When I was a kid we
lived in the Pomonok housing
project in Flushing, Queens, a half hour’s subway ride from Times Square, long before
the projects turned dangerous or the borough went Asian. The car-free
playground just out the door always offered a glorious assortment of games, and
after school I’d play punchball
with a spaldeen, run
bases, shoot marbles, play jacks, or jump rope with a clothesline chanting
“Policeman policeman do your duty, Here comes Susie the American beauty” until
my father whistled out the window or it was too dark to catch the ball,
whichever came first. My usual means of transport was clamp-on
roller skates.
Jack the Ice Cream Man,
a neighborhood institution, didn’t only sell popsicles and chocolate
marshmallow push-up sticks, he also organized races and yo-yo contests, with
bird whistles and glow-in-the-dark plastic skulls as prizes.
Everyone stayed home from school on
the Jewish holidays, even the black kids, with the exception of me and a few
other red diaper babies unfortunate enough to have principled left-wing parents.
I remember two ways a marginally better-off kid might lord it over the rest of
us: to own a baseball glove, and to play potsy (that’s Queens for hopscotch) by tossing a red checker
instead of the standard-issue bottlecap onto the squares.
There were other tomboys on the
playground, but I was the only one who convinced my mother to let me wear boys’
shoes under my dresses – in the fifties that meant not sneakers but Buster Browns with leather soles –
so I could run faster.
We had a piano for my father to play Bach, Mozart, and Count
Basie. At age four I sat down on the stool like he did and slammed my open hands
on the keyboard expecting music to come out – I still remember my shock at the
cacophony! I got to start piano lessons afterward, learning to read notes about
the same time I learned to read words.
In 1954 I was scheduled to be a
guinea pig for the Salk polio vaccine but I hated injections (I still do,
that’s why I’m so good at giving them). My mother spent hours giving me
make-believe shots with a bobby pin so I wouldn't pull my arm away at the
moment of truth. She told me I had to get used to needles because I would need
them to take away the pain of having a baby – an issue fresh in her mind since
my little brother was just two years old. At the last minute I caught a cold
and didn't get the vaccine after all, disappointing everyone except myself. When they taught us in medical school that some
of those first batches hadn't been adequately inactivated and had given lots
of kids paralytic polio, I took it as a sign of personal grace.
My health suffered no serious threats. Perpetual scabs adorned my
knees – when my mother once hinted there would come a day when I would no
longer have them, I didn’t believe her. I landed on my coccyx roller skating
and couldn't sit down for a week, I split my chin open showing off at potsy,
and there were warts to paint, but no broken bones and no appendicitis. I even
managed to hang on to my tonsils.
Pomonok has changed some, but – according to one contented denizen
recently – “Residents are born, raised,
and never leave here!” So next time you hear anyone badmouthing “the
projects” maybe you’ll remember my
project: kiddie heaven.
*****
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