early Saturday morning Harvard Square. Next.
Shawmut, seldom stopped at and known mainly for the white invasion into the area by young 1970s radicals (SDS remnants, Progressive Labor, all kinds of Maoists and Trotskyists beyond mention looking to immerse themselves in the tiny real Boston working class. Good luck, brothers and sisters). They mainly hovered around the Melville Street Victorians and big houses (simple math- divide up seven rooms among seven roommates and you could swing the rent, or in some cases afford the cheap mortgage). Somebody told me a while back , and I was amazed since most of those ancient minute warriors have long since gone to academia ghettos or at least the quiet, very quiet so as not to disturb their sleep, suburbs, that a few refugees still hold forth there and even make some noise on local issues. Hats off, if that is true. But time to move on.
Okay end of the line beautified Ashmont and walk. Ashmont of a thousand (maybe not that many, not as many as Southie anyway) Irish (Irish by bulk clientele and thus Irish) bars, ladies by invitation only, thus not invited, for manly bouts of whiskey straight up (and maybe, depending on dough and days, a beer chaser), furtive arguments about baseball or some misty sport or name, and a few busted ribs or noses. I knew the inside of a fair share of them, walking home, Dorchester home, not youth North Adamsville home, and was not welcome like the ladies in a couple of the rougher ones (“slumming” so it seemed ), no dough for carfare used for one last shot instead. And Ashmont of youth alternative to Field Corner home, sometimes when I had a pressing problem, a pressing kid problem, meaning, naturally, girls, or something like that, and the extra walk time down Gallivan Boulevard gave resolve to the question (hey, minute resolve on the girl thing, hell, even I knew, or suspected, eternity angst on that one)
Walk, human walk machine walk, since wee kid eternity down at the old Adamsville projects, and carless father, mostly carless father (or clunkers that meant carless in short order) , and too impatient to wait for another branch of that privately run Eastern Massachusetts bus, and so walk. And today I walk because in my planning I had assumed more time that I needed for random Sunday service trains and so I could old time walk to eat up time before the one o’clock step-off. And so walk, walk right in into that cluster of hard-bitten veterans (mainly now ancient times Vietnam era or older, jesus) getting ready to “show the colors” to do unequal “battle” once again against the American monster war machine. And we, they, do.
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