Ethnic and Minority Relations 1960s

¶ … Wearin' of the Green

An Irish-American's Journey

Margaret-Mary clutched her daughter's tiny hand. Watched with pride as the five-year-old waved the little Irish Flag in her other hand. It was a cold, blustery day, but then it always was on St. Patrick's Day. Yet as Margaret-Mary braved the wind and the crowds, she didn't feel the least bit cold. Never did, but especially not today. It wasn't just that today she was sharing a special moment -- a communion if you will -- with all her Irish brothers and sisters the world over. No, it was more than that. This was a day long looked forward to, a day that had demanded special preparations like getting up at five in the morning, wrapping Colleen in the embracing warmth of a sweater of real Irish wool -- green of course --and rushing off into the frigid pre-dawn to wait for the Number 4. This was to be, was right now, Colleen's first St. Patrick's Day Parade. Margaret-Mary's quest to beat the dawn was more than a mother's mania to see her child introduced to her heritage -- it was a necessary first-step in securing a place right in front of the main doors of St. Patrick's Cathedral.

Cheers rippled through the crowd, a hundred thousand human voices -- Irish Voices -- blending into one as all Fifth Avenue came alive to the site of St. Patrick's portal flung wide. Cardinal Egan stepped out onto the porch. Margaret-Mary scooped Colleen up into her arms, burst with pride as the little Irish Flag grew and grew till it filled almost her whole field of vision, bristling triumphantly against the backdrop of the great Cathedral and the Cardinal's glittering robes and smiling face Colleen was carried away with the excitement, and her mother, was carried back in time, back to another day, when she had stood safe and secure on her father's shoulder's at this same spot, watching another man in fancy robes emerge from this great shrine of the Irish people.

Of course, St. Patrick's hadn't been built solely for the benefit of Irishmen. There were Roman Catholics all over Europe, and in some countries they were even the majority. There were even kings and princes who were good Catholics ... But not in England. "Not in Bloody England," she remembered Great-Grandpa cursing as he spit out the end of his cigar. "Bloody English. Drove us from our homes. Eh, M' Little Meg (Margaret-Mary),'d I ever tell y'about the land we McBride's had back there? Back there in County Clare? 'Twas all green hills and mountains old as Tara's Hall, Cormac's harp, the faerie circles in the grass, and the stony barrow o' th' ancient kings. Ah, them was the days ...." And the hunched over old man, his eyes flashing with blue fire, took a long, longing pull on his cigar and settled back into the old chair by the stove, for but a moment imagining that the chair was of the old wooden-slatted kind, and that the apartment stove was a turf fire in one of the cozy stone cottages ... back there.

The McBrides, like so many other Irishmen, had left their field and their homes, their fires and their fairy-mounds in the wake of the Potato Famine -- that blight that had so devastated old Ireland in the middle of the Nineteenth Century. Hoping for a better life, they had come to America, settling first in the Old Fourth Ward, somewhere near where the Manhattan pillar of the Brooklyn Bridge now stands. It had been a hard life. A tough life. But difficult conditions often produce strong men, and for those that had the fire still within them, it was a neighborhood that could produce Al Smiths, and good old factory men and drovers and longshoremen, and one day too, teachers and lawyers and doctors, and who knows, but maybe an Irish saint or two.

In time the McBrides, like so many others, followed the burgeoning subways up and out of the crowded warrens of Lower Manhattan and into the more promising open spaces of the Bronx. Margaret-Mary still lived there, and it was where she had been born, on a day much like this one, in 1960. Back then, the neighborhood was pretty typical of those most other Irish-Americans inhabited. It's changed a lot now -- a lot of Puerto Ricans have moved in, but in Margaret-Mary's childhood, the blocks of four- and five story brick apartment buildings counted predominantly Irish-Americans -- Irish Catholics -- among their residents. There were a handful of Blacks, though they mostly lived a few blocks to the South. And, though the buildings in Margaret-Mary's neighborhood were not -- they were not especially old either by New York standards. Put up mostly in the 1920s and '30s, they presented a far more welcoming aspect than those older buildings -- the ones interspersed among all the factories and warehouses in Mott Haven -- where the Black People tended to live. Of course, in those days Margaret-Mary didn't call them "Black" People. Her parents, and all of her friends' parents, and all her teachers too, usually said "Colored," or sometimes, "Negro." And on those infrequent occasions when relationships between the South and East Bronx's many different ethnic groups took a turn for the worse, one could hear other, less kind words. Margaret-Mary could still remember -- she must have been about four or five -- the time her older brother Patrick raced back into the apartment all out of breath. He grabbed a stickball bat, and Da grabbed him by the shoulder just before he could slip back out the door.

"Where'd'ya think yer goin' with that bat, Patrick James? "

Patrick was livid. As young as she was, Margaret-Mary could see the determination in his face; that animal instinct that takes over a man when he thinks he's taken too much.

"They called us Mics."

"Who called ya Mics?"

"The big Italian kids from Parkchester. They started calling us names, and pickin' on us at the playground."

"So they did, did they?" Da rubbed his scruff of a beard. "And so that's why you got that stickball bat in your hands? Eh?" He shook Patrick hard by the shoulders. "Answer me, Boy!"

"I ... yeah ...."

"That ain't no excuse to go out and break heads. You don't think your father's been called worse names?! "

Patrick let the bat go limp at his side. Eyed the twisting patterns on the imitation Oriental rug that was the McBride's welcome mat.

"Long as they ain't taken work out o' your hands, or food out of your mouth, you let 'em be. Ya hear me, Patrick James?"

"Yes, Da."

Da knelt down so that his face was even with his son's. He brushed backed the boy's hair from off his forehead. Put his arm lightly on Patrick's shoulder.

"Now let's you and me go on down and have a little talk with Father Harrigan ... that is unless instead you'd like me to tell your mother about this whole thing. She's always a good one for talkin' ...."

"No..!"

Margaret-Mary watched as the door closed behind them. Next time it opened again -- or so it seemed in that long and meandering river of memories that each one of us has flowing along somewhere deep inside -- Margaret-Mary was older and bigger. Big enough to take walk her Spotty on her own, and big enough at last to go outside of the apartment by herself. It was April, 1968. A seven-year-old girl with welcoming blue eyes and a blonde pony tail skipped down the street with another girl -- this one with inquisitive brown eyes, and tightly curled hair of an even darker shade that she wore in a bunch of little braids shot through with pink ribbons. Both the little girls wore short plaid skirts, and neat sweaters -- the uniform at St. Mary's and who knows how many other parochial schools in New York, and around the country. Margaret-Mary and her friend, whose name was Janice, were moving along about as fast as usual. Not that there was any real rush to get to Jacobs' Candy Store. Jacobs was always open -- or so it seemed. It was just like Da always said, "if there's a penny to be made, ya can be sure there'll be a Jew there to make it." -- and old Mr. Jacobs was always there behind his counter. Always ready with a smile ... And a few extra, free pieces of candy for the real little kids like Margaret-Mary and Janice.

"Mama gave me twenty-five cents," said Janice proudly. "I'm gonna by myself a whole bunch o' candy ... Some red hots and maybe some slim jims too."

"You have more money than me?" replied Margaret-Mary in a kind of song-song that was at once playful and slightly mocking all at the same time. "You're gonna get two different candies, but only I have two different names."

The two girls smiled back at each other. It was a little joke they had. Margaret-Mary was really proud of her double-fisted first name. Ma said she was named after a saint who lived in France a long time ago. She was real holy and did a lot of good things. "An Irish Catholic girl should be just like a saint ... now ain't that the way the Good Lord planned it!"

Jacobs' was just coming into view as suddenly, a tall black man smacked into Margaret-Mary's side. Her schoolbooks went flying, and Margaret-Mary skidded headlong into the sidewalk. With no time to even realize what was happening, the tears came pouring down her cheeks, at the same time a she noticed the thin streams of blood running down her shins. Over her was Janice, her face all twisted around and confused. It looked like she was screaming. A pair of sneakers whizzed by, the soles thudding heavily on the concrete.

"They done killed Dr. King! The Man done killed Dr. King!"

That throaty yell cut to the heart of Margaret-Mary's tiny, private world. Her legs throbbed, but all she could hear, all she could feel, was the anger ... And the anguish in those hoarse screams. Janice's face appeared lost in a bubble of tears and disoriented shouts. More dark-complexioned men came out of nowhere. Seemed to jump and gesture and cry -- everywhere. A brick crashed through the window of the candy store. More Black men squeezed out through the open doorway. Squeezed through, because they were shoving past old Mr. Jacobs, old Mr. Jacobs who seemed stuck -- paralyzed -- on the threshold of his own store. A line of red led from the tip of his nose to the corner of his mouth. Ugly pink and black blotches were starting to come out on his cheeks. His hands fumbled with a twisted bit of wire. Bits of glass fell through his fingertips and onto the sidewalk. It was his glasses

As if in slow motion, he sunk down, his apron flapping up into the air, the whole, big, heavy frame of the old man sliding thickly along the door jamb, like a piece of meat sliding down a butcher's tray, yet refusing, at the last instant, to come completely free.

A fair-skinned, chestnut-haired man hove suddenly into Margaret-Mary's field of view. He knelt down beside the fast-paling figure of the old man. Mr. Jacobs was a very old man. The chestnut-haired man knelt at his side. And as he tried desperately to support the old man against himself, he called out first to one boy, and then another:

"Patrick! Go find a phone ....ya hear what I said? Go find a phone!" His face was flushed. His eyes narrowed into slits. "This man needs a doctor.... Kevin! Go pick up your sister and take her home. Now!!!"

The younger boy ran in one direction -- up the avenue -- while the older boy did an about face and came straight toward Margaret-Mary. He snatched her up in her arms, so fast that her legs swung round and ... yes she hit something. Janice cried and Margaret Mary looked up into the face of her oldest brother, Kevin.

"Come on. We're getting' you away from these Niggers."

"Why? Why! What happened!" She could feel him running at full speed beneath her. "Somebody went and killed that crazy Colored reverend, that Martin Luther King." Everything was spinning, the buildings beginning to rush by. Margaret-Mary looked back. Down the block was Janice. She was crying. Her hair was all frayed and she was crying and pulling out the pretty pink ribbons. All those pretty pink ribbons falling onto the sidewalk. She moving around. Twitching. Looking this way and that. It was like she was doing some kind of crazy dance. On that whole sidewalk, on that whole block, there was no one else left -- Janice was all alone.

Margaret-Mary just wished she could close her eyes.

Margaret-Mary slowly exhaled, then sunk down deeper into the cushions. It was like she was floating on a cloud somewhere up in heaven, except that, instead of angels playing on harps, the whole atmosphere was filled with the strains of an unearthly electric guitar -- Led Zeppelin.

A familiar voice broke through the moist, heavy twilight -- "Margaret-Mary, want some cotton candy?"

"Sure!" she smirked as she struggled up onto one elbow. She felt the big, soft, fluffy mass in her hands. Her mouth watered as it brushed against her lips ... And was jerked away.

"Hey! Whadda ya doing! That's not cotton candy. That's cotton ... plain cotton. You know ... As in cotton balls."

Mike chimed in from somewhere off to the side, "Yeah, Margaret-Mary. Whatsa matter? You sto-o-o-ned?"

Mike's hands fluttered ridiculously inches from Margaret-Mary's face, and she turned her face down toward the pillow. "You guys ... !"

The "guys" laughed. Jim -- the only one who hadn't "freaked out" Margaret-Mary, began to speak in measured tones, as he was very consumed with the work he was performing on the small table. His long legs flopped relaxedly below, as his hands worked dexterously above.

"Now you gotta pay attention Margaret-Mary." His hands continued to move feverishly. "If you gonna smoke bones, you gotta know how to roll 'em."

Margaret-Mary smirked. Stared up at the ceiling and, "Man, if Sister Mary Katherine could see me now. Her star pupil ... In college ... studying what?

"You mean with who?"

"Heh?"

"With ... who, or should I say "whom? You've got nothing to be embarrassed about, good Catholic school girl like you. Just now, instead of Sister Mary Katherine, you're taking classes with ... uh ... Sister Mary Juana."

Margaret-Mary at last sat upright with both feet on the floor. She threw back her long blonde hair, watched in the mirror as it fell softly back into place. The guys really were right. Or at least they must be, the way they fell all over her now. And that feathered back look -- it really did go just right with her face -- made her eyes stand out. But enough self-worship,

"You guys are gonna get me killed, you know that? It's not that old bat, Sister Mary Katherine I'm worried about, it's my parents, if they knew I smoked weed ...."

"Sh-t!" exclaimed Kevin as he launched himself onto the bed, and jerked the blinds way up on the window behind. "Margaret-Mary, isn't that that Black girl you used to be friends with when we were kids?"

"Who? You mean Janice? I haven't hung around with her in years. I don't even know what she looks like anymore."

"Well if that's her, she's lookin' pretty hot." He flashed a smile back at the guys, "Look at that ass ... Boy! Would I like to squeeze right in there, if there were any room, that is? Those pants are tight!"

Margaret-Mary grew suddenly pensive. "Her brother was killed in Vietnam. That is, if she's the real Janice."

"Nam," said Kevin dismissively, "Nam, Nixon, 'n Watergate ... that's all in the past now. This is the Seventies. The Late Seventies. As long as we're not hostages someplace, we don't have anything to worry about."

Jim carefully brushed the stray marijuana off of the table and into a plastic bag. "Kevin, I gotta hand it to you. You really are free. My parents would flip if I talked about Black girls the way you do."

With considerable flourish, Kevin jumped back off of the bed, and made a sweeping bow in the direction of his friend with the marijuana.

"But then," he continued in a mock English accent, "My name is not James Emerson Winchester the Third."

Jim shot a pillow at Kevin's stomach.

"That's that guy in MASH. The stuck-up doctor. And it's Charles Emerson Winchester III, not James ... Margaret-Mary, your Kevin this bad?"

"Who? My brother Kevin? No, not that bad. Almost, but not quite. What made you think of him anyway? You never met him."

"Oh ... I don't know, "he said absentmindedly, as his worked carefully on sealing up the baggy. "Just wondering if all of you Irish, from the BrAWnx, act like that."

"Hey."

"She's right," interrupted Mike. "You shouldn't talk that." And so, as always, Mike began to soothe things over. He was a Jewish, and pre-med (what else?), and it seemed like he knew everything. He was the philosopher of the group, despite the occasional childish prank. Jim's family was loaded, the crazy kind of loaded that people were when their grandparents came from nowhere and went out to Hollywood in its early days. They made their money just by being weird -- at least that was Mike's theory, and Margaret-Mary pretty much agreed. They'd never really have fit in with the real old money in New York or Boston, Mike explained. Even once they were rich they had to stay out there, but that's also why they went out of their way to look down on everyone else once they'd made it.

Margaret-Mary felt herself shaking her head. True. Jim had probably never been within a hundred feet of an Irishman, a Jew, an Italian, or any of the other "ethnic minorities" one saw everyday on the streets of the Bronx. In New York they were regular people -- the people. They didn't go to Jim's parents' country club, however, and certainly not the Janices of this world. Oh, Jim tried to fit in, but he still let slip that occasional stuck up reference to how he wouldn't be caught dead in a car like that, or how, "when he and his friends were at Malibu on Spring Break .... "Man we wouldn't let a guy like that into one of our parties."

Yes, college was a time of discovery. It was the first time in most of our lives that we'd ever experienced a different world from the one in which we'd grown up. Then we'd all go back home ... Or maybe not. But wherever we went, it would never be the same.

'Don't you think so, Margaret-Mary?"

Margaret-Mary looked up from her computer. "Think what?"

"Hmm. They really are overworking you. I said, 'This place will never be the same without Mr. Martindale. The end of an era ...."