Farewell to the Lower East Side

My jobs within Mobilization for Youth had expanded. I was in charge of placing young men and women into the Job Corps, and I was on the staff of the program for training men for the building trades. Actually, I was in charge of providing new participants with working boots, gloves, trousers, and shirts. My new responsibilities on top of the programs that I had been working for made for busy days. Nevertheless, I had the sense that my assignments at Mobilization for Youth were winding down.

A victory of sorts was Hector Sanchez. Hector had been the War Chancellor for the East Side Dragons, a large and menacing Puerto Rican bopping gang. Bopping gangs were aggressive and quick to take umbrage; however, for various reasons I never understood, the old-fashioned ethnic gangs (Irish, Italian and Puerto Rican) that were portrayed in West Side Story were breaking up. The East Side Dragons and another Puerto Rican gang with the improbable name of the Bopping Ballerinos had become empty caricatures of the Leonard Bernstein’s gangs.

Lost and powerless, Hector was experimenting with heroin and became involved in petty crime. His councilor at Mobilization suggested the Job Corps that would allow Hector to cleanse himself of heroin and obtain a useful skill that he had never considered. Hector and I completed the paper work the Job Corp required and sent it off to their New York office. Their reply came back in two weeks and was much faster than I thought. Hector had been accepted for a training program for aspiring national park rangers in Oklahoma. I had been in Oklahoma and didn’t remember any forests; but Hector was anxious to go, even though he didn’t know where Oklahoma was. I didn’t ask but suspected that the police might have been closing in on Hector.

A week before Thanksgiving, I accompanied Hector to the airport. He was carrying a small suitcase, an expensive pool cue in a zippered case, a leather jacket, and heavy construction boots from his brief training in one of the building trade teams that Mobilization headed. Most New Yorkers recognized Hector as a gang member and kept their distance.

Hector’s English was about as fluent as my Spanish; we communicated by speaking what was known as Spanglish. Before boarding the plane, Hector gave me an abrazo, the hug that Spanish speakers often use to show affection. Most non-Spanish speaking males find abrazos off putting. Hector swaggered onto the plane and before disappearing into the boarding ramp; he turned and waved to me. I wondered how he and Oklahoma would get along.

A man next to me said, “The man you accompanied, what does he do?”

“Hector was the War Chancellor for the East Side Dragons, a bopping gang on the Lower East Side. He’s on his way to Oklahoma to train as a forest ranger.”

“Forests in Oklahoma?” He laughed. “Well, anyway good riddance.”

“I’m sure many people on the Lower East Side will share your observation.” And I was right.

Walking to my apartment, a Puerto Rican lady ran towards me and said, “Hector se fue?” (Hector left?”)

“Si,” I said.

“Donde?” (Where?)

“Oklahoma, un estado en el medio.” (Oklahoma, a state in the middle.)

After a burst of Spanish I didn’t understand, she hugged me and smiled. The guys who always gathered on my building’s stoop early in the evenings had bought me a case of beer from the bodega next door to celebrate Hector’s departure from the neighborhood. The guys and I finished off the beer that evening, and they recounted Hector stories. I realized that a few years ago, Hector and his gang were frightening; and most people took elaborate steps to avoid them.

●●●

Friends from college invited me to their parents’ home in Poughkeepsie on the Hudson River north of New York City. Getting out of New York was a pleasant change; the town was pretty with a long history, and the home of Vassar College that was still a women’s college back then. Christmas that year was on a Sunday, and I took the train up to Poughkeepsie Friday afternoon and returned to New York on Monday morning next. Throughout most of my stay, it was snowing.

The family was Episcopalian; I was the only Catholic for the Christmas dinner they were hosting. Like many towns, most of the churches were on the street through the middle of town. That morning, we parked at the Episcopal church; my friend’s mother pointed to several churches across the street and said that St. Peter’s was over there. It was snowing heavily; I crossed the street and went toward a large church; the snow covered the sign by the entrance that would have indicated what church it was. So in I went; the first thing I noticed was that there was no holy water.

I wasn’t going to church often in those days and thought that Vatican II had something to do with streamlining churches and had removed holy water vessels by the entrance. So I found a pew, genuflected, took off my coat, knelt, crossed myself, and started to pray. It was a short prayer; I looked around — much was missing. I was not in a Catholic church, rather a stark Protestant Church — Methodist, Presbyterian or Baptist? Whichever it was, I had made a complete fool of myself. With that embarrassing realization, I was tapped on my shoulder and a voice said. “I believe you’re looking for St. Peter’s, the Catholic Church?”

I got up and turned to a nice looking man in a navy-blue suit and twinkling eyes. “I’ve made a fool of myself, haven’t I? And everyone is looking at me.”

“I think they are welcoming you,” he said. “You may stay with us if you wish, however; this is First Presbyterian, and we do things far differently than you’re used to. Ah, that started with the Reformation.”

“I’ve heard of that,” I said; he chuckled. “The snow covered the sign outside that identifies this church.”

“Your first trip to Poughkeepsie?”

“Yes, I’m a guest of college chums. The family is Episcopalian; they’re at the church across the street and sent me over here.”

“A snowy mistake,” he said. “I’ve heard that the last time a Catholic, a house guest of Episcopalians, mistook their directions to St. Peters and walked into this church was on a snowy Christmas morning back in the ’30s. St. Peter’s is two churches down the street.” He pointed and helped me with my overcoat and patted my back. “Have a Merry Christmas, and keep your faith.”

“I shall, and may God bless you and yours.”

“I do hope so, thank you,” he said. We shook hands.

A memorable Christmas.