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Thursday, June 19, 2014
On The Anniversary Of The Execution Of The Rosenbergs- E.L. Doctorow's Fictional Treatment "The Book Of Daniel" And Sidney Lumet's Film "Daniel"
Repost
Commentary- June 2, 2009
This June marks the 56th Anniversary of the execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg by the American state. I have defended the Rosenbergs elsewhere in this space, including a review last year of a film documentary by Rosenberg granddaughter, Ivy Meerpol, titled "Heir To An Execution".(Check Archives). Directly below are some remarks made in additional to that review in light of a flurry of controversy around their names that surfaced in the Fall of 2008. This year I have chosen to review E.L. Doctorow's 1971 fictional treatment of some aspects of the case and the film based on the book. Needless to say I stand by my defense of this heroic radical couple. Justice still awaits in their case.
*****************
Commentary made in addition to a September 14, 2008 review of a film documentary by Rosenberg granddaughter, Ivy Meerpol, in this space.
Honor the Heroic Soviet Spies Julius Rosenberg, Ethel Rosenberg and Morton Sobel
In the commentary above I alluded, somewhat obliquely, to the Verona Tapes-the decoded Soviet transmissions from World War II- as an earlier American governmental source for the proposition that Julius Rosenberg was providing scientific information of some sort to the Soviet Union during that period. Recent news has highlighted the possible truth of that assertion. First the release of classified grand jury testimony in the Julius and Ethel Rosenberg case mentioned above. Also the assertion by convicted Rosenberg co-conspirator Morton Sobel that he passed scientific information to the Soviets during that period. More recently, in some interviews in The New York Times, the Rosenberg children (Meeropols), after having spend their adulthoods trying to build a case for their parents’ innocence have seemingly come to the position that their father, at least, was indeed working for the Soviets.
Let’s be clear here. For those who saw military defense of the Soviet Union, Stalinist warts and all, as an internationalist socialist duty until its demise in the early 1990’s the question of honoring Julius and Ethel Rosenberg has not hinged on their guilt or innocence of the charges of aiding the Soviet Union leveled by the American government. Nor has it hinged on opposition to the death penalty, although we are opposed to that barbaric punishment. The question has always been, if not openly then otherwise, the service they were in a position to provide to the first workers state. In the interest of “muddying the waters” we have never earlier proclaimed them, as we have with Kim Philby and his Cambridge cohorts, Richard Sorge or Leopold Trepper, heroic Soviet spies. Now, apparently, we can openly acknowledge our debt at last to Julius and Morton Sobel. The case remains unclear about Ethel although we honor her as a soldier of the revolution as well. Some little piece of historic justice is finally possible in their cases.
I would add here that although I had spend a fair portion of my life as a military defender of the Soviet Union and the other workers states of East Europe while they existed that, as a practical matter, that defense never got beyond the propaganda stage. Apparently, Julius Rosenberg and Morton Sobel, in their attempts to defend the interests of the Soviet Union as they saw that duty, were in a position to do more. Although the political gap that separated us was, at times drawn in the blood of our murdered comrades at the hands of the Stalinist henchman that they defended, they acted as soldiers of the revolution here. That is the why of honoring them in this space.
Finally, I have mentioned before that I have always liked the idea of Julius organizing in the 1930’s in behalf of freedom for the jailed militant labor leader Tom Mooney while at City College of New York (CCNY). As those who follow this space know the late Professor Irving Howe, the social democratic founder/editor of Dissent also was at CCNY during this period as an anti-Stalinist socialist who was won to Trotskyism, for a moment, during this same period. He, along with a fair number of others recruited from the Socialist Party milieu at CCNY dropped out of the Socialist Workers Party (the main organized Trotskyist organization in America at the time) over the question of defense of the Soviet Union when it mattered in the late 1930’s. I pose this question- When the fight for socialism is on the line who do you want with you- Julius Rosenberg or Irving Howe? To ask the question is to give the answer. The Rosenbergs and Sobel were not our people- but they were our people.
*********************
Book/ DVD Review
This review is being used for both book and DVD versions of Doctorow's work as the central points to be made in regard to both works are similar. The film starring Timothy Hutton as Daniel and directed by the acclaimed Sidney Lumet fairly closely hems to Doctorow's story line. Hutton does an excellent job as Daniel. Obviously, such dramatic moments as the attempts to run away from the state authorities by the Rosenberg children after their parents' arrest, the touching visiting scenes by the children in the prison just prior to the executions, the executions and the tragic fate of one of the children (in the book, not real life) get more attention than in the book. But that is cinematic license, and here is not overplayed.
The Book Of Daniel, E.L. Doctorow, Random House, New York, 1971
Daniel, starring Timothy Hutton, directed by Sidney Lumet, DVD release 2008
At first blush the Rosenberg Cold War Soviet espionage case of the 1950's, that ended in the execution of both Julius and Ethel Rosenberg by the American state despite a worldwide campaign to save their lives, would not appear to be a natural subject for fictional treatment. Unlike, let us say, Kim Philby and the various Cambridge spies the Rosenbergs' biographies and political profiles do not have the stuff of larger than life drama. Moreover, whatever their efforts were on behalf of the defense of the Soviet Union, as they saw it, the details do not jump out as the makings of a spy thriller. And the well-known historical novelist (`Ragtime", Loon Lake", etc.), E.L. Doctorow, does not go into any of that material. What Doctorow has attempted to mine, and I think within the parameters that he has set himself successfully so, is the effect that the political actions of the Rosenbergs had on their children at the time, on their children's futures (in state custody and later adopted privately) and on the trauma of being the "heirs to an execution" in adulthood. Add to that the biblical implications ("The Book Of Daniel") that Doctorow weaves into his story and that is more than enough material for one novel.
Naturally, the question of the fate of the children of famous (or infamous, as the case may be) is a fair subject for treatment, fictional or otherwise. There is a whole flourishing body of literature concerning this topic. What makes the Rosenberg children distinct (a boy and girl, rather than the real two boys, fictionally named Daniel and Susan Issacson here) is that they were son and daughter to parents who in the eyes of the American state and significant parts of the American population were traitors. Not a good way for young kids to develop their self-esteem. That struggle, placed in the context of the traumas over personal identification which were rift as they grew to adulthood and that helped define the 1960's the time of the action of this story, drive the main themes of the story. The interlocked questions of life in the academy (Daniel is something of a professional graduate student), life on the political streets (Susan has chosen a psychologically dangerous way to cope with her heritage by going full-bore into the left-wing political activity of the period) and coming to grips, successfully or not, with their legacies give the plot substance.
Aside from Doctorow's main themes of exploring the thorny question of the responsibility that parents have for their children, either as parents or as political people, the last part of the book where Daniel, as a coping mechanism if nothing else, begins to get "political" provides some interesting (for the time) theories about what happened in the Rosenberg case. The themes of "good Jew, bad Jew" (as shown by the large cast of Jewish characters in the trial process), the alleged inadequacies of the defense, the scarcity of government evidence (the Rosenbergs were convicted of that old stand-by "conspiracy"), the nature of the early Cold War period and the personal and political limitations of the Rosenbergs themselves get a full workout here. In the end though, as I mentioned in a commentary reviewing Rosenberg granddaughter Ivy Meerpol's film, "Heir To An Execution", concerning the personal characters of the Rosenbergs they did their duty as communists, as they saw it. For that they deserve all honor. And someday some real justice to clear their names.
Repost
Commentary- June 2, 2009
This June marks the 56th Anniversary of the execution of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg by the American state. I have defended the Rosenbergs elsewhere in this space, including a review last year of a film documentary by Rosenberg granddaughter, Ivy Meerpol, titled "Heir To An Execution".(Check Archives). Directly below are some remarks made in additional to that review in light of a flurry of controversy around their names that surfaced in the Fall of 2008. This year I have chosen to review E.L. Doctorow's 1971 fictional treatment of some aspects of the case and the film based on the book. Needless to say I stand by my defense of this heroic radical couple. Justice still awaits in their case.
*****************
Commentary made in addition to a September 14, 2008 review of a film documentary by Rosenberg granddaughter, Ivy Meerpol, in this space.
Honor the Heroic Soviet Spies Julius Rosenberg, Ethel Rosenberg and Morton Sobel
In the commentary above I alluded, somewhat obliquely, to the Verona Tapes-the decoded Soviet transmissions from World War II- as an earlier American governmental source for the proposition that Julius Rosenberg was providing scientific information of some sort to the Soviet Union during that period. Recent news has highlighted the possible truth of that assertion. First the release of classified grand jury testimony in the Julius and Ethel Rosenberg case mentioned above. Also the assertion by convicted Rosenberg co-conspirator Morton Sobel that he passed scientific information to the Soviets during that period. More recently, in some interviews in The New York Times, the Rosenberg children (Meeropols), after having spend their adulthoods trying to build a case for their parents’ innocence have seemingly come to the position that their father, at least, was indeed working for the Soviets.
Let’s be clear here. For those who saw military defense of the Soviet Union, Stalinist warts and all, as an internationalist socialist duty until its demise in the early 1990’s the question of honoring Julius and Ethel Rosenberg has not hinged on their guilt or innocence of the charges of aiding the Soviet Union leveled by the American government. Nor has it hinged on opposition to the death penalty, although we are opposed to that barbaric punishment. The question has always been, if not openly then otherwise, the service they were in a position to provide to the first workers state. In the interest of “muddying the waters” we have never earlier proclaimed them, as we have with Kim Philby and his Cambridge cohorts, Richard Sorge or Leopold Trepper, heroic Soviet spies. Now, apparently, we can openly acknowledge our debt at last to Julius and Morton Sobel. The case remains unclear about Ethel although we honor her as a soldier of the revolution as well. Some little piece of historic justice is finally possible in their cases.
I would add here that although I had spend a fair portion of my life as a military defender of the Soviet Union and the other workers states of East Europe while they existed that, as a practical matter, that defense never got beyond the propaganda stage. Apparently, Julius Rosenberg and Morton Sobel, in their attempts to defend the interests of the Soviet Union as they saw that duty, were in a position to do more. Although the political gap that separated us was, at times drawn in the blood of our murdered comrades at the hands of the Stalinist henchman that they defended, they acted as soldiers of the revolution here. That is the why of honoring them in this space.
Finally, I have mentioned before that I have always liked the idea of Julius organizing in the 1930’s in behalf of freedom for the jailed militant labor leader Tom Mooney while at City College of New York (CCNY). As those who follow this space know the late Professor Irving Howe, the social democratic founder/editor of Dissent also was at CCNY during this period as an anti-Stalinist socialist who was won to Trotskyism, for a moment, during this same period. He, along with a fair number of others recruited from the Socialist Party milieu at CCNY dropped out of the Socialist Workers Party (the main organized Trotskyist organization in America at the time) over the question of defense of the Soviet Union when it mattered in the late 1930’s. I pose this question- When the fight for socialism is on the line who do you want with you- Julius Rosenberg or Irving Howe? To ask the question is to give the answer. The Rosenbergs and Sobel were not our people- but they were our people.
*********************
Book/ DVD Review
This review is being used for both book and DVD versions of Doctorow's work as the central points to be made in regard to both works are similar. The film starring Timothy Hutton as Daniel and directed by the acclaimed Sidney Lumet fairly closely hems to Doctorow's story line. Hutton does an excellent job as Daniel. Obviously, such dramatic moments as the attempts to run away from the state authorities by the Rosenberg children after their parents' arrest, the touching visiting scenes by the children in the prison just prior to the executions, the executions and the tragic fate of one of the children (in the book, not real life) get more attention than in the book. But that is cinematic license, and here is not overplayed.
The Book Of Daniel, E.L. Doctorow, Random House, New York, 1971
Daniel, starring Timothy Hutton, directed by Sidney Lumet, DVD release 2008
At first blush the Rosenberg Cold War Soviet espionage case of the 1950's, that ended in the execution of both Julius and Ethel Rosenberg by the American state despite a worldwide campaign to save their lives, would not appear to be a natural subject for fictional treatment. Unlike, let us say, Kim Philby and the various Cambridge spies the Rosenbergs' biographies and political profiles do not have the stuff of larger than life drama. Moreover, whatever their efforts were on behalf of the defense of the Soviet Union, as they saw it, the details do not jump out as the makings of a spy thriller. And the well-known historical novelist (`Ragtime", Loon Lake", etc.), E.L. Doctorow, does not go into any of that material. What Doctorow has attempted to mine, and I think within the parameters that he has set himself successfully so, is the effect that the political actions of the Rosenbergs had on their children at the time, on their children's futures (in state custody and later adopted privately) and on the trauma of being the "heirs to an execution" in adulthood. Add to that the biblical implications ("The Book Of Daniel") that Doctorow weaves into his story and that is more than enough material for one novel.
Naturally, the question of the fate of the children of famous (or infamous, as the case may be) is a fair subject for treatment, fictional or otherwise. There is a whole flourishing body of literature concerning this topic. What makes the Rosenberg children distinct (a boy and girl, rather than the real two boys, fictionally named Daniel and Susan Issacson here) is that they were son and daughter to parents who in the eyes of the American state and significant parts of the American population were traitors. Not a good way for young kids to develop their self-esteem. That struggle, placed in the context of the traumas over personal identification which were rift as they grew to adulthood and that helped define the 1960's the time of the action of this story, drive the main themes of the story. The interlocked questions of life in the academy (Daniel is something of a professional graduate student), life on the political streets (Susan has chosen a psychologically dangerous way to cope with her heritage by going full-bore into the left-wing political activity of the period) and coming to grips, successfully or not, with their legacies give the plot substance.
Aside from Doctorow's main themes of exploring the thorny question of the responsibility that parents have for their children, either as parents or as political people, the last part of the book where Daniel, as a coping mechanism if nothing else, begins to get "political" provides some interesting (for the time) theories about what happened in the Rosenberg case. The themes of "good Jew, bad Jew" (as shown by the large cast of Jewish characters in the trial process), the alleged inadequacies of the defense, the scarcity of government evidence (the Rosenbergs were convicted of that old stand-by "conspiracy"), the nature of the early Cold War period and the personal and political limitations of the Rosenbergs themselves get a full workout here. In the end though, as I mentioned in a commentary reviewing Rosenberg granddaughter Ivy Meerpol's film, "Heir To An Execution", concerning the personal characters of the Rosenbergs they did their duty as communists, as they saw it. For that they deserve all honor. And someday some real justice to clear their names.
Those Who Fought For Our Communist Future Are Kindred Spirits- Honor The Heroic Communists Julius And Ethel Rosenberg On The Anniversary Of Their Execution
This is a repost of a January 2009 entry honoring the Rosenbergs as militants and here to honor them on the 57th anniversary of their execution by the American capitalist state.
Every January, as readers of this blog are now, hopefully, familiar with the international communist movement honors the 3 Ls-Lenin, Luxemburg and Liebknecht, fallen leaders of the early 20th century communist movement who died in this month (and whose untimely deaths left a huge, irreplaceable gap in the international leadership of that time). January is thus a time for us to reflect on the roots of our movement and those who brought us along this far. In order to give a fuller measure of honor to our fallen forbears this January, and in future Januarys, this space will honor others who have contributed in some way to the struggle for our communist future. That future classless society, however, will be the true memorial to their sacrifices.
Note on inclusion: As in other series on this site (“Labor’s Untold Story”, “Leaders Of The Bolshevik Revolution”, etc.) this year’s honorees do not exhaust the list of every possible communist worthy of the name. Nor, in fact, is the list limited to Bolshevik-style communists. There will be names included from other traditions (like anarchism, social democracy, the Diggers, Levellers, Jacobins, etc.) whose efforts contributed to the international struggle. Also, as was true of previous series this year’s efforts are no more than an introduction to these heroes of the class struggle. Future years will see more detailed information on each entry, particularly about many of the lesser known figures. Better yet, the reader can pick up the ball and run with it if he or she has more knowledge about the particular exploits of some communist militant, or to include a missing one.
Markin comment:
The names of the heroic Communist militants Julius and Ethel Rosenberg are no strangers to this space. I have mentioned this before and it bears repeating here. The Rosenbergs were not our people (hard Stalinists rather than supporters of Trotsky), but they were our people (they defended the Soviet Union in the best way they knew how, and didn't complain about linking their personal fates to that defense right to the end).
This is a repost of a January 2009 entry honoring the Rosenbergs as militants and here to honor them on the 57th anniversary of their execution by the American capitalist state.
Every January, as readers of this blog are now, hopefully, familiar with the international communist movement honors the 3 Ls-Lenin, Luxemburg and Liebknecht, fallen leaders of the early 20th century communist movement who died in this month (and whose untimely deaths left a huge, irreplaceable gap in the international leadership of that time). January is thus a time for us to reflect on the roots of our movement and those who brought us along this far. In order to give a fuller measure of honor to our fallen forbears this January, and in future Januarys, this space will honor others who have contributed in some way to the struggle for our communist future. That future classless society, however, will be the true memorial to their sacrifices.
Note on inclusion: As in other series on this site (“Labor’s Untold Story”, “Leaders Of The Bolshevik Revolution”, etc.) this year’s honorees do not exhaust the list of every possible communist worthy of the name. Nor, in fact, is the list limited to Bolshevik-style communists. There will be names included from other traditions (like anarchism, social democracy, the Diggers, Levellers, Jacobins, etc.) whose efforts contributed to the international struggle. Also, as was true of previous series this year’s efforts are no more than an introduction to these heroes of the class struggle. Future years will see more detailed information on each entry, particularly about many of the lesser known figures. Better yet, the reader can pick up the ball and run with it if he or she has more knowledge about the particular exploits of some communist militant, or to include a missing one.
Markin comment:
The names of the heroic Communist militants Julius and Ethel Rosenberg are no strangers to this space. I have mentioned this before and it bears repeating here. The Rosenbergs were not our people (hard Stalinists rather than supporters of Trotsky), but they were our people (they defended the Soviet Union in the best way they knew how, and didn't complain about linking their personal fates to that defense right to the end).
Poet's Corner- Bertolt Brecht's "To Those Born After"- In Honor Of Julius And Ethel Rosenberg On The Anniversary Of Their Execution
The heroic communists, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, executed by the American state on June 19, 1953.
To Those Born After
I
To the cities I came in a time of disorder
That was ruled by hunger.
I sheltered with the people in a time of uproar
And then I joined in their rebellion.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
I ate my dinners between the battles,
I lay down to sleep among the murderers,
I didn't care for much for love
And for nature's beauties I had little patience.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
The city streets all led to foul swamps in my time,
My speech betrayed me to the butchers.
I could do only little
But without me those that ruled could not sleep so easily:
That's what I hoped.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
Our forces were slight and small,
Our goal lay in the far distance
Clearly in our sights,
If for me myself beyond my reaching.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
II
You who will come to the surface
From the flood that's overwhelmed us and drowned us all
Must think, when you speak of our weakness in times of darkness
That you've not had to face:
Days when we were used to changing countries
More often than shoes,
Through the war of the classes despairing
That there was only injustice and no outrage.
Even so we realised
Hatred of oppression still distorts the features,
Anger at injustice still makes voices raised and ugly.
Oh we, who wished to lay for the foundations for peace and friendliness,
Could never be friendly ourselves.
And in the future when no longer
Do human beings still treat themselves as animals,
Look back on us with indulgence.
The heroic communists, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, executed by the American state on June 19, 1953.
To Those Born After
I
To the cities I came in a time of disorder
That was ruled by hunger.
I sheltered with the people in a time of uproar
And then I joined in their rebellion.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
I ate my dinners between the battles,
I lay down to sleep among the murderers,
I didn't care for much for love
And for nature's beauties I had little patience.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
The city streets all led to foul swamps in my time,
My speech betrayed me to the butchers.
I could do only little
But without me those that ruled could not sleep so easily:
That's what I hoped.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
Our forces were slight and small,
Our goal lay in the far distance
Clearly in our sights,
If for me myself beyond my reaching.
That's how I passed my time that was given to me on this Earth.
II
You who will come to the surface
From the flood that's overwhelmed us and drowned us all
Must think, when you speak of our weakness in times of darkness
That you've not had to face:
Days when we were used to changing countries
More often than shoes,
Through the war of the classes despairing
That there was only injustice and no outrage.
Even so we realised
Hatred of oppression still distorts the features,
Anger at injustice still makes voices raised and ugly.
Oh we, who wished to lay for the foundations for peace and friendliness,
Could never be friendly ourselves.
And in the future when no longer
Do human beings still treat themselves as animals,
Look back on us with indulgence.
***In Honor Of Julius And Ethel Rosenberg On The Anniversary Of Their Execution-On Paying Homage To Leftist (And Other) Political Opponents- A Short Note
A repost from June 19, 2010
Markin comment:
First question: What do the murdered heroic Kansas abortion provider, Doctor George Tiller, the 17th century Puritan revolutionary poet and propagandist, John Milton, author of Paradise Lost, and the early 20th century labor and civil rights lawyer, Clarence Darrow, defender of “Big” Big Haywood and John Scopes, among others, have in common? Similar expertise in similar fields? No. Common political vision? Hell, no. Could it be that they, each in their own way, contributed to the store of our human progress? Well, yes. And also, by the way, they have all been honored on this American Left History site for those contributions. And nary a flea-bitten, hard-shell, broad-backed, barn-burning, blood-thirty, red meat, communistic, reds under every bed, Bolshevik bastard who wants to “nationalize” women and “eat babies” for breakfast among them.
Second question: What do the pre-World War II American communist renegade from Marxism, Max Shachtman, the old English socialist and novelist turned British imperial informer, George Orwell, and the German “pope” of pre- World War I Marxism in the Second International , Karl Kautsky have in common? I will not prolong the agony on this one because I have to make my point before the next millennium so it is that they have made contributions to our common socialist movement before they went over to the other, pro-capitalist, pro-imperialist side (one way or the other). And also, by the way, they have all been honored on this American Left History site for those contributions. And nary a flea-bitten, hard-shell, broad-backed, barn-burning, blood-thirty, red meat, communistic, reds under every bed, Bolshevik bastard who wants to “nationalize” women and “eat babies” for breakfast among them.
Third question: What do the old-fashioned 19th century French revolutionary and Paris Commune member, Louis–August Blanqui, the iconic American black liberation fighter, Malcolm X, and the old Industrial Workers of World (IWW-Wobblies) organizer extraordinaire, Vincent St. John, have in common? Again, I will cut to the chase; they were all, one way or the other, political opponents of Marxism. And also, by the way, they have all been honored on this American Left History site for those contributions. And nary a flea-bitten, hard-shell, broad-backed, barn-burning, blood-thirty, red meat, communistic, reds under every bed, Bolshevik bastard who wants to “nationalize” women and “eat babies” for breakfast among them.
Okay, by my count I see zero legendary Bolshevik names listed above. Names like Leon Trotsky, V.I. Lenin, N. Krupskaya, J. Sverdlov, Jim Cannon, John Reed, “Big” Bill Haywood, and so on. Oh, they have been honored in this space, profusely. Of course. (Although I do not believe that there was a flea-bitten, hard-shell, broad-backed, barn-burning, blood-thirty, red meat, communistic, reds under every bed, Bolshevik bastard who wants to “nationalize” women and “eat babies” for breakfast among them either, that was pure bourgeois propaganda, always). And that is exactly my point here.
Let me back track on this one, a little. Recently I did a series of reviews of the work of American detective fiction writer, Dashiell Hammett. (see blogs, dated August 15-18, 2010). Beyond a review of his outstanding literary work I noted that Hammett was a prominent supporter of the Stalinized American Communist Party in the 1930s and 1940s. In that dead night of the "red scare", which many from that time and since would prefer to obliterate from American "democratic" memory, especially the memory of their own silence and complicity, just said no to the committees that wanted him to “name names.” He didn’t and paid the price for his courageous act. Others, including long time Stalinists and fellow–travelers squawked to high heaven before those committees, sometimes without the least bit of pressure. A simple acknowledgement of Hammett’s deed, noting along the way, that Hammett and our Trotskyist forbears were still political opponents at the end of the day seemed less than controversial.
Not so, at least from an e-mail that I received, claiming (for me) the mantle of Stalinophile for such a “tribute”. First, I assume that the person, for good or ill, had not read my "tributes” to arch-Stalinist American Communist Party supporters, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, who I have termed “heroic” for their deeds in behalf of the Soviet Union, when those deeds counted. Or that if the person had deeds, like Hammett's, involving less than going to meet death fearlessly by Stalinists are not worthy of kudos. In any case, this person is all wrong.
Go back to the first question above where basically non-political types were noted for their contributions to human progress. That is the “missing link” to this person’s mistaken position. I could have gone on and on about various persons that have been honored in this American Left History blog. But that seemed to me to be unnecessarily hammering home the point. Here is the real point. We have had few enough occasions when our fellows get it right to narrow the parameters of what contributes to human progress. If we get too picky we are left with honoring Lenin, Trotsky, and a few other Bolsheviks. Oh yes, and, of course, those few of us who claim to be contemporary Bolsheviks- including, I presume, the heroic, non-Stalinophile, e-mail sender. Enough said.
Note: I did not mention this e-mail sender’s political affiliation although it was provided. Let us just put it this way. The organization that the person belongs to (and I am not sure the person knows all the organization’s history, it didn’t seem so) has a history of “bailing water” (my term)for the “progressive" wing of the Democratic party (whatever that is?) and wondered out loud why I did not honor the likes of California’s’ current Attorney General, Jerry Brown, Oakland Mayor Ron Dellums, Ohio Congressman Dennis Kucinich, ex-Georgia Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney, and so on. Jesus, give me a break. But, wait a minute, if the shades of old Dashiell Hammett were around today or those of some of his fellow reprobate Stalinists, those are the same kindred that they would be kowtowing to, as well. Hey, I just tipped my hat to old Hammett I did not try to "steal" his "progressive/ popular front" political strategy. Strange bedfellows, indeed. Double, Jesus give me a break.
A repost from June 19, 2010
Markin comment:
First question: What do the murdered heroic Kansas abortion provider, Doctor George Tiller, the 17th century Puritan revolutionary poet and propagandist, John Milton, author of Paradise Lost, and the early 20th century labor and civil rights lawyer, Clarence Darrow, defender of “Big” Big Haywood and John Scopes, among others, have in common? Similar expertise in similar fields? No. Common political vision? Hell, no. Could it be that they, each in their own way, contributed to the store of our human progress? Well, yes. And also, by the way, they have all been honored on this American Left History site for those contributions. And nary a flea-bitten, hard-shell, broad-backed, barn-burning, blood-thirty, red meat, communistic, reds under every bed, Bolshevik bastard who wants to “nationalize” women and “eat babies” for breakfast among them.
Second question: What do the pre-World War II American communist renegade from Marxism, Max Shachtman, the old English socialist and novelist turned British imperial informer, George Orwell, and the German “pope” of pre- World War I Marxism in the Second International , Karl Kautsky have in common? I will not prolong the agony on this one because I have to make my point before the next millennium so it is that they have made contributions to our common socialist movement before they went over to the other, pro-capitalist, pro-imperialist side (one way or the other). And also, by the way, they have all been honored on this American Left History site for those contributions. And nary a flea-bitten, hard-shell, broad-backed, barn-burning, blood-thirty, red meat, communistic, reds under every bed, Bolshevik bastard who wants to “nationalize” women and “eat babies” for breakfast among them.
Third question: What do the old-fashioned 19th century French revolutionary and Paris Commune member, Louis–August Blanqui, the iconic American black liberation fighter, Malcolm X, and the old Industrial Workers of World (IWW-Wobblies) organizer extraordinaire, Vincent St. John, have in common? Again, I will cut to the chase; they were all, one way or the other, political opponents of Marxism. And also, by the way, they have all been honored on this American Left History site for those contributions. And nary a flea-bitten, hard-shell, broad-backed, barn-burning, blood-thirty, red meat, communistic, reds under every bed, Bolshevik bastard who wants to “nationalize” women and “eat babies” for breakfast among them.
Okay, by my count I see zero legendary Bolshevik names listed above. Names like Leon Trotsky, V.I. Lenin, N. Krupskaya, J. Sverdlov, Jim Cannon, John Reed, “Big” Bill Haywood, and so on. Oh, they have been honored in this space, profusely. Of course. (Although I do not believe that there was a flea-bitten, hard-shell, broad-backed, barn-burning, blood-thirty, red meat, communistic, reds under every bed, Bolshevik bastard who wants to “nationalize” women and “eat babies” for breakfast among them either, that was pure bourgeois propaganda, always). And that is exactly my point here.
Let me back track on this one, a little. Recently I did a series of reviews of the work of American detective fiction writer, Dashiell Hammett. (see blogs, dated August 15-18, 2010). Beyond a review of his outstanding literary work I noted that Hammett was a prominent supporter of the Stalinized American Communist Party in the 1930s and 1940s. In that dead night of the "red scare", which many from that time and since would prefer to obliterate from American "democratic" memory, especially the memory of their own silence and complicity, just said no to the committees that wanted him to “name names.” He didn’t and paid the price for his courageous act. Others, including long time Stalinists and fellow–travelers squawked to high heaven before those committees, sometimes without the least bit of pressure. A simple acknowledgement of Hammett’s deed, noting along the way, that Hammett and our Trotskyist forbears were still political opponents at the end of the day seemed less than controversial.
Not so, at least from an e-mail that I received, claiming (for me) the mantle of Stalinophile for such a “tribute”. First, I assume that the person, for good or ill, had not read my "tributes” to arch-Stalinist American Communist Party supporters, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, who I have termed “heroic” for their deeds in behalf of the Soviet Union, when those deeds counted. Or that if the person had deeds, like Hammett's, involving less than going to meet death fearlessly by Stalinists are not worthy of kudos. In any case, this person is all wrong.
Go back to the first question above where basically non-political types were noted for their contributions to human progress. That is the “missing link” to this person’s mistaken position. I could have gone on and on about various persons that have been honored in this American Left History blog. But that seemed to me to be unnecessarily hammering home the point. Here is the real point. We have had few enough occasions when our fellows get it right to narrow the parameters of what contributes to human progress. If we get too picky we are left with honoring Lenin, Trotsky, and a few other Bolsheviks. Oh yes, and, of course, those few of us who claim to be contemporary Bolsheviks- including, I presume, the heroic, non-Stalinophile, e-mail sender. Enough said.
Note: I did not mention this e-mail sender’s political affiliation although it was provided. Let us just put it this way. The organization that the person belongs to (and I am not sure the person knows all the organization’s history, it didn’t seem so) has a history of “bailing water” (my term)for the “progressive" wing of the Democratic party (whatever that is?) and wondered out loud why I did not honor the likes of California’s’ current Attorney General, Jerry Brown, Oakland Mayor Ron Dellums, Ohio Congressman Dennis Kucinich, ex-Georgia Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney, and so on. Jesus, give me a break. But, wait a minute, if the shades of old Dashiell Hammett were around today or those of some of his fellow reprobate Stalinists, those are the same kindred that they would be kowtowing to, as well. Hey, I just tipped my hat to old Hammett I did not try to "steal" his "progressive/ popular front" political strategy. Strange bedfellows, indeed. Double, Jesus give me a break.
***Of This And That
In The Old North Adamsville Neighborhood-In
Search Of….. Bowling Alone In America
From The Pen Of Frank
Jackman
For those who have been following
this series about the old days in my old home town of North Adamsville,
particularly the high school days as the 50th anniversary of my
graduation creeps up, will notice that recently I have been doing sketches
based on my reaction to various e-mails sent to me by fellow classmates via the
class website. Also classmates have placed messages on the Message Forum page when they have something they want to share
generally like health issues, new family arrivals or trips down memory lane on
any number of subjects from old time athletic prowess to reflections on growing
up in the old home town. Thus I have been forced to take on the tough tasks of
sending kisses to raging grandmothers, talking up old flames with guys I used
to hang around the corners with, remembering those long ago searches for the
heart of Saturday night, getting wistful about elementary school daydreams,
taking up the cudgels for be-bop lost boys and the like. These responses are no
accident as I have of late been avidly perusing the personal profiles of
various members of the North Adamsville Class of 1964 website as fellow
classmates have come on to the site and lost their shyness about telling their
life stories (or have increased their computer technology capacities, not an
unimportant consideration for the generation of ’68, a generation on the cusp
of the computer revolution and so not necessarily as computer savvy as the
average eight-year old today).
Some stuff is interesting to a
point, you know, including those endless tales about the doings and not doings
of the grandchildren, odd hobbies and other ventures taken up in retirement and
so on although not worthy of me making a little off-hand commentary on. Some other
stuff is either too sensitive or too risqué to publish on a family-friendly
site. Some stuff, some stuff about the old days and what did, or did not,
happened to, or between, fellow classmates, you know the boy-girl thing (other
now acceptable relationships were below the radar then) has naturally perked my
interest.
Other stuff defies simple
classification as is the case here in commenting on (and posting, see below) an
unusual entry on the Message Forum page. Apparently back in high school, our
1960s high school, and maybe others for all I know the girls’ and boys’ bowling
teams were kept separate. Bowled at different venues on different days and never
the twain shall met. A lot of now seemingly odd things went on back then just like
with every generation although at time there were some very great distinctions
drawn between boys and girls and what they could, or could not do, on the
athletic fields, in the professions and in life.
One of the starkest examples was
in sports particularly in a sport like track and field where women were not
permitted to run in races more than about twenty yards (something like that)
and now women are routinely running in marathons and beating a fair share of
guys to boot. At our school there was no girls’ track team then (although now
there is and the team has won many championships for the old red and black). But
the separate bowling teams defies logic since back then a very frequent and
cheap date was to take a girl to the bowling alleys so it wasn’t like having
mixed school teams would have been a revolutionary move. But enough from me. I
will let Sam Lowell, a guy I knew a little from being on the track teams together,
tell his take fifty years later on this question:
“Bowling Alone In
America?- For The NAHS Girls’ and Boys’ Bowling Teams, Circa 1964 and For “Chrissie
M.,” Class Of 1964
By Sam Lowell
This sketch is based
on a true situation related to me by a fellow classmate a while back who wished
to remain nameless so I will use the name Joseph Bowdoin here. And, no,
Chrissie M. is not the real name of the young woman from the Class of 1964 that
he asked me to dedicate this sketch to because, well, because her husband, her
very real husband, is some kind of ex-college linebacker and as a rule, a very
firm rule, I do not mess with giants who might take umbrage even fifty years
later. Hey, I am just the messenger here. If she reads this she will know who
it is about. That said, transport yourself back to 1962 …
Chrissie, Christine Anne McNamara,
bowls. Chrissie McNamara, the “hottest” sweet sixteen quail in the sophomore
class at North Adamsville High School bowls, bowls candlepins that take some
skill to perfect. Oh sure Chrissie does other things, things like cheer-leading
for the raider red gridiron goliaths in the brisk, bright, leave-filled fall, and
doesn’t cheer-lead the basketball team because winter time is primo bowling
time, participates in the school play, writes for the school newspaper, has a
sweet what-you-see-is-what-you get personality, and is off-handedly beautiful.
Not your drop-dead-remote-ice-queen-who-will- need-plenty-of-cosmetic-help-as-she-frightens-away-the-age-lines
beautiful but whole package beautiful, looks, personality, intellect, that would
have you, hell, has me scratching my head. Scratching and figuring as I watch
her reading something just this minute about two rows over from where I sitting
in this dead-ass last period Miss Shields’ study class.
Best of all, even if all my
scratching and figuring don't work out today, in less than an hour I will get
to go past her house, after I have made sure she is walking in front of me, on
the way to my own house, and will probably get a big Chrissie smile as I do so.
And maybe a “Hi Joey-Bowey” from her as well. That’s me, Joseph Bowdoin, and
the “Joey-Bowey” is from the kids back in middle school, and I don’t like it, don’t
like it at all. Except from Chrissie it is okay, just fine. Yeah, it’s like
that.
Yes, but here is the problem in a
nutshell, Chrissie bowls, and if you want to get anywhere with Chrissie, as
everybody knows, and has known since about fourth grade, way before I got here,
you had better bowl too. You can be Paul Newman’s “Fast Eddie,” and “shoot
pools” and have done all kinds of adventurous stuff but if you don’t bowl go
slump-shouldered to the back of the Chrissie line. You could be the greatest
running back in the history of football, breaking every record and every linebacker’s
mean-spirited heart but no bowl-no go. Get, heart-broken, in back of Paul in
that just-mentioned line. If you are a nerdy guy, as I am, somewhat, but you
bowl, well, theoretically you have a chance, but let’s face it plenty of
talented, good-looking guys, who under ordinary circumstances would give
bowling the gaff, are, even as I speak, thinking about sharpening up their
games to get a crack at those ruby-red lips. Damn.
Oh, did I mention that I have been
in love, or half in love, or some percentage in love with Chrissie ever since
she gave me an innocent kiss from those ruby-red lips at her thirteenth
birthday party back when I first came to North Adamsville. Really the kiss was
nothing but a good wishes peck on the lips that wouldn’t count for anything for
older guys, or girls either, but for a shy thirteen-year old new boy I was in
very heaven. Call me crazy, call me a nutcase ready for the funny farm, but
every once in a while when Chrissie calls me “Joey-Bowey” from her front door I
swear she says it in such a way that maybe that kiss wasn’t so innocent after
all. In any case I have been plotting, maybe not every day, but plotting ever
since to get a second, real kiss from her ruby-red lips. And to hold that
slender hour- glass figure, to dance close to those well-formed legs, and to
tussle with that flaming mass of red hair that goes with those ruby-red lips.
And, and… well you get the idea.
But see Chrissie bowls and I don’t,
although I have, lately anyway, spent a fair amount of time at the North Adamsville
bowling alleys, the bowling place located downstairs across from my real
hang-out, my corner boy hang-out, Salducci’s Pizza Parlor up the Downs. Now those
lanes are not the kind of bowling alley
that Chrissie or any other foxy girl would hang out in at night because,
honestly, it’s a creepy place where young junior high school wannabe hoods,
real high school drop-outs, rejected no-go corner boys, and beer-swilling adults
hang out and make noise. But, see, it is the perfect place for a non-bowling
guy to hang out and “learn” bowls, learn bowls on the quiet.
Oh, did I also mention the other
problem that I just recently found out about, the problem beyond my not bowling,
my not yet being worthy of that second ruby-red lipped Chrissie kiss. I see
that I haven’t now that I think back. Well, here it is if you can believe this.
I can’t get to bowl with Chrissie, can’t get to bowl with her that is unless I
ask her for a date which is way ahead of where my current plans for her have
unfolded, because at school, at foolish North, the boys and girls have separate
bowling teams that don’t even bowl at the same places.
Yes, I thought you would see my
dilemma. See the idea was that I would start bowling with one of the mixed teams,
Chrissie would notice me and notice that I could use a few pointers, would come
over and give me those few pointers, and then when I walked by her house not
only would she give me that big warm smile but probably want to talk about this
or that, bowling this or that, and that would be my opening to ask her to go
bowling, bowling alone with me. Foolproof, right? Except for that stupid school
rule thing.
Now here is how I heard the story why
there are two separate teams and why they bowl at different places, although I
might be off on a few points, maybe more than a few and maybe the guys were
kidding me along about it,. A few years back the North Adamsville alleys used
to be the place where everybody, boys and girls, bowled after school for
practice a couple of days a week and for competitions between the teams. And that made sense because it only takes
about ten minutes to get there from school. Now, like I explained to you
already, this joint is nothing but a run-down place with about ten lanes, an
ice cooler filled with tonic, that’s soda for you foreigners, a couple of food-
vending machines, a few pinball wizard machines, a rest room I avoid using, if
possible, and that’s about it. Small time stuff. Everything kind of dusty and
seedy from the minute you head down the darkened stairs right on through. Good
enough though, like I also said before for hoods, corner boys, and rookie
bowlers.
But then, back in the mixed bowling
team days, it was kept up better and was a magnet for kids, boys and girls
alike, to come and bowl…and other things. Those other things being listening to
the big oversized jukebox filled with a ton of records, rock and roll records
to cry for, and three for only a quarter too. Dancing, close dancing, on the
small dance floor that was set up then, and that you can still see all scuffed
up and scummy now. And some off-hand hanky-panky, kid’s stuff really, from what
I heard, the usual boys copping a “feel” and the girls letting them like has
been going on since they invented teenagers, in a couple of small back rooms
that Jake, sweet brother Jake, let the kids use.
You can see where this after school jukebox rock and roll,
close dancing, and backroom thing is going, just like I could when I heard it.
Murder and mayhem. No, not from the kids gone wild under the influence of
communistic rock and roll, or libertine close dancing, or hell-bent backrooms
but when the parent police heard about it. That part is foggy but it, as usual,
involved a snitch by someone to his parents, or something overheard on the
telephone by a parent, or something. And from there to the Principal police,
and from there to the real cops. Nothing ever came of it from the real cops,
which tells you automatically that the parent and Principal cops overreacted,
as usual.
But now you can see what a fix I am in. So Chrissie tomorrow
after school will probably be chalking up spares over at those same North Adamsville
alleys and the guys will be over the other side of town at the Adamsville Boulevard
Bowla-drome and never the twain shall meet. And you wonder why kids, including
this kid, are ready to jump off the rails, and none too soon either. But I
still hold on to my dream of bowling alone with those ruby-red lips. I just
have to work out another fool-proof plan, that’s all.
See the Girls’ and
Boys’ bowling teams on page 31 of the Magnet.”
On The Anniversary Of The Execution Of Julius And Ethel Rosenberg
The Rosenbergs
The Rosenbergs
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
"They Killed The
Rosenbergs"
They killed the Rosenbergs
They killed them on the electric
chair
They killed the Rosenbergs
They killed them to make people
scared.
They arrested the Rosenbergs
They broke into their home
They jailed the Rosenbergs
They ignored their sons who moaned.
They framed the Rosenbergs
They used false evidence
They tortured the Rosenbergs
They used a lying witness.
They smeared the Rosenbergs
They charged them with
"conspiracy"
They sentenced the Rosenbergs
They sent them up to Sing Sing.
They murder the innocent
They execute the powerless
With barbaric hands they pulled
their switch
For the Rosenbergs would not submit.
To listen to "They Killed The
Rosenbergs" protest folk song, you can go to following music site link:
http://www.last.fm/music/Bob+A.+Feldman/Biographical+Folk+Songs/They+Killed+the+Rosenbergs
Many years after the Rosenbergs were
executed on June 19, 1953 by the U.S. government and no longer alive to deny
that they were guilty of any crime, some U.S. academics and mainstream
journalists claimed that de-classified KGB documents “prove” that the
Rosenbergs were not framed. Yet, as I noted in Downtown (2/17/93), during the
1980s, former Village Voice writer Deborah Davis came into possession of a set
of revealing U.S. Justice Department documents. The de-classified documents
apparently indicated that, when he worked as a Press Attache’ in the U.S.
embassy in Paris, former Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee “was a central
figure” in “a State Department/CIA campaign against Julius and Ethel Rosenberg”
which “was designed to persuade Europeans that the Rosenbergs were guilty of
espionage and deserved to be put to death,” according to the second edition of
Davis’s book, Katharine The Great: Katharine Graham and The Washington Post.
According to Davis, “the documents
show” that in the early 1950s “Mr. Bradlee went to the Rosenberg prosecutors in
New York under orders of `the head of the CIA in Paris,’ as he told an
assistant prosecutor, and that from their material he composed his `Operations
Memorandum’ on the case, which was the basis of all propaganda subsequently
sent out to foreign journalists.”
In an April 1, 1987 letter to
Deborah Davis, however, Bradlee (currently a vice-president of the Washington
Post Company media conglomerate) wrote:
“I worked for the USIA as the Press
Attache’ of the United States Embassy in the early 1950s. I never worked for
the CIA. I never participated in a `CIA propaganda campaign’…”
Yet a December 13, 1952 U.S.
Government Memorandum from Associate Prosecutor Maran to Asst. U.S. Atty. Myles
Lane apparently stated:
“On December 13, 1952 a Mr. Benjamin
Bradlee called and informed me that he was Press Attache’ with the American Embassy
in Paris, that he had left Paris last night and arrived here this morning. He
advised me that…he was sent here to look at the Rosenberg file…
“He advised me that it was an urgent
matter…He further advised that he was sent here by Robert Thayer, who is the
head of the C.I.A. in Paris…”
For more information on the
Rosenberg Case, you can check out the web site of the Rosenberg Fund for
Children at www.rfc.org/case.htm .
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
***Entering North, 1960-With The Atlantic Junior High School (Yah, Yah I know Middle School) Class Of 1960 In Mind
A YouTube film clip of Mark Dinning performing his teen tear-jerker, Teen Angel to set an "appropriate" mood for this sketch.
Now that we have earlier this month safely passed the 50th anniversary of our graduation from old North to fly with the winds wherever they would take us I think it is appropriate to step back to that first day of school in September, 1960. The faint-hearted or those who have not taken their medication should pass. And, yes, I know that those from Central Junior High (okay, okay Middle School) did not enter North until September, 1961 but you find your own chronicler to tell your story. By the way I have used a certain amount of literary license here. Do you think a guy who half the time can’t remember where he put his eye glasses these days can remember all this stuff from 50 years ago? Jesus, no.
********
This is another Frankie Riley story, my old junior high school buddy. This is the way Frankie told me the story one sunny afternoon sitting in a bar in Boston so once again it is really a Frankie story that I want to tell you about but around the edges it could be my story, or your story for that matter:
Funny, there Frankie was, finally, finally after what seemed like an endless heat-waved, eternal August dog day’d, book-devoured summer. Standing, nervously standing, waiting with one foot on the sturdy granite-chiseled steps, ready at a moment’s notice from any teacher’s beck and call, to climb up to the second floor main entrance of old North Quincy High. An entrance flanked by huge concrete spheres on each side, which were made to order for him to think that he too had the weight of the world on his shoulders that sunny day. And those doors, by the way, as if the spheres were not portentous enough, were also flanked by two scroll-worked concrete columns, or maybe they were gargoyle-faced, his eyes were a little bleary just then, that gave the place a more fearsome look than was really necessary but that day, that day of all days, every little omen had its evil meaning, evil for Frankie that is.
Here Frankie was anyway, pensive (giving himself the best of it, okay, nice wrap-around-your soul word too, okay), head hanging down, deep in thought, deep in scared, get the nurse fast, if necessary, nausea-provoking thought, standing around, a little impatiently surly as was his “style” (that “style” he had picked up a few years previously in elementary school over at the old Quincy School over on Newbury Street, after seeing James Dean or someone like that strike the pose, and it stuck). Anyway it was now about 7:00 AM, maybe a little after, and like I said his eyes had been playing tricks on him all morning and he couldn’t seem to focus, as he waited for the first school bell to sound on that first Wednesday after Labor Day in the year of our lord, 1960.
First day of school should have been no big deal, right? We had all done it many times before by then so it should have been easy. Year after year, old August dog days turned into shorter, cooler September come hither young wanna-be learner days. Nothing to get nervous about, nothing to it. (Did I say that already?) Especially the first day, a half day, a “gimme” day, really, one of the few out of one hundred and eighty, count ‘em, and mainly used for filling out the one thousand and one pieces of paper about who you were, where you lived, and who you lived with. Yeah, and who to call in case you took some nasty fall in gym trying to do a double twist-something on the gym mat, and trying to impress in the process some girl over on the other side of the gym with your prowess, hoping she is not looking just then if you falter. Or a wrestled double-hammer lock grip on some poor, equally benighted fellow student that went awry like actually had happened to Frankie the previous year in eighth grade when he got flipped against the gym wall trying to break the hold. Hey, they were still talking about that one in the Atlantic Junior High locker rooms at the end of the year, I heard.
More ominously, they wanted that information so that if you crossed-up one, or more, of your mean-spirited, ill-disposed, never-could-have-been-young-and-troubled, ancient, Plato or Socrates ancient from the look of some of them, teachers and your parents (meaning embarrassed, steaming, vengeful Ma really, not hard-working-could-not-take-the-time-off Pa in our neighborhoods) needed to be called in to confer about “your problem,” your problem that you would grow out of with a few days of after school “help.” Please.
That “gimme” day (let’s just call it that okay) would furthermore be spent reading off, battered, monotone homeroom teacher-reading off, the one thousand and one rules; no lateness to school under penalty of being placed in the stocks, Pilgrim-style; no illness absences short of the plague, if you had it, not a family member, and then only if you had a (presumably sanitized) doctor’s note; no cutting classes to explore the great American day streets at some nearby corner variety store, or mercy, the Downs, one-horse Norfolk Downs also under severe penalty; no (unauthorized) talking in class (but you could bet your last dollar they would mark it down if you did not “authorize talk,” Jesus); no giving guff (yeah no guff, right) to your teachers, fellow students, staff, the resident mouse or your kid brother, if you had a kid brother; and, no writing on walls, in books, and only on occasion on an (authorized) writing pad. Continuing rule-ward; get this one, neither Frankie nor I could believe this one over at Atlantic, no cutting in line for the school lunch. The school lunch, Christ, as poor as our families were we at least had the dignity not to pine for, much less cut in line for, those beauties: the American chop suey done several different ways to cover the week, including a stint as baloney and cheese sandwiches, I swear. Moving along; no off-hand rough-necking (or just plain, ordinary necking, either); no excessive use of the “lav” (you know what that is, enough said), and certainly no smoking, drinking or using any other illegal (for kids) substances.
Oh, yeah, and don’t forget to follow, unquestioningly, those mean-spirited, ill-disposed teachers that I spoke of before, if there is a fire emergency. And here’s a better one, in case of an off-hand atomic bomb attack go, quickly and quietly, to the nearest fall-out shelter down in the bowels of the old school. That’s what we practiced over at Atlantic. Frankie hoped that they did not try that old gag at North and have all of us practice getting under our desks in such an emergency like in elementary school. Christ, Frankie thought (and me too when we talked about it later) he would rather take his chances, above desk, thank you. And… need I go on, you can listen to the rest when you get to homeroom I am just giving you the highlights, the year after year, memory highlights.
And if that isn’t enough, the reading of the rules and the gathering of more intelligence about you than the FBI or the CIA would need we then proceeded to our shortened classes for the ritualistic passing out of the books, large and small (placing book covers on each, naturally, name, year, subject and book number safety placed in insert). All of them covered against the elements, your own sloth, and the battlefield school lunch room. That humongous science book that has every known idea from the ancient four furies of the air to nuclear fission, that math book that has some Pythagorean properties of its own, the social studies books to chart out human progress (and back-sliding) from stone age-cave times on up, and the precious, precious English book (Frankie hoped that he would get to do Shakespeare that year, he had heard that we did, we both agreed that guy knew how to write a good story, same with that Salinger book that Frankie told me he had read during the summer and that I would read later that year). Still easy stuff though, for the first day.
Yeah, but this will put a different spin on it for you, well, a little different spin anyway. That day Frankie felt he was starting in the “bigs”, at least the bigs of the handful-countable big events of his short, sweet life. That day he was starting his freshman year at hallowed old North Quincy High and he was as nervous as a kitten. He laughed at me when I said I had not been afraid of that event yelling at me “Don’t tell me you weren’t just a little, little, tiny bit scared of the idea of going from the cocoon-like warmth of junior high over to the high school.” He then taunted me- “Come on now, I’m going to call you out on it. Particularly since I am one of those Atlantic kids who, after all, had been there before, unlike you who came out of the Germantown "projects" on the other side of town, and moved back to North Quincy after the "long march" move over to the new Atlantic Junior High in the hard winter of 1959 so you didn’t know the ropes there at all.” I did not take his bait, thought he was goofing.
So there they were, especially those sweet girl Atlantics, including a certain she that Frankie was severely "crushed up" on, in their cashmere sweaters and jumpers or whatever you call them, were nevertheless standing on those same steps, as Frankie and they exchanged nods of recognition, since they were on those steps just as early as Frankie was, fretting their own frets, fighting their own inner demons, and just hoping and praying or whatever kids do when they are “on the ropes” to survive the day, or just to not get rolled over on day one.
And see, here is what you also don’t know that was causing Frankie the frets, know yet anyway. Frankie had caught what he called Frankie’s disease. You have never heard of it, probably, and don’t bother to go look it up in some medical dictionary at the Thomas Crane Public Library, or some other library, it is not there. What it amounts to is the old time high school, any high school, version of the anxiety-driven cold sweats. Now I know some of you knew Frankie, and some of you didn’t, but he was the guy who I told you a story about before, the story about his big, hot, “dog day” August mission to get picnic fixings, including special stuff, like Kennedy’s potato salad, for his grandmother. That’s the Frankie I am talking about, my best junior high friend, Frankie.
Part of that previous story, for those who do not know it, mentioned what Frankie was thinking when he got near battle-worn North Quincy High on his journey to the Downs back in August. I’m repeating; repeating at least the important parts here, for those who are clueless:
“Frankie (and I) had, just a couple of months before, graduated from Atlantic Junior High School and so along with the sweat on his brow from the heat a little bit of anxiety was starting to form in Frankie’s head about being a “little fish in a big pond” freshman come September as he passed by. Especially, a proto-beatnik “little fish.” See, he had cultivated a certain, well, let’s call it “style” over there at Atlantic. That "style" involved a total disdain for everything, everything except trying to impress girls with his long chino-panted, plaid flannel-shirted, thick book-carrying knowledge of every arcane fact known to humankind. Like that really was the way to impress teenage girls. In any case he was worried, worried sick at times, that in such a big school his “style” needed upgrading…”
And that is why, when the deal went down and Frankie knew he was going to the “bigs” he spent that summer reading, big time booked-devoured reading. Hey, I'll say he did, The Communist Manifesto, that one just because old Willie Westhaver over at Atlantic called him a Bolshevik when he answered one of his foolish math questions in a surly manner. Frankie said he read it just because he wanted to see what old Willie was talking about. In any case, Frankie said he was not no commie, although he did not know what the big deal was about, he was not turning anybody in about it in any case, and the stuff was hard reading anyway. Frankie had also read Democracy in America (by a French guy), The Age of Jackson (by a Harvard professor who knew our Jack Kennedy and who was crazy for old-time guys like Jackson), and Catcher In The Rye by that Salinger guy I mentioned before (Holden Caulfield was Frankie, Frankie to a tee).
Okay, okay I won’t keep going on but that was just the reading on the hot days when Frankie did not want to go out, he said after the summer- “test me on what I read, I am ready.” Here's why. He intended, and he swore he intended to even on that first nothing day (what did I call it before-"gimme", yeah) of that new school year in that new school in that new decade to beat the “old Frankie,” old book-toting, girl-chasing Frankie, who knew every arcane fact that mankind had produced and had told it to every girl who would listen for two minutes (maybe less) in that eternal struggle, the boy meets girl struggle, at his own game. Frankie, my buddy of buddies, mad monk, prince among men (well, boys, anyhow) who navigated me through the tough, murderous parts of junior high, mercifully concluded, finished and done with, praise be, and didn’t think twice about it was going to outdo himself. He, you see, despite, everything I said a minute ago had been “in,” at Atlantic; that arcane knowledge stuff worked with the “ins” who counted, worked, at least a little, and I should know since I got dragged in his wake. That day he was eager to try out his new “style.”
See, that was why on that Wednesday after Labor Day in the year of our lord, 1960, that 7:00 AM, or a little after, Wednesday after Labor Day, Frankie had had Frankie’s disease. He had harped on it so much before the opening of school that he had woken up about 5:00 AM that morning, maybe earlier, but he said it was still dark, with the cold sweats. He had tossed and turned for a while about what his “style”, what his place in the sun was going to be, and he just had to get up. He said he would tell you about the opening day getting up ritual stuff later, some other time, but right then he was worried, worried as hell, about his “style”, or upon reflection his teenage angst reflection, his lack of style over at Atlantic. That will tell you a lot about why he woke up that morning before the birds.
Who was he kidding. You know what that cold night sweats, that all-night toss and turn teen angst, boy version, was nothing but thinking about her. That certain "she" that Frankie had kind of sneaked around mentioning as he had been talking, talking his head off just to keep the jitters down. While on those pre-school steps he had just seen her, seen her with the other Atlantic girls on the other side of the steps, and so I am going to have to say a little something about it. See, the previous school year, late, toward the end Frankie had started talking to this Lydia Adams, yes, that Lydia from the Adams family who had run this jagged old granite quarries town here in North Quincy for eons and who employed his father and a million other fathers around here and then just headed south, or someplace for the cheaper labor I heard. This was one of the granddaughters or some such relation I never did get it all down. And that part was not all that important anyway because what mattered, what mattered to Frankie, was that faint scent, that just barely perceivable scent, some nectar scent, that came from Lydia when he sat next to her in art class and they talked, talked their heads off.
But Frankie never did anything about it, not then anyway although he said he had this feeling, maybe just a feeling because he wanted things to be that way but a feeling anyway, that she had expected him to ask her out. Asking out for junior high school students then, and for freshmen in high school too because we didn’t have licenses to drive cars, being the obligatory "first date" at Jimmy Jack's Shack (no, not the one of Wollaston Boulevard, that's for the tourists and old people, the one on Hancock up toward the Square is the one I am talking about). Frankie said he was just too shy and uncertain to do it.
Why? Well you might as well know right now Frankie came from the “wrong side of the tracks” in this old town, over by the old abandoned Old Colony tracks and she, well like I said came from a branch of the Adams family that lived over on Elm in one of those Victorian houses that the swells are crazy for now, and I guess were back then too. That is when Frankie figured that if he studied up on a bunch of stuff, stuff that he liked to study anyway, then come freshman year he just might be able to get up the nerve to ask her to go over to Jimmy Jack's for something to eat and to listen to the jukebox after school some day like every other Tom, Dick and Harry in this burg did.
....Suddenly, a bell rang, a real bell, students, like lemmings to the sea, were on the move, especially those Atlantics that Frankie had nodded to before as he took those steps, two at a time. Too late then to worry about style, or anything else. They were off to the wars; Frankie will make his place in the sun as he goes along, on the fly. But guess who kind of brushed against Frankie as he rushed up the stairs and gave him one of her biggest faintly-scented smiles as they raced up those funky granite steps. A place in the sun, indeed.
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