Jan 26, 2018
Linden & Flatbush
Much of my family story begins in Brooklyn so please bear with me while I share a bit of what life was like then and there. By the 1940’s, Brooklyn had evolved into a working class community of mostly Irish and Italian immigrants, which included my Sicilian grandfather’s family. There were also thousands of southern black families that had been coming to Brooklyn since World War I and Puerto Ricans who like many came for better opportunities. Brooklyn was a leading manufacturing hub for the entire country then with jobs available for pretty much anyone who wanted one. Plentiful jobs didn’t mean the same as making a solid living, however, since there were many illegally run and unsafe sweat shops (Jean Kwok’s Girl in Transition does a wonderful job painting a picture of that life as it still existed into the 1970's). Brooklyn was also home to the much-beloved Dodgers and the famed Coney Island amusement park, which was once called “Heaven at the end of a subway ride”.
Contrary to the TV Happy Days lifestyle I would have suspected, post-war Brooklyn was a time of loss. The start of the union movement was one part of why factories closed down to operate even more cheaply elsewhere. White flight came next for those who could afford to move, leaving neglect in once nice neighborhoods. And on the heels of winning the 1955 World Series the Dodgers announced that they too were leaving town. This was a unique loss since rooting for them had long been a very communal pastime, transcending Brooklyn’s many racial differences.
By the 1950’s life in Brooklyn was becoming more of a challenge for many families. A lot of husbands and fathers no longer had factory jobs and the frustration created a lot of anxiety in families. My paternal grandfather worked as an apartment building caretaker by day and was an active alcoholic by night. He was an abusive husband who made my grandmother’s life miserable. We left Brooklyn when I was a toddler and my father didn’t like talking about this time in his childhood so I don’t know much about my paternal grandparents. I do know that my dad’s contempt for his father ran very, very deeply to the very end of my father’s life.
My maternal grandfather was a stark contrast. He worked multiple jobs to provide for his wife and five children. After his shift as a U.S. postal worker he would go door-to-door selling personalized stationery items. He worked six days a week but from all accounts was a wonderful and attentive father. My aunt and uncles have shared many fond memories with me over the years of Sunday outings with “Daddy”, who was always happy to take anyone else along, too.
Sadly, I never got to meet the man who has always seemed larger than life to me. When my mom was nine her father collapsed unexpectedly in the hallway of the family apartment at Linden and Flatbush. He was rushed to a hospital but they couldn’t revive him. My Uncle Jim shared with us how he wasn’t at home when it happened and how he desperately tried to get to the hospital but couldn't make it in time. It was the only time I saw Uncle Jim cry and this was some sixty years later.
Grandma was forced to take a job in a downtown hotel as a maid and seamstress and Uncle Jim had to put any college plans on hold so he could help keep the family afloat. Grandma worked a night shift so she could be with her children, ages five to nineteen, during the daytime hours. She figured that was best and I’m sure it was for the most part at least until their teen years. Then the evening lack of supervision gave my mom plenty of freedom that would get her into trouble.
#endthestigma #fearlesslyauthentic
