lgmwriting

Robert Martin and the Devereux Foundation part 3

After the incident of “getting in the way of Robert’s foot” another situation came up. The children were going to put on a play. I had serious doubts about organizing a play with these particular children. They could barely sit still for five minutes. Here is another time when I learned something important. When given adult roles to play, the kids were very serious. Again, I experienced disbelief. If those children only knew how much they taught me…

The teacher gave Robert the role of a “lawyer.” This teacher and I looked straight at each other; it was almost funny in a skewed way. We both knew how intelligent Robert was; he’d be dynamite as a lawyer!! He’d mop the floor with everybody in a courtroom–not by kicking, of course! We were almost overcome with a feeling of wistfulness. If this child could just get rid of his anger he’d be Harvard material, for sure. But there were no parents, only Miss Ann who was, of course, overwhelmed by daily living. So we urged Robert on; we told him if he had no more fits he’d be a lawyer in the play. So one day he comes to school, all slicked up for his role as this high-powered attorney, and somebody found him a briefcase. I can still see this in my mind’s eye. If only, if only…The play was a success.

Finally, after a year of field work I was promoted to the position of Case Manager–no more home visits. It really was a relief. I was in an office all day, doing paperwork and training new employees. Then–Robert, who had been transferred to a “special” school, was having very serious behavior problems. A meeting took place; I attended it along with another person from Devereux and two school officials plus Robert, of course. Everybody agreed that Robert needed the hands-on help that a person in my former position could offer. But Robert said he didn’t want anybody with him…”unless Miss Leslie could come.” Everybody looked at me. I knew that field work was not among my responsibilities and my boss would have to be consulted. Everyone gazed at me–it was one of the peak moments in my counseling career–in wonder. How had I achieved success with this kid? Only God knows the answer to that. Molly, my supervisor, amazed as well at this turn of events, let me work with Robert again. Robert was older and stronger now and the whole situation was a mess. However, I’ll end on this positive note: one day Robert and another fairly large Black boy were right on the edge of a fight, but I stepped in between them and told them to calm down. Inwardly I was telling myself how dumb I was sometimes, taking risks the way I did. I squeezed my eyes closed and waited for the punch, the blow, the kick that would break a bone, etc. But nothing happened and the boys went their separate ways.
What happened to Robert in the end? I never hung around to find out. It was against the rules to achieve a personal relationship with a client, once the case was closed. But Robert lives inside me.

Robert Martin and the Devereux Foundation Part 2

Robert lived in a almost-falling-down house on the poor side of Media, PA with his grandmother and–I think–seven other children. I never had a chance to sort out the relationships there. But none of the parents were living there. The parents were gone; they were in prison, out someplace dealing with drugs, and some had just drifted away from their responsibilities, knowing that they could always drop their kid off at “Miss Ann’s.” The house was chaotic and crazy and a mess but how could you criticize that? Miss Ann was the only person in all my travels of going back and forth between families who offered me something to drink and made a place for me to sit.

There were several little girls who were immediately fascinated with me. They wanted to look inside my purse, at my papers and brief case, my pens and pencils. They were quite lively creatures and they told me I was “nice” and settled down to make drawings for me. I never visited a family without art supplies!

Back to Robert. Robert and I experienced a tight closeness on three separate occasions. I will relate these experiences and I know I’m going to cry while doing so.

After Robert’s show of intense interest in animals becoming extinct, the classroom teacher was frantic with happiness. He immediately set up several computer programs for us to follow together. I was beginning to let go of the tension that came along with working with Robert until one day, for no apparent reason, Robert exploded and had one of his fits. He threw himself down on the floor, kicking and screaming. The teacher and I looked at each other. I learned that day some stuff about dealing with Robert. But I didn’t know how to sit quietly and watch or turn away. I slowly approached Robert to try and help; Robert kicked me in my face. The hard heel of his shoe hit the bridge of my nose. Oh my God, it hurt! I was sure my nose was broken. I ended up with a nosebleed and soreness but an X-ray revealed no broken bones.

That night, I sat and thought. Maybe I should request to be removed from this case? But a new thought came like a shaft of spring sunshine in darkness. Robert had not “kicked me.” He was having a fit and I got in the way of his foot. What a moment. I still can’t believe this actually happened. However, the next day I showed up at Robert’s school as scheduled. The teacher and Robert were so shocked to see me. Neither expected me to return but Robert came up to me and said “I’m sorry, Miss Leslie.” I looked him in the eye and told him what had been revealed–that the kick on my nose was accidental and I wasn’t mad at him. This was the first of Robert’s and my moments of enlightenment–for want of a better word.

Robert Martin and the Devereux Foundation part 1

Several months after graduating from West Chester University I went to a job fair at Devereux Foundation, a huge mental health organization with campuses all over the Philadelphia area. I was hired to work there as a Mobile Therapist. This means that instead of working in an office, I would be going to my client family’s homes and to visit the children in school.

Robert Martin was the only Black child in my caseload; I first met him in his school environment. It was that kind of situation where, upon observing a child, your stomach drops to the floor and inwardly you groan “…oh God no..” Robert was completely wild, did not follow classroom rules, broke other student’s and the school’s property, was always being sent to the principal’s office. When I met Robert I was sure he’d either end up dead by the time he was 20 or be out on the streets in a gang, stealing, buying and selling drugs, and probably killing. What could I have in my repertoire of counseling skills that could help this parent-less, angry, and very intelligent child?

Because that’s the first thing I saw in Robert–his intelligence. It was one of those situations where, if he lived through his teenage years, he’d be the head honcho of a gang. Sometimes I’d look at Robert and think that maybe that would be the best thing that could happen.

So I began going to Robert’s school and sat next to him while he sort of did his classwork.(He wasn’t in a main stream class; Robert had been placed in a “special class” of trouble-makers. Nobody knew what to do with him.) I asked him questions about himself and he answered me but he wasn’t hostile, which surprised me. We read together and he showed me things on a computer. I discovered that he was immensely interested in animals, especially lions living in Africa. We read together about wildlife becoming extinct which disturbed him. He wrote what was for him a huge undertaking–a short essay on “the poor lions.” It took me years of thought to realize that he identified with these magnificent beings. Even if I was aware of this fact while I was still with Robert, what could I have done? It plagued me and I did what I was told, over and over, by the people who trained me at Devereux never to do–I allowed Robert to become a part of me.

The Day I Was Enlightened

Up until the age of 13 I had no thoughts or feelings about African Americans. All the ladies I knew, including my mother, had Black cleaning ladies who would sometimes take two buses at the crack of dawn from the Hill to come and clean. All I knew was that our cleaning lady came on a certain day, and when we would come home from school we were told to not walk across the kitchen floor; Ardella, the cleaning lady, had just mopped it. I would feel this little twist in my heart about the situation; there were no words. I just felt bad about this quiet lady having to do all of these hard physical chores, then walk from Windermere Drive all the way to Swissvale and get the 61B bus to downtown. I had walked that way many times myself. But when I took that walk I hadn’t spent eight hours on my feet, standing on a ladder, washing windows.

About this time I was invited to go to a friend’s house after school. There were four girls there, sitting around a kitchen table. A Black cleaning lady was standing on a kitchen chair, wiping down some shelves. I barely noticed her. The four of us started to talk and gossip about other girls at school, their clothes mostly, but also their personalities and what boys liked them. Suddenly I looked up and saw this cleaning lady leaning her head against one of the shelves, shaking with laughter. It was obvious that she wasn’t crying; she was laughing and SHE WAS LAUGHING AT US. Shame poured over me at that instant when I replayed in my head our silly chatter, the gossip, other girls’ clothes.

As is obvious I was never the same after that day. I didn’t even have to tell anybody about it; I knew, in full, the heart-wrenching story of African Americans
and the white people, in a flash. These realizations do happen in dramatic ways. Soon after that, I met Mrs. Virginia Lewis, our choir teacher, my first black teacher, who was destined to play a pretty big role in my young life. Mrs. Lewis is a woman who has earned the right to have a blog entry all to herself.

After the day of my enlightenment I stopped gossiping. I stopped talking about other girls behind their backs, even if I occasionally hated them. I carried the shame of that moment of our bubble-headed remarks having been overheard by an overworked Black woman, and her response being helpless laughter at the ridiculousness of life.

Graduate School and Denise

I went back to school at West Chester University in 1993. It took me five years to finish school because I could only take one course each term.

Cultural Sensitivity was my favorite class. This came years after the period of the downtown men and Joe and Ellen’s world. I was ready to get the most out of it. I took Cultural Sensitivity during one of the summer terms. This happens often–because class material is squeezed into a short period of time, the class sees each other every night, Monday through Thursday. Kind of like boot camp. Barriers come down and members form tight bonds that usually don’t last long. But the process of bonding is stimulating and I liked it a lot. This was particularly strong in Cultural Sensitivity because of the material we were studying.

We talked a lot about immigration and minorities. One thing that was pointed out fascinated me; why were Black people struggling so horribly while other groups who came from Europe and Asia excelled, i.e., Jews and Japanese immigrants? This was readily answered after doing a minimum of thought. Blacks were dragged here in chains, families severed, and men lost their identities as husbands and fathers, sold like animals in market places. Yes, this may have been “fascinating” but it filled me with horror. I knew these facts in an intellectual way but it became real at that time.

This made me want to cry; it hurt to think about it. But this particular course had a positive effect on me in the long run.

Denise was in my class and I can’t remember her last name. She was a light-skinned African woman who was ill with a disease of the liver. I can’t remember if it was cancer or something else. She was here to hopefully get a liver transplant.

We immediately loved each other…just one of those delightful connections that come into a person’s life like miracles. We sat together every night and talked and she told me wonderful stories about the life she had left behind. Full of dignity and very well-dressed, she told me that African women “wear” their dowry to let men know that they would come as a blessing to a marriage. Denise wore tons of jewelry on her arms, around her neck,in her ears, and in her hair. I couldn’t take my eyes away from her.

The professor who taught this class called me at a later time to inform me that Denise died because she couldn’t get a liver transplant. I probably would never have seen Denise again under any circumstances but this hurt. She had become a part of me. By befriending me she gave me the strength I needed after graduation to deal with Robert Martin and his family, in my job at the Devereux Foundation.

Downtown men part 2

Joe Tiberino was a white man, married to a Black woman named Ellen. Both were talented and celebrated artists. This was another first–I’d never met a couple of mixed race. Their home in West Philadelphia was sheer chaos; the smell drove me away and I never could spend much time there. I liked Bacchanal much better. The Tiberino’s had three children who were all beautiful creatures and most of all, they had this intense love for life and the world around them and the people they met. Being so shy I again could hardly speak around this group but the children were nice to me and I admired them. All seemed to have inherited their parents’ talent.

Peter had loved Ellen, really loved her until he learned Ellen was married. He met her on the Germantown trolley and Peter fell immediately violently drawn to her. She was nice to him and told him that she was married to Joe and he, Peter, could come around any time he’d like. That’s how it all got started.

To me, Joe and Ellen were like a pair of gods, stepping calmly over all the hurdles and warnings of society. They did as they liked and were good to others. Ellen’s way of dealing with Joe was interesting and in this way I learned more about Black people. Joe was openly unfaithful to Ellen; he had many girlfriends, all Black. Ellen calmly went along with her life and seemed to not be bothered. When I asked Peter about this he said that in his experience, Black women who were hooked up with white men allowed their men many, many, freedoms. They didn’t expect fidelity. Another fact in my slowly building pile of new information.

Ellen had cancer which began as cervical cancer and was left untreated. The cancer spread and she was ill for more years than I’d like to tell. Here’s yet another fact, an unpleasant one–in that time it was unusual for Black women from a certain place in society to get regular medical care. A simple PAP smear would have saved her life. This shocked me and I did not believe it for a long time. Once, when I went to the local hospital for a mammogram I found some information about women of color and health care. I read that, in part, this problem came from the fact that Black women didn’t trust the white medical establishment.

Finally, when Ellen was dying Joe had a girlfriend named Sam. Sam got pregnant with Joe’s baby at the same time I was pregnant with Michael. The boys were born within days of each other…two beautiful baby boys. After Gabriel was born, Sam was accepted as part of the family and Joe’s family accepted Gabriel into the Tiberino family with no holding back. Nobody cared who was whose father or mother. I can think of worse scenarios…

When Ellen, who was pretty much bed-ridden by then, heard news of the coming of Gabriel, her comment was: Bring him around. Don’t ask me why but I loved that.

Being around these downtown men and women caused some minor upheavals on my part. I was shocked by some of it at first but sometimes it’s good and healthy to be jolted out of your normal pattern of living. I loved all these people even if I barely talked to most of them. I loved watching them living their lives and painting, sculpting, doing their fancy calligraphy.

It was a good thing, being a part of a group of people who didn’t ask questions, showed each other respect, and were of a different color than I was.

Downtown Men part 1

Billy Joel’s song, “Uptown Girl” has a line–“Uptown Girl looking for a downtown man..”

When Peter was a young man he met a group of other young men who were truly “downtown men.” Nothing uptown about these guys. But the group was unique. It was comprised of two brothers–Joe Tiberino and his brother Tony who were at the center of everything–plus a combination of straight/gay, black/white/beige/artists and writers and people who like hanging around drinking and talking for hours and hours. Peter was in his 20s then and he’s told me wild, crazy, hilariously funny stories about what these people did and also wrote and painted and sang. Huge gallon jugs of the tasty red wine called Cribari were consumed; several of the downtown men died of alcoholism. Peter did his share of drinking but knew when to get out in time.

When he was telling me these stories as a newly-wed, I asked one time about where were these people now? It was the mid-70s. He looked blank and said that they were probably still living in West Philadelphia where they always were. I asked him why he still didn’t visit them and it had a lot to do with Peter taking very seriously his new role as husband. As a husband he couldn’t see himself associating with the downtown men. I thought he should go to see them if he wanted to and he did.

They were still the same; basically the same crowd as before but nobody got married except Peter. They accepted him back into the group and on weekends he’d go. My curiosity drove me to ask him if I could come too, so we went downtown and met up at this newly-opened bar/art gallery called “Bacchanal,” owned and operated by Joe Tiberino.

I was so shy that I couldn’t speak. I also don’t like alcohol so I sat on a high bar stool and watched the action. Lewis Brown, friend/bartender, gave me my first glass of club soda decorated with a piece of lime–I was destined to drink many glasses of club soda in my time at Bacchanal. Lewis was my first Black friend and he was the first Black person who “told me how it is” for Black people in the U.S. In my novel “Buying A Year” Bacchanal was a partial model for Sunny Daye’s Stage Door.

I may have been in my early 30s but I knew nothing of this new reality. What Lewis told me really shocked me. He told me that among Blacks, the men and women who had lighter skin were envied and admired. What!!! I practically shrieked. That was in Gone With The Wind, I said. Lewis just smiled at me. On looking back I think he enjoyed shocking me but I also knew he loved me in a special way. All of the other women who hung out there looked like hookers and were heavy drug users. I looked like Alice In Wonderland. But he admired my “ladylike” ways. When I got pregnant he used to tell Peter–“Don’t be surprised if your baby has black and white striped skin. Your wife and I enjoy a very special relationship…” My pregnancy entranced the downtown men. When I got big they would come and look at me, hoisted up on my high bar stool and touch my belly. But Lewis isn’t the only Black man I got to know…

The title of this blog is a quote from the opera singer, Marian Anderson. Ms. Anderson was scheduled to sing at Constitution Hall in Washington DC in 1939. The women who comprised the “Daughters of the American Revolution” refused to allow Marian Anderson to perform there. Because she was Black.

Eleanor Roosevelt, one of my heroes, stepped over all the ugliness and asked Ms. Anderson if she would consent to sing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. She agreed; Mrs. Roosevelt resigned from the D.A.R. that same day. Eleanor wrote a newspaper column called “My Day” which was syndicated in over 29 newspapers. Because I was teaching a course called “Writing for Peace and Sanity” last year, I told my students about this and we read Mrs. Roosevelt’s entry for that particular day. She barely commented, just wrote something about having to do a difficult thing.

I’m frustrated.

Race relations in our country are such super-sensitive issues; piles and piles of stories of horror, death, defeated dreams, heroism, miracles, and more horror piled on top of that fill books and our libraries are full of the books that tell these stories. A good-hearted person who cares deeply about relationships between Blacks and whites is defeated before he/she begins. How does this person make contact, do a “mitzvah”–“good deed” in Hebrew–do anything to lessen racial tension? I’ve presented programs on Martin Luther King Jr. Day at the Bloomsburg Library where two people attended. I presented the program anyway. But after three times I gave up. Schools and libraries are a good start but you have to reason things out before you begin and face facts about the community of which you’re a member.

It gets easier and easier to write a check out to the NAACP, drop it in a mail box, and pray.

I carry a lot of the weight of sadness about our country’s situation within me; my husband and son do also. Blogs are useful for many things, one of which is “writing therapy.” So I will present these stories with the hope that what I’m not really saying “Some of my best friends are Black.” If only that were true!!!

Introduction

I had this idea for a series of blogs while talking with my husband early this morning. We’ve lived here for 16 years and, although we were happy in this environment we had many financial struggles. This is not the environment to begin a career or continue one either.

But now we’ve moved on and the elimination of the financial stress brought an expansive feeling of happiness on an everyday basis. It’s time to enjoy both the people and the natural world that surrounds us.

There are dog and cat stories, bear and snake stories, water stories, bird stories. But now I’m finding that I’m putting the natural world before the people stories which probably doesn’t matter, I guess. Just the same, that’s where I’ll begin.

The saga of what brought us here to Appalachian country has been told and written about more than once. Here are the facts without the poetry. My son and husband, every summer, came here for a week in July since Michael was five. In 1999 I got tired of staying home–I didn’t think I liked camping–so that summer I went with them. Emerging from Lehigh Tunnel I saw what is called “the endless mountains” and I was sold by the time we reached our camp site. All that we had to do was find a job–Peter’s self-employed–find a place to live, get a mortgage and sell our house in Media, PA. All that being done within the space of one year we came here for good.

2) Part 2

Michael’s homecomings were quite emotional, as can be imagined. He always brought gifts and there were big hugs and tears as well. That night, the night we arrived home from the New York City airport, we’ll never forget. We didn’t get to bed until dawn and Michael–having a kind of weak larynx–could not talk.

The first time we heard that “It Fell On My Head” story we laughed so hard that it hurt. We cried tears of laughter as Michael acted the whole thing out; especially memorable was the way in which Michael portrayed this lovely rabbi, wearing a slightly crafty smile, holding out the book to Michael.

Together they sat and looked. Michael found all the Reidbords’ records from far back in time. Actually it was noted in this book that the Reidbord brothers built the synagogue. But there’s a shadow over this cheerful story; a whole section of my mother’s family were sent to concentration camps.

However–there’s another part of this story that I find incredibly endearing. Even the rabbi who was revered and who set the example for good Jews to follow, decided to “break the Shabbos rules” and get the book for Michael. It shows how a good Jew–and a good person as well–can determine what’s more important, the rule or the heart of a nice Jewish boy who wants to bring news to his mother.

So I wear a button that says: “Proud Descendant of Immigrants.”