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ADA JILL SCHNEIDER Brooklyn, 1941 When Shimmie lumbered down the street with palsied gait in the 1940s, everyone in the neighborhood stared at him. Mama, who was deaf, would always appeal to us to be kind. “He can’t help being that way any more than I can. Show a little mercy.” We acknowledged Shimmie with a smile and wave. He responded with his contorted smile and wave. We walked on, grateful for our normal gait, wishing people would show Mama a little mercy, make some attempt to chat with her, not steer clear of her because conversing was way too much trouble. We overheard Mama appeal to God for help and solace, as she peeled potatoes, sliced stinging onions, and waved away her tears. Working in the kitchen was her way of avoiding people—closing some mental gate— shutting out the denigrating, curious stares of a time when disabilities drew little mercy. In my Brooklyn most working men, at the mercy of their bosses, were hesitant to appeal for a raise in pay. They knew they’d be stared down or worse, lose their jobs—waved off like houseflies. Unaware of the military gait that lay in their future, they focused on a way to put bread on the table, their only way of holding on to a shred of dignity. At the mercy of our high and mighty landlord (Oh, his jaunty gait!) coming to collect the rent, we would appeal for the promised paint job and, again, be waved off with a “We’ll see, maybe next month.” We stared at his back as he headed down the groaning stairs. One lucky family saved enough to find their way out of the tenements and buy a small house. Flags waved red, white and blue from every stoop. Now at the mercy of war, thousands of young men answered the appeal for volunteers as munitions plants opened their gates. We stared stunned, saluted our flag and prayed for mercy. We appealed to God to find a way to save our brave boys. Shimmie was waived from serving because of his palsied gait. AMERICANA ...

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