An Only Slightly Fictionalized Memory

The Early Years (Whites)

The white people I saw were:

• On TV – they were rich
• Nuns and priests and lunch ladies and janitor at my Catholic school – they all had jobs; in the first and second grade there were a few white kids in my class – I assumed they all had money, just like the people on TV
• People at the settlement house I went to (Casita Maria); some of them were working, some of them were just good people, I guess – they must have had money – they were white
• Agent who came around to collect the rent every week – he wore a gun, because he had money
• Vendors at La Marqueta (Park Avenue Market) – they were mostly Jews; it was against their religion not to have money, I heard
• Doctors, nurses, hospital folks – all working

The only people in my world who consistently did not have money were the southern Black people. There were a few notable exceptions. My friend Marcella was one of about a zillion kids in her family. Her dad was in the Army. They lived in Germany for our third and fourth grade and then came back to their huge apartment on Central Park North. People in the military could have large families, because they got paid extra for each child they had, I heard. The other exception was Gloria’s aunt. She was the numbers lady.

An Only Slightly Fictionalized Memory

The Early Years (Neighborhood Businesses)

The businesses in our neighborhood were owned (or maybe just run) by Puerto Ricans – two corner stores (bodegas), the candy store, the funeral parlor, the Laundromat, the dry cleaners, the soda shop with the juke box, the ice cream trucks, the woman who sold cocitos (homemade coconut ices) from a hand truck, even my doctor … There were no stores owned by Black people. The closest thing to Black business persons I remember in my neighborhood were the watermelon man who sold watermelons, whole or by the slice, out of the trunk of his car and door-to-door salesmen. They were typically immigrants. They sold Fuller brushes and Stanley home products, mostly. There was an African man who sold Filter Queen vacuum cleaners door to door. He was in college. My parents bought a vacuum cleaner, and “adopted” the young student. He visited our house frequently to feast on mashed plantains and fish head chowder.

There were also immigrant Blacks who owned brownstones on the West side of Harlem where my dad’s relatives owned houses. They had humble jobs, like housekeepers, but were working and had money.

An Only Slightly Fictionalized Memory

The Early Years (Spanish Harlem Stereotypes)

I remember being around people who didn’t have money. We lived in Spanish Harlem. As I think back, the Puerto Ricans never seemed to be as broke as the few Black people around. Maybe because the “Spanish food” we ate was not available from the surplus food dispensaries, I remember seeing the distinctive black and white packages of cheese and macaroni and silver tin cans of potted meat at the houses of the Black families. On the other hand, the Black kids were freaked out by the fish heads and cow lungs that I ate.

I have memories of my Black neighbor waiting for government checks. I am now certain that the Puerto Ricans did also. It’s just not reflected in the rear-view mirror of my mind. I suspect that this is partly due to what I saw, and didn’t see in my Black neighbors. I saw lots of children. I saw mothers. I rarely saw fathers. I was in college when I learned about the laws that required men to be absent in order for their families to get government support. That was a misguided practice for which our society continues to pay.

Some of my memories are based on the stereotypes I heard in my home, on the news, and in school. “They” are all on welfare. Why don’t “they” get jobs? They did. I remember in the winter when it snowed really hard that the older boys would skip school and go shovel snow for the city for $5 a day. That was a lot of money. Men would work too. It was one of the few jobs they could count on in the winter when there were no construction jobs available. As I write this, I am recognizing that my vision is still tinged by those filters. I still see Blacks as poor, by their own doing. I still see myself as different, my dark brown skin notwithstanding.

I remember my Puerto Rican friends and neighbors. Pat’s father worked on ships, like my dad. I remember Helen, across the hall. She lived with her mother. That was unusual. The Puerto Ricans always had two-parent families. Helen’s mother didn’t work. As I write this, I am thinking that she must have been receiving public assistance. I remember that Puerto Rican family who lived across the alley. There were more kids in that family than mine, I had three siblings. I don’t know what their dad did. He would get drunk and yell at them and their mother, but he appeared to be supporting the family.

An Only Slightly Fictionalized Memory

The Early Years (Twenty Dollars)

The next thing I remember about money is $20. I took it from my mother’s purse. I was old enough to know about money and the value of different bills. I was old enough to know that stealing was wrong. I only wanted a dollar, but she had none. I probably would have settled for change, but there was none. I took the bill. I was going on a class trip. I knew that that was a day when evvvvvvvverybody else would have some money. I could not bear one more day of watching everyone else buy ice cream and candy and sodas and even a ham and cheese sandwich while I ate my school-provided lunch of peanut butter on whole wheat bread. It stuck to the roof of my mouth. I still remember the sensation. All I had to wash it down was milk. I hated milk. I am amazed that I did not choke to death. I got home that evening with chocolate smeared around my mouth and a tummy ache. I confessed. Mom did not understand why I needed the money or why I had taken it. I had a roof over my head and clothes on my back, shoes on my feet, and plenty to eat. We weren’t on home relief like many of our neighbors. Why did I need money? I remember her outstretch arm and finger pointing to my room as she yelled in Garifuna, “Beyba yanyege! … Sianti nabeychegebu! Ahsan nabechebu, naaafarradibu!” “Get out of here! Get out of my sight! Go to your room! Don’t make me hit you! I can’t hit you, if I hit you now, I will killlllllll you!”