Wednesday, May 28, 2008

School Violence with Mr. Carr

All images for this piece are from the Internet

There was always a level of violence that occurred in schools where I was a student during my pre-college days. Because it was a different time, some of it was at the hands of the teachers, who did things in the ‘60s and ‘70s that a teacher could not even dream of doing now….

When I was in 8th grade science, I had Mr. Carr, who was quite old. In fact, he had taught my mother in junior high, who went to the same de facto school, PS 281 (which had recently moved into what was then known as Bensonhurst Junior High, but became Cavallaro Junior High during my second year there).

Not only was Mr. Carr old, he was quite diminutive. Standing at less than 5’5”, he always wore a white lab coat. The only other thing I remember about him physically was his hair was shock white, and he had a very neat and trim moustache.

About the second or third week into the term, he gave us a surprise test. Science, it seems, was made for pop quizzes. The next day, he passed them out. As he got to the front of the class, a huge 8th grader (I’m guessing one who had been held back a few times because he was built like a pro football player) stood up and said, “What do you mean an “F”? You better change it, motherfucker!”

Mr. Carr turned around and said, “I’m having a little trouble hearing you. Would you please come to the front of the class as say it to me again?”

The brute stormed to the front, and demanded, “I said you better change my grade mothe….” That is as far as he got. All I saw was a blur as Mr. Carr picked up this guy who was taller and seemed to weigh twice his mass, and slammed him down flat on the ground so hard, the floor reverberated.

Mr. Carr put his finger in the student’s face and said, “Show some respect for your elders.” He then ordered the guy to the principal’s office, and he meekly went.

As it turns out, Mr. Carr was a high level black belt, and about once a year or so, he needed to show his capabilities.

After that, NO ONE messed with Mr. Carr.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

Random memory: Brooklyn Shakespeare

All images for this piece are from the Internet unless indicated

I spent my later teen years in Brooklyn, attending Lafayette High School. Good things were rare and far in-between back then (such as meeting my friend Bernie Kugel). In the past few years, it has been referred in local papers as "The School From Hell." In fact, it is so bad, the city has decided to close it down shortly.

Back then we were always told that the school was known for high academics, and yet I was surrounded by…well, it was best said by Dan Aykroyd in a spoof on Saturday Night Live called “Samurai Night Fever”: “Isn’t it great to be young, stupid, and have no future?! I love Brooklyn!”

Here are a couple of true examples of living in Bensonhurst in the ‘70s, the first being a digression, the second getting back to Lafayette:

I was coming off the train station, and there were two teen girls who looked like they stepped out of “Grease” mixed with “Saturday Night Fever” (as both movies were released around this time). As I came down the el steps, Girl #1 says to me, “She likes you,” and both start to giggle in a way to indicate a “Let’s embarrass you and see how you react” thing going on. I looked at Girl #2, who supposedly “liked me”, and said to her, “What’s Tony gonna say?” Both girls turned white. “Ohm'gawd, he knows Tony; if he find out, he’s gonna kill me!” With that, both girls ran off, near tears.

[FFoto by RBF]
No, I’m not Kreskin. It’s just that Girl #2 was wearing a high school football jacket that had the name “Tony” sewn into the front, so all I needed to do was read.

See, that’s the thing about where and when I grew up. If one saw a group of people standing on a corner, and walked over to them and asked anything from “Define Sartre’s philosophy of existentialism” to “Where is the corner”, you’d pretty much get the same answer: “Hunh?”

With that as a foundation, the main story I want to tell has to do with Lafayette High School and Shakespeare.

We had an imaginative teacher, who tried to be hip and find new ways to get her students to learn. Her idea was to try an experiment where the boys read the female parts, and the girls read the male parts, hoping it would shed some light on the way characters lived in the time.

At first, it went well. The girls in the class did a bang-up job reading the opening. But the trouble came when it was the guys' turn, who (a) were NOT interested in the play, and (b) resented reading a female piece of dialog and risk having their friends see them as anything less than macho.

So, the scene where we first meet the titular female lead, as the Nurse is calling to Juliet. As this piece is read, hear it in thick Brooklynese (if you have problems with that, try it as one of the Sopranos, which would not be far off).

Nurse says (and the Guy #1 shouts) “WHAT!!!! Juliet, ya called.”

Guy #2 as Juliet responds, “Who calls?”

To which the Nurse Guy #1 yells back “Ya MUTHA!”

That was the point where the teacher realized the error of her ways and stops the experiment. She gave up, and ended up taking us to see the Franco Zeffirelli version of the film at the local theater.

Monday, May 5, 2008

Traveling in Canada, April 2008

All ffotos by RBF

The airport was pretty empty at the Canadian airport at 5 AM. It was late April and the sun was already rising. At the ticket counter, while checking-in, there was only one person ahead of me. I was nice and calm as there was an hour before my flight home.

Amazingly, the duty free/newsstand/gift shop was open, so I went in and bought some presents for the person who was taking care of our cats, and a book on local ghost stories that was perfect for travel on a little amount of sleep in that they are short and do not take much brainpower.

There were about 30 people on line for the security check, but the line was moving relatively swiftly. Everyone seemed in a good mood, albeit sleepy. I had my backpack and a small carry bag, with nothing checked. I like to travel light, if compact.

Soon it was my turn and I took off my jacket and put it in the gray plastic basket, put my computer in another, and passed along my bags through the x-ray. They didn’t want my shoes, which is always a bonus. Everything was going smoothly.

However, if there was a soundtrack, the tones would probably be turning into disonant.

I stepped through the metal detectors without a peep, and waited for my bags. And waited. I was used to this; for some reason my bags always get second looks, my guess is usually because of the cords and cables that come along with the computer, or whatever. As I am not a smuggler, and as such had absolutely no contraband, I wasn’t worried. This happened plenty of times before.

Also as common, they asked permission to swab the top of my bags to test for anything weird. No problem. They swabbed and tested. And they closed the line of people waiting to go through behind me. A very stern woman in uniform came over and said, “If it’s all right, I am going to ask someone to come over and frisk you.” Again, nothing of concern as I didn’t have anything on me, other than some minor amounts of paper cash, and cards in my back pocket, such as for the likes of Costco, my work building pass, and the New York Public Library.

She signals over a guy who pleasantly explains that he is going to search me, and is there anything he should know about before he does. I said the truth….nope. After putting on a fresh set of non-rubber gloves, he asked me to stand, with my arms outstretched. He then pats me down. As we’re in the middle of the airport, I wasn’t worried about a cavity search, but it got quite intimate. I was almost expecting him to say, “Mind if I move it over to the left?” It was thorough as it could be, though I didn’t feel violated, but more curious and bemused. I asked him if he wanted me to remove my shoes, but instead he just had me lean of the counter with both hands, and then lift one foot at a time, and he checked them out that way.

Meanwhile, I noted that there were three or four official people taking everything out of my bags, and my jacket, again quite thoroughly. The stern woman asked me (sternly, of course), “Do you know why we are doing this?” I told her no, but that I was definitely curious about it. She said, “Not only did your bag test positive for TNT, but it tested for a large amount of TNT.” Well, she got my attention with that one.

She then inquired if I was near any explosives, or if my bag was near any. Of course, I answered in the negative, explaining that the only place the bag has been in the last 10 days was either on the floor of the bedroom (where there are no explosives), in the cab, and at the airport. That’s it. While I was explaining this, they also swabbed my hands and test it, along with most other things.

Then they had me turn on my computer and my camera, to make sure they were legit. At this point, the stern woman started filling out a form, and I told her my name, rank, and serial number…and anything else she wanted to know (what my job was, where I worked, etc.), and carefully writing with nice, large penmanship).

At this point, I was beginning to wonder if I’d make my flight, as this was taking some time. We never left the space just past the x-ray machines. It was weird, as I was more worried about making the flight than anything else, remaining calm and somewhat cheerful.

She asked me a question that made me nervous then: what is my work phone number. Crap, I don’t know that. I never dial it, so I never remember it. I gave her the area code, the main three digits, but I don’t know my extension; hell, I don’t even know the main front-desk. The idea of checking the computer bottom came to mind, as it is bar coded and property of the place, but all it had was the name of the company. And my work badge is a building pass, not a company pass, so it doesn’t say the name of the company on it. She asked for a business card, but I don’t have one of those either. She finally settled for my home phone.

Still, she seemed to be calming down after this. My guess was it was probably (hopefully) the most exciting thing that happened in that building in a while, other than someone complaining about not being allowed to carry more than 3 oz onto the plane.

Once again she asked about it, and I told her I was flummoxed (though I don’t think I used that word). Basically she said she was flummoxed as well (again, not that word), as just the top of the one bag had the heavy traces, but nothing else did, including the contents of the bag or my hands. I was wondering about the backseat of the cab on the way to the airport, but the trace would have been on the bottom of the bag, not the top. Stern woman said that the fact that it was only present on top eased her conscious, and she turned to the x-ray area and shouted (heck, it was only about 6 feet, she could have whispered), “Open line 3”. With a “have a good day,” she took the form and left.

I zipped up the bags where they had put everything back (would they have returned the contents in NYC?), and walked, somewhat started and bemused, to my gate, and just walked right onto the plane with no wait.

As I only had about 40 minutes between the two next flights (yes, they broke the way home into three sections), I was concerned that my name was on a list somehow, and they would search at each and every turn. But the first connection was smooth, I went through customs with no hassle whatsoever, and when I had to go through the x-ray area again before heading to New York, there was no problem and sailed right through. I wonder what’s going to happen the next time I go through that airport again, though.

[NYC frowny face]
After I arrived home and called my partner to let her know I was alive, I told her of my adventure. She came up with interesting theory about the explosive. Seems the house she’s occupying had a new furnace put in while I was there, and according to the landlady, after it was lit and started, there was a sour smell that permiated the house for about an hour. She figured that perhaps some of whatever it was came out through the registers, and as my bag was on the floor next to one of these vents, it came through an landed on top of the bag. Another possibility was that it was a false positive, such as when one eats poppy seeds and a blood test will read it as positive for heroin.

Either way, I do know that as shortly after I got home, I washed that damn bag.