Peter Paul Markin comment:
This was the third of a short
series of stories about growing up in the 1950’s, the childhood period of the
generation of ’68 and of my own. This series got its start as a spin-off from a
previous series entitled History and "Class Consciousness- A Working Class
Saga" that came from a look back at the trials and tribulations of a
family from my old working class neighborhood where I came of political age.
The stories here go back to an earlier time and different location to that of
the housing project where my family first started out. They are motivated by a
search to find out the whys and wherefores of how consciousness of being poor got
implanted early. The “what to do about it” part I have discussed, ad infinitum,
elsewhere in other ways of the past forty years or so.
The question posed above
concerning how working class consciousness gets instilled is important to know,
especially for ‘politicos’ trying to organize working people in order that
those who labor can rule this society. So, how does one become conscious that
one is poor, comes from a poor family, and lives in poor housing in a poor
neighborhood when one is, say, ten years old, the time frame for the story I
want to tell here? This requires some reflection because, without exterior
prompts, it is not immediately obvious to a ten year old; at least it was not
to this ten year old.
Is it the run down school
that one goes to? Is it the garbage-strewn unkempt yards? Is it the constant
screaming of kids, parents, or anyone who has a voice and wants someone in this
sorry and wicked old world to listen? Is it your father home on a workday
because he has no work? Or is it that very much smaller portion of Christmas
presents under the tree than one had wished for? Well, all of those things are
certainly candidates but follow me here and I will tell you exactly how I
learned the elemental social facts of life in this society. Moreover, Sherry,
my invaluable ‘hood historian (and fellow classmate at old Adamsville South
Elementary School where this sketch takes place) for this series was there to
witness my baptism of fire. Listen up:
At some point in elementary
school a boy is inevitably supposed to learn to do two intertwined
socially-oriented skills- the basics of some kind of dancing and also be paired off with, dare I say it, a girl in
that activity. I can already hear your gasps, dear reader, as I present that scenario.
In my case the dancing part turned out to be the basics of square dancing (go
figure, for a city boy, right?). Not only did this clumsy young boy have to do
the basic “swing your partner” but I also had to do it while I was paired, for
this occasion, with a girl that I had a “crush” on. That girl, moreover, was
not from the ‘hood but from that other peninsula, the rich one, that formed the
backdrop for the first story in this series- “A Story of Two Peninsulas.” I
will not describe her, although I could do so even today, but let us leave it
that her name was Rosalind. Enchanting name, right? There is nothing special
about the story so far though. Just your average “one of the stages of coming
of age” story. I wish.
Well, the long and short of
it was that we were practicing this square dancing to demonstrate our prowess
before our parents in the school gym. Nothing unusual there either. After all
there is no sense in doing this type of activity unless one can impress one’s
parents. I forget all the details of the setup of the space for demonstration
day and things like that but it was a big deal. To honor the occasion, as this
was my big moment to impress Rosalind, I had, earlier in the day, cut up my
dungarees to give myself an authentic square dancer look.
I thought I looked pretty
good. That is until my mother saw what I had done to the pants. In a second she
got up from her seat, marched over to me and started yelling about my
disrespect for my father’s and her efforts to clothe me and about the fact that
since I only had a couple of pairs of pants how could I do such a thing. In
short, airing the family troubles in public for all to hear. That went on for
what seemed like an eternity. Thereafter I was unceremoniously taken home and
placed on restriction for a week. Needless to say my father heard about it when
he got home, and I heard about it for weeks afterward. Needless to say I also
blew my ‘chances’ with dear, sweet Rosalind.
Now is this a tale of the
hard lessons of the class struggle that I am always more than willing to put in
a word about? Surely not. Is this a sad tale of young love thwarted by the
vagaries of fate? Maybe. Is this a tale about respect for the little we had in
my family? Perhaps. Was my mother, despite her rage, right? Well, yes. Did I
learn something about being poor in this wicked old world? Damn right. That is
the point. But, ah, Rosalind…
No comments:
Post a Comment