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FIRST DAY
FIRST DA OF SCHOOL AND OTHER THINGS: September 1948, Bronx, New York
It must have been late September. It was getting cold . I knew Thanksgiving was the next holiday, and grandma hadn’t even begun the home made cavatelli. I was the one who rolled the cut pieces of dough on an old wood washboard. So, I knew. Mamma woke me up while it was still dark, but almost day. She washed my face, told me to put on the clean underwear lying on the foot of my bed. It smelled of crystalline. She dressed me in a clean, starched long sleeve shirt. The cuffs reached my fingers. It used to be my brother’s before he grew so tall. John was older than me by seven years. My sister, Geraldine was five years older , the middle child. I was number four, a replacement for number three. As the first male born into that new generation, my brother was named after grandpa, and was the favored of the nest. Geraldine was a girl. She didn’t count. By the time I was born, everyone was too tired to deal with me. I still got beatings but not so bad as the ones my brother and sister got. Mamma didn’t have favorites for that . Anyway, it was the first time I wore long pants and the day I lost my curly hair to Jo-Cur, a gel that flattened hair to a stiff “sleek” and turned blond to brown. I loved the smell of that green gel. I sniffed it a lot when no one was looking.
“Go downstairs. Your sister will take you”
I must have said, “Where!?”
“School”
My lips quivered, my eyes filled with tears, and my bowels groaned in fear. I remember the older kids on the block used “jail” and “school” in the same sentence. I held on to mamma’s waste. She pulled me away and gave me the look I feared more than jail.
I walked down the 14 steps without falling this time, turned right down a long, dark narrow hallway towards Uncle Tony’s and Aunt Angelina’s apartment. The door was closed and the candle to the Virgin Mary was still burning on the hallway table. I turned right again. The door to the basement kitchen was open. Two short flights and I saw my sister head down into a KATY KEEN comic book. Grandma was at the stove. She must have just come back from early Monday mass and was still wearing her knit black shawl that smelled of her white hair. She gave me a large cup of warmed over espresso with milk, sugar and a couple of anisette biscotti. Didn’t say a word. She was already anticipating a day of hell when grandpa woke up. I wished papa were there. But he would sleep until ten before he and grandpa went back to work at the bar-and-grill they owned. I longed to see my brother. He would protect me, but he had already left. I tried to sip the coffee. I had to go to the bathroom. Suddenly,my sister got up, grabbed her books, and shouted :”Let’s go ! You’re going to make me late….”
Mamma had betrayed me.
J. Geremia
In memory of mamma and papa, grandma and grandpa.
Love to my sister and brother, both of whom, though far away, still watch over a little boy of seventy.
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Comments
Esker
Sat, 2012-02-11 19:00
Impressive story Joe
loved all the detail and attention to mood and lighting
scents and textures
could feel the fear and excitement too
something new
something extra ordinary
the strings being cut that may not have really been
there too
interesting..
Will write my version to you soon!!
thank You
Geremia
Sat, 2012-02-11 19:35
THANKS Steven. This was only
THANKS Steven. This was only the beginning of some harsh years. But I found ways to survive them--thank God for my family, especially my dad. He had a way to make me know that it was just a small part of my day and took me to get hot dogs and steamed sweet red onions off a street stand on Bruckner Blvd. I loved my mom. She was the one who made me strong.
Joe
author commentloved
Sun, 2012-02-12 06:53
Some day when I have some more time I shall endeavour to read
the small print of thine ...
I am quite sure tis very fine
a veritable
GOLD MINE...
loved
Geremia
Sun, 2012-02-12 08:35
Yes, What is not said tells
Yes, What is not said tells far more. Thank you, my friend.
joe
author commentEsker
Sun, 2012-02-12 09:30
school daze
mother put me in patterened pants
with decent leather shoes
and a turtle neck sweater
and suit jacket with white piping
Rather dashing at that age then
and got into a terrible scrap
first day..someone tore off my
name tag which got me more
upset then the actual fight
but the school with its antiseptic
smells and glass vestibule
the floodbank of windows
and other interesting young
persons and of course and
intellectual young sixties
student full of hope was
what ignited me then and
there.....I survived at any rate
a little torn at the corner
but intact!!
still love the story Joe
the peoples the neighbourhood
and that comic reference
how we all survived
thank you
Geremia
Sun, 2012-02-12 10:45
Different circumstances with
Different circumstances with similar results. I wonder, Steven, if we did "survive." If "to survive" means to live with all this insanity around us AND within us, then we did. I am compelled to finish this story,even though some criticism of my work has been brutal. My content is maudlin sentimentality r boring as ba shit. That kcked me off my balance andI left the site.Words ae like indelible ink on a polyester shirt: no matter how often you wash it, there is always a shadow of a stain.
Most of what I write is the truth behind the lines--those things that are nt said, but can nevertheless be read.
I wrote the following to somene on another poetry site:
"Thank you. Sad to say my brother is not doing well, and we doon't know who will go first. I hope to God it will not be him. Ironically, I have more fight in me and chose to live aloe here in Florida so that I would be forced to survive on my own;but this is an insidious disease that steals your dgnity ad your soul.
Be well and seize the day.
Joe"
Joe
author commentloved
Sun, 2012-02-12 11:09
Did I post this somewhere I forgetHence here
Your symmetric machine
has unfortunately become asym….
sad,
but the nerves you still show
makes much of you the music
silent though,
comes through my deaf ears too.
As we age
the toll of time does page
and
on every leaf of day,
some marks it does display
yet somehow you have the strength to relay
how you could traverse the day.
Many more sunrises shall come your way
this alone, Loved can say.
loved
Kailashana2
Sun, 2012-02-12 11:18
IMO, Joe, your forte lies in
IMO, Joe, your forte lies in story telling via prose. Not to say your poetry hasn't grown. Coincidentally, I also think that Theo's gift is in music and the art of story-telling, not that he hasn't written some outstanding poetry. Smile.
~A
Geremia
Sun, 2012-02-12 12:29
Yes, I am more comfortable in
Yes, I am more comfortable in story telling. The "poetry" is what is not said.
author commentKailashana2
Sun, 2012-02-12 13:29
But then again, most of the
But then again, most of the times, you say too much and repeat yourself....poetry-wise.
Must be old age kicking in then, eh?
Poetry is letting *you* the reader, fill in the blanks, lead you to the water (not make you drink),....
Geremia
Sun, 2012-02-12 14:46
Now, that is a new one.
Now, that is a new one. Repeat myself?
Now, that is a new one. Repeat myself?
Now, that is a new one. Repeat myself?
author commentNordic cloud
Mon, 2012-02-13 06:18
There is an old world
There is an old world atmosphere in the telling of one's childhood when our age, it conjures up an old film canvas, sepia tinted; and the sentiments are on the outside, to touch and feel, this you have conveyed exactly as it should be, the right amount and the right contents. Beautifully told Joe. LuvAnni
"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.
Nordic cloud
Mon, 2012-02-13 06:32
Anni's schooldays.
I had to have all the paraphernalia of School Uniform; right down to the underpants in thick bottle green cotton, nearly down to the knees and Lyle stocking with suspender belt in the form of, what was called a liberty bodice- what it had with liberty to do puzzled me. Then there was a girl with exactly the same name in my class, so as she arrived first she got to keep her name and I was delegated to my other name, but so I called her by her second name, and we were equal.
We all marched into prayers, the whole 300 girls and stood in rows like soldiers, the head mistress on the platform at one end of the big hall, when all were present hymns and prayers were said, notices given before marching out, one row at a time, to music; often a piece from Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker suite. I was terrified of fainting, as we probably had a lack of oxygen, girls were carried out on stretchers, and if I felt faint I kept myself on my feet, it looked so degrading.
At "Dinner" called dinner hour, we ate for the first half, then went out to play in the courtyard the second half. There was a great din as 300 girls ate their food, all chatting at once, sometimes a teacher would knock a knife on the a glass and tell us to eat in silence for a while, this silence, the noise of 600 knives and forks on the plates was a debatable silence. I was always the last one to finish my meal of meat potatoes and veg. all overcooked, then a stodgy pudding usually with powdered custard, wow far too much for me to eat.......
"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.
Geremia
Mon, 2012-02-13 07:23
Yes,Anni. But there is more t
Yes,Anni. But there is more t tell as tell it n bts and pieces,
author commentNordic cloud
Tue, 2012-02-14 03:24
I see Geri's painting
Nice Avatar. Anni
"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.
Geremia
Tue, 2012-02-14 05:54
Yes. I downloaded it from
Yes. I downloaded it from her gallery :)
author commentKailashana2
Mon, 2012-02-13 08:41
If I remember correctly,
If I remember correctly, there are 14 or 17 chess moves, all the others are based on these.
How does that relate to poetry? Think about what themes can be written. How many original ways can one find to bind the story?
~A
Geremia
Mon, 2012-02-13 10:36
A nna, it comes down t
A nna, it comes down t whatever criteria for "good" poetry a reader brings ti the crtique,There are those whio think my poetry is flawed and there are those who published it.I can create only what is not beyond my heart's measure, One's expectations of me can be high. Perhaps I am limited in my abilites.
I was always bad at chess.
Love to my Anna from Joe
author commentKailashana2
Mon, 2012-02-13 11:20
Poetry like beauty, is
Poetry like beauty, is neither good or bad, as it is all in the eye of the beholder, so to speak.
Another Ted Talk....Denis Dutton ~ A Darwinian theory of Beauty....
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PktUzdnBqWI
After you remove your own stigma of being a being with Parkinson's....what have you but *your life*, my Joe?
Neither am I exempt from my own stigmas. ;-)
Love to All,
All to Love,
~Anna
Geremia
Mon, 2012-02-13 11:49
I am moroe than my words,
I am moroe than my words, Parkinsons was and is only the catalyst that made me to begin to devour the world. I wonder, my Anna, if anyone sees behinf the lines. Someone of exceptional quality is there..
In the end, I write about a reality that is universal And my message is not about Death, but about the courage and strength within all humanity. I see poetry on this site and others with similar repetitive themesAnyway, you can't climb a mountain, less feel like it, when you have the flu
To clap our hands and stamp our feet, doesn't make us a Flamenco dancer."
your Joe
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