The Rat That Got Away: A Bronx Memoir

6. Lost and Found: Welcome to the ’60s

6 Lost and Found: Welcome to the ’60s When you lose your innocence, it rarely happens all at once. For me it was a very gradual process, triggered by events and circumstances I saw around me, as well as by contradictions in my personality. Just as my father’s story was typical of what many men of his generation experienced, my story sheds light on what many black kids coming of age in the ’60s were facing, especially in New York City. We had a lot of opportunities our parents didn’t have, but some of those opportunities led to more trouble than happiness. Another warning sign that my path to adolescence wouldn’t be a smooth one came in my religious life. In 1959, at age 9, I made my first communion and confirmation and ended up learning quite a bit about the Church and the Bible. However, I was also asked to leave St. Rita’s School because the nuns could not handle my behavior. I wasn’t only rebellious; I was very bad at hiding my rebellion, which is pretty understandable given that I was 6⬘ tall before I reached the age of 10. During lunchtime, all the guys in the school would play ringolevio with the kids from PS 18 across the street, a street game that involved chasing your opponents and taking them prisoner, and it seems I would always come back with my shirt torn or dirty. I was not the only kid who looked that way, but I was twice everyone’s size and took more time to settle down when we finally came back, so the nuns always made an example of me. Finally, they got fed up and asked me to leave. Though my mother was unhappy at this turn of events, I was very glad. 25 26 Lost and Found: Welcome to the ’60s Catholic school was supposed to offer an education a step up from the that of the public schools. I say ‘‘supposed to’’ because later in life I would learn that some of the most notorious dope fiends came out of Catholic schools. It was true that you always got a little more respect from the grown-ups when they saw you in your uniform—you know, the God Squad look. But the minute I first entered the classroom at St. Rita’s, I knew I didn’t belong there. The nuns were all dressed up in their black-and-white habits, and they wore big gold rings on their index fingers, all of which I found foreign and unsettling. To my mind, they were too serious. Here I was, a kid trying to have some fun, and those nuns never even cracked a smile. They would just say, ‘‘Master Jones, will you please stop talking.’’ And it was always ‘‘Master Jones,’’ even when the reprimand inevitably reached the physical stage; then my teacher would announce, ‘‘Master Jones, come up here this instant and put out both your hands.’’ I was 9 years old and had never in my young life seen a ruler as long and wide and heavy as that one, complete with a fine slice of metal running down one edge. Every time the nun would wind up and swing, I would involuntarily move my hand. Then the headmistress, who was old and cranky and who had no mercy in her heart, would pop me in the back of my head quickly with that gold ring on her index finger and say, ‘‘Take your seat.’’ I was not a bad kid, just mischievous, and this kind of discipline, even on a regular basis, didn’t deter me. I also had a rebellious streak, that new-found ‘‘heart’’ I got from the streets. My parents transferred me to PS 18, the John Peter Zenger School, where the teachers didn’t hit me and I didn’t have to wear a uniform, but the move to the public school didn’t calm me down. The world around me was changing quickly, and I found myself in a constant state of restlessness and excitement. Like most black kids, even as young as I was, I was affected by the first stirrings of the struggle against racial injustice . In 1960 and 1961, our whole family sat together in the evenings in front of the TV, watching black people in the South get beaten nearly to death for trying to ride in the all-white front of the...