| A Community Eduction_______________ |
| Growing up in America certainly kept my
dad in shape. When you add up all the miles he must have walked as a kid,
it’s no wonder he is as healthy as is today. His childhood afforded him
many other benefits that would carry over into adulthood. For example,
during the summer, he spent a lot of time with his friends. Most
of them were Sicilian- Americans although he played with a few Irish kids
with nicknames like Spud Murphy. Their favorite past time was baseball.
Actually, there was little else to do since none of them owned bikes. Only
the well-to-do kids were able to purchase two wheelers. If one of my father’s
buddies wanted one, he would have to enlist his friends in a three or four
day project. First, the gang would have walk up to the dump, scavenge for
parts, and carry them home. Then they would have to beg and borrow tools
to take apart and reassemble the parts. Before too long, a masterpiece
in mechanical ingenuity, had been built.
Besides engaging their imaginations, bike
building kept the kids out of trouble. After all, it took a lot of time
to put together one these beauties. The project had another reward the
kids would benefit from once they grew up. As John Dewey, America’s preeminent
philosopher would later write, projects like this prepared children for
the world of work. Building a bike from discarded parts required aptitude
in problem solving. By working on something that mattered, their mechanical
skills developed free from the pressures of more formal learning. It is
no wonder that so many men like my dad dropped out of high school. Textbook
learning was irrelevant to their lives. Their real talents, hidden under
a veil of school failure, would surface later in their work as highly skilled
electricians, mechanics, ship fitters, and machine operators.
The drama was too much for my father. He got so caught up in the excitement of waving his handkerchief to his mom, the pennies had she had tied in it loosened and fell into the water. Another time he didn’t receive an invitation to go to the camp. He was so disappointed, he moped around the neighborhood for days. One sunny afternoon, as he trudged to the cemetery to water the flowers that decorated his father’s grave, a man stopped to ask him why he looked so sad. Dad told him that he was not going to summer camp at Nantasket beach. Two days later he received a letter in the mail from the Salvation Army. It was an invitation to camp. He learned a good lesson that day. The man who stopped him was not Italian, Irish, or Jewish. He was what the kids called an American. There were not many opportunities for immigrant children to interact with ‘real’ Americans. They didn’t live in the neighborhood or attend the Catholic school. The only time you ran into them as at the train station or perhaps as store owners in the larger shops downtown. The children’s images of Americans were based on the horrible stories their parents had told them about harsh immigration officials or the mill bosses who tried to be fresh with the young girls. Americans were to be feared and distrusted because they were mean to immigrants. The American stranger who stopped to talk with my dad was different. He was a good man who helped him without expecting anything in return. His good deed shattered my dad’s views about growing up in America. He had met an American who treated him kindly. As he grew up, he reflected on another
important lesson he had learned about people. The Salvation Army had helped
him and his family for many years. His childhood was filled with
fond memories of trips to the beach, summer camp, baskets of fruit, and
scrumptious turkeys at Thanksgiving. Their charity was unpretentious and
heartfelt. He did not need to be told what he was up against and
he certainly did not need to be burdened with the stigma of being a charity
case. As best as I can tell, the Salvation Army must have shown a great
deal of respect to the people they helped.
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