Waiting on the moon, p.3
Waiting on the Moon, page 3
The PA squad leader’s job was to set up and test Miss Selkow’s microphone. My selection for that role was again a result of chance: the student in charge of the PA squad was hospitalized for tonsillitis, and he would be out of school for more than a week, so I was chosen to fill in.
I reported to Miss Selkow’s office on my first morning, making it a point to be extra early.
“Where is John? Why is he not setting up my microphone?” Miss Selkow asked.
“Miss Selkow, John has tonsillitis and will probably be out for the rest of the week.”
Obvious displeasure creased her face, and she made no effort to hide her dislike for me, which I assumed was because of my rather shabby appearance.
“Well, that’s very disappointing news, because this Friday, I’m hosting a luncheon for the New York Educational School Committee, and there will be a guest of honor addressing our assembly. I want to make sure that everything—I mean everything—is just perfect for the committee and, of course, for our guest speaker.”
With her microphone set up, she began her address. “Faculty and students, I am so very pleased to announce that a former first lady, Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt, will be addressing our school assembly this Friday morning at ten sharp. For this most special occasion, I am making certain that all students are properly dressed: formal skirts and blouses for the girls, suits and ties for the boys. The girls’ glee club will perform, along with the school band. After Mrs. Roosevelt addresses the assembly, she and the committee will tour several of our classrooms, and I am sure the students and our esteemed faculty will present to her only the best that Junior High School 135 has to offer.”
In my household, the names Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt were as revered as the names Washington and Lincoln. My mother, who had very few positive words for anyone, especially politicians, often said, “If it wasn’t for the Roosevelts, this country would be in the shit-house!” She especially adored Mrs. Roosevelt and religiously read her weekly column. When Mrs. Roosevelt was interviewed on the radio, the entire family could not speak for fear my mother might miss a word.
Friday arrived, and Miss Selkow gave her morning address to the school and faculty. Student artwork and welcome signs were hung throughout the hallways, and I was in the auditorium setting up two microphones—one for Miss Selkow at the far side of the stage and the other center stage for Mrs. Roosevelt. By 10:00 a.m., every seat in the auditorium was full. The committee members accompanied the guest of honor, who sat beside Miss Selkow in the front row. Everyone stood as the band played the national anthem, followed by the girls’ glee club, who sang “America the Beautiful” and “Stars of the Summer Night.” Miss Selkow stepped up to the stage and proudly announced, “We are so honored to have as our guest speaker this morning someone who needs no introduction to our faculty and students—former first lady Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt.”
Everyone in the auditorium stood and applauded as Mrs. Roosevelt climbed the steps and walked to the center of the stage. She motioned for everyone to be seated. Not realizing how tall she would be, I had the microphone set up for someone my height. In this awkward position, Mrs. Roosevelt tried bending down toward the microphone, placing her hands on the stand, but as soon as she started speaking, loud, ringing feedback buzzed throughout the auditorium. Miss Selkow glared at me, and I ran up to help Mrs. Roosevelt.
As I stood next to her, she seemed to tower over me. I adjusted the microphone stand while she looked down from her immense height and gave me a warm smile of gratitude. She waited until I left the stage and resumed her greetings to everyone assembled. Yet around three minutes into her talk, the microphone stand began to slip lower. Mrs. Roosevelt bent down along with it in an effort to continue her speech. Miss Selkow gave me her most sinister death-ray stare, and I ran back onstage and tried to adjust and tighten the microphone stand. Again, loud feedback filled the hall, and some older students in the back could be heard giggling. Mrs. Roosevelt calmly waited until all was back in order, and with her broad, famously toothy smile, she thanked me for coming to her rescue as I shook her extended hand. Walking back to my seat, I could not miss the heated glare of Miss Selkow, made even more threatening through her intensely magnifying lenses.
After Mrs. Roosevelt finished her speech, Miss Selkow dismissed the students for lunch break. Then she approached me. In the manner of a military officer commanding a firing squad, she said, “You are to put away the microphones. I am dismissing you immediately from the service of our honored PA squad.” As I stared at her in disbelief, she added, “I have never, in all my years as a principal, been so embarrassed and humiliated by a student.” With that, she turned, her heels clacking up the aisle, and left the auditorium.
Near the end of the school day, I gathered the equipment as instructed and put it in the broadcast booth next to her office. It just so happened that the day before, I had purchased the newly released 45-rpm recording of “I’ve Had It” by the Bell Notes. I was still carrying it in my notebook. I took the record out and placed it on the turntable inside the glass booth. I flicked the switch to activate all the speakers throughout the building. I turned the volume up as high as it would go, placed the needle on the record, and blasted the Bell Notes into every hallway and classroom. Then I put the turntable on repeat mode, locked the PA booth, threw the keys under Miss Selkow’s desk, walked out a side door and into the street, and headed home. My mother, although surprised to see me back from school early, eagerly asked about Mrs. Roosevelt.
“She was a very nice lady, Mom. You’d like her, but she’s really, really tall.”
6
SATCHMO RISING
Louis Armstrong
IT BEGAN ON one of those Saturday afternoons I always relished, traveling downtown with my father to replenish the stock for his short-lived book and record store, the Mary Elizabeth Shop, so named in an effort to sound British. Our first stop, Diamondstein’s Book Distributors, was for the latest bestsellers, then on to the King Karol record store on 42nd Street, where my father made his monthly order of new releases. Every record company, from the major labels to the independents, had its own salesman, and I admired the easy rapport my father had with each of them.
We would end the afternoon by visiting my father’s brother, my uncle Bernie, in his “office” at the automat, a cafeteria-style restaurant with little glass cubbyholes filled with ready-made sandwiches and desserts. Bernie’s talent-management roster had grown to include a wrestler, a champion baton twirler, a live gorilla rented out for events and circuses, ventriloquists, the world’s strongest man, plate twirlers, magicians, comedians, puppeteers, and, of course, my father. Bernie was in his element, the latest issue of Variety tucked under his arm and a half-smoked cigar in hand, talking with an assortment of oddball characters who were magnetically attracted to his table.
On this particular afternoon, before heading home, my father said, “Pete, I have a special treat for you. It’s incredible luck! One of Bernie’s clients, a ventriloquist, just sold me two tickets. I can just about afford them, but it’s worth it. I’m taking you to see somebody you may not appreciate now, but one day you might thank me for this opportunity.”
“Who is it, Dad?”
“I want you to see for yourself the man who, in my opinion, is the father of jazz. This gentleman is so important, and he’s performing his final night at the Roxy Theatre. It’s a sold-out show, and I got us two front-row tickets. I want you to witness one of the greatest musicians in history doing what he does best.”
We were off to see the one and only Louis Armstrong. In my excitement, much of what my father told me went in one ear and out the other—about the importance of New Orleans, Armstrong’s journey to Chicago, the various bands he was part of, and the idea that if jazz could be traced to one important source, it would be Armstrong.
The Roxy was a grand theater, with golden ornamentation swirled around the edges of the banisters and plush red velvet covering every other surface, from the curtains to the seats. My father made sure we were front-row center, having paid extra to the ventriloquist so his son could experience, up close, the majesty of Louis Armstrong.
After the newsreels and featurettes were over, the curtains closed. I could hear instruments tuning up. At last an announcer came out and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Roxy Theatre. Tonight we’re proud to present a sold-out performance by the one and only Louis Armstrong and his all-star band!”
The excitement level built to a crescendo. My father, worried that I wouldn’t see every nuance of Armstrong’s playing, insisted we sit high up in our seats. Armstrong greeted the audience, and within moments, the stage slowly began to rise. The band started playing, and the stage continued to rise as Armstrong played his first notes. Higher and higher still, like Jack’s beanstalk, the stage soared upward. Our heads followed its ascent, our necks craning, until it was far beyond our line of sight. Just barely visible was the gleaming rim on the bell of Armstrong’s trumpet. With our heads tilted so far back, we had a view of only the clear expanse of the ceiling. It was then we realized why the ventriloquist was so eager to sell the tickets.
In spite of this, I am grateful to have had the privilege of experiencing the magnificence of Louis Armstrong and his playing. But my father and I learned a valuable lesson: never trust a man who works with a dummy.
7
THE WIND
True Love Ways
Edie, high school, 1962
EVEN AT AN early age, I was addicted to drawing. Every surface in my parents’ apartment, from books to walls, became a sketch pad. Nothing escaped my doodles. Bomber planes, cowboys and Indians engaged in fierce battles, arrows, swords, trains, cars, sailing ships—this continual circus traveled throughout the rooms and along the hallway. One summer we lived in Lee, Massachusetts, where my father was employed singing with the Robert Shaw Chorale at the Tanglewood music festival. He would often drop me off at a local artist’s studio while he ran errands. The artist, a thin, kind, bespectacled man, was very friendly and told me that he, like my father, had a son named Peter. Knowing that I liked to draw, he supplied me with limitless paper and pencils, but what I enjoyed most was watching him work. His name was Norman Rockwell.
It was the summer of 1959 when I was selected to attend an East Bronx summer arts program comprising twenty-five students from various junior highs around the borough. To gain acceptance, students had to submit artwork to a panel of instructors who chose the students they deemed the most promising. The group met twice a week for a month in a local elementary school. Our first assignment was: “Draw the person sitting beside you.” I was seated in the middle of the room but noticed, toward the back, someone sitting all alone. That was the moment I first saw her. She was different from everyone—tall, with brown hair arranged in a high bouffant and a face possessed of a calm and natural beauty to rival that of a Vermeer or a Botticelli.
On occasional afternoons the class would venture to Bronx Park, where we would draw landscapes in pastels and watercolors. Even outside, she always sat alone. During break time, she socialized with the only two Black students in the class. One afternoon, while turning around to catch a glimpse of her, I noticed that she had dropped her eraser. Just as I was about to rush down the aisle to gallantly retrieve it for her, she grabbed it. I couldn’t stop staring. During the final week, with just two classes remaining, I vowed that I’d move to the back row and sit in the seat right next to hers. Unfortunately, she never showed up. I asked another student about her, but all I found out was that she lived in a housing project.
New York City had three specialized public high schools: Bronx High School of Science, Brooklyn Technical High School, and the High School of Music and Art (not to be confused with the High School of Performing Arts of Fame popularity; that school didn’t have the same academic standards and requirements as the three other schools). I can’t remember who encouraged me to try out for Music and Art, as it was called: the school was said to accept only those students with very high grades, and the entrance exam was known to be difficult. My report card had such bad grades, ferociously marked in red ink, that it looked as if it were splattered with blood.
The day of the exam, my father drove me to the school, located in northern Harlem. He took the opportunity to thoughtfully remind me that tests are not really an indication of intelligence or talent. “Pete, do you know that Albert Einstein failed math as a young student? Van Gogh never really sold a painting… and I know you love van Gogh. Imagine his feelings, knowing no one wanted to buy even just one of his works. Do you know how many great composers’ compositions were laughed at when they were first presented to the public? Mahler, Stravinsky, and even Beethoven—yes, even Beethoven’s works were ridiculed. I know so many successful and talented performers and artists who have never so much as picked up a book. These kinds of schools have certain criteria, but not everyone does well at exams. A person’s potential can easily be overlooked, so don’t invest too much in the results.” My father was gently preparing me for what would surely be the most predictable outcome.
It came as a surprise to everyone, especially me, that I was accepted. This sudden and dramatic change put an end to my idle days in the Bronx. It meant close interactions with students from all over the city, from a variety of economic backgrounds, all well educated and gifted, leaving me feeling dubious about what lay ahead. My daily journey from the Bronx to northern Harlem was a lengthy and complicated excursion involving buses and subways, followed by a steep mountain of steps to climb through St. Nicholas Park, to the very top of the hill, before at last I reached the great cathedral-style oak double doors of the high school. This distinguished Gothic revival building, with its grand bearing, was right out of Victorian England. On the first day of my journey I felt like Dickens’s Pip, leaving the comforts of his brother-in-law’s blacksmith shop, off to the big city, with all the great expectations that lay ahead.
On the morning of the second day, already exhausted from the prospect of the arduous journey ahead of me, I boarded the train and stretched out on an empty seat, trying to keep from falling asleep. My eyes would close and open as the train stopped at each station. It wasn’t until the 145th Street stop that I realized she was there, sitting opposite me like an apparition, as if born of the sea, blown there by the winds, pure and perfect as a pearl. With her signature bouffant hairdo, she sat serenely, hands folded in her lap, giving no indication that she recognized me. When we reached 135th Street, I realized that perhaps she, too, was a new student at the High School of Music and Art.
Every morning thereafter, I looked for her on the train or on the long climb up the dozens of steps in St. Nicholas Park. A smoker by age eleven, I endured my daily workout only by hoping I’d bump into her. Although I’d pass her in the halls, there was never an appropriate opportunity for any interchange between us.
A whole year went by before I finally found the courage to approach her. At the start of my sophomore year, I noticed her on the subway platform after school, heading back up to the Bronx. I tossed my cigarette, walked up to her, and asked, “Is this the platform for the uptown trains?” She smiled and pointed upward, where directly above us, a large UPTOWN sign was hanging. I remained standing next to her and quickly asked, “What stop do you get off at?”
“The last stop.”
“Funny—that’s my stop, too!” (That wasn’t true at all; the last stop was much farther from the school than mine.) “Mind if I sit with you?” I asked, finding the courage I had lacked for so long. I kept thinking of all sorts of things to discuss, trying to make a somewhat positive impression, relieved to discover that she wasn’t hard to talk to. She was relaxed and engaging, with a disarming naturalness that put me at ease.
Her name was Edith Marie Hasselman. At the last train stop, she’d take a city bus to the Edenwald Houses, where she lived with her family.
The notorious Edenwald housing project—an Eden it most definitely was not—was built in 1953 by the New York City Housing Authority under the control of the infamous city planner Robert Moses, who cut right through the communities of the South Bronx to create the Cross Bronx Expressway. Like Sherman marching through Georgia, he ordered the demolition of entire neighborhoods, uprooting the predominantly Black and Puerto Rican residents. Edenwald had only one bus in and one bus out, which took residents to a subway station twenty blocks away.
To help racially diversify this newly created community, the city offered low-rent incentives to white families. Yet Edenwald did not welcome outsiders, and it was a place the police liked to ignore. Many considered it akin to living in a war zone. But as my friendship with Edie grew, it began to feel like a Technicolor musical heaven. Approaching the projects, I could hear multirhythms from timbale and conga players, Latin music, and the latest soul tracks blasting from windows.
Edie had friends of all colors and nationalities and was the least critical or judgmental person I knew. But if you lost her trust, the steel door closed fast and hard.
Before Edenwald, Edie’s Dutch father and Baltimore Catholic mother lived with Edie and her two siblings on Manhattan’s West Side. Money was short, so they were forced to live in what was known as Hell’s Kitchen. At fourteen, Edie was playing with friends in a small playground surrounded by dilapidated tenements when two Puerto Rican gang members known as the Capeman and the Umbrella Man entered the park. Spotting a group of young men sitting on a bench, and assuming they were members of a rival Irish gang, they blocked the park’s entrances, preventing anyone from leaving, then stabbed and beat two young men, murdering them both and beating a third almost to death. This happened just several feet away from Edie and her friends. Even in a crime-hardened city, this event horrified the public, becoming front-page headlines in every city newspaper for weeks. It was then that Edie’s family jumped at the opportunity to move to Edenwald. Musician Paul Simon, many years later, wrote a musical called The Capeman based on this tragic and violent incident.
