safety dance

In 1920, the Chicago Motor Club and the St. Paul, Minnesota Police Department each created a program involving elementary school children acting as crossing guards and safety monitors at the city's public schools. With more and more automobiles on the roads, children's safety was becoming a major concern. With strong support from the Catholic archdiocese in St. Paul, a small squad of young volunteers were outfitted with badges and Sam Browne belts and were stationed at various locations along common walking routes to schools. With instruction from working traffic police officers, the young charges were tasked with maintaining a safe passage to and from school for the younger students. They took their positions very seriously and the other students offered their respect and obedience to these new "authority figures." Within a few years, other cities launched junior safety programs of their own, with support and backing from local automobile clubs and police departments. By the mid-1930s, Junior Safety Patrols formed in municipalities across the country with membership numbering over 11,000. Currently, the program boasts participation from over 50,000 schools nationwide... and girls are permitted entry to the once all-male ranks.

Thinkin' 'bout the times
you drove in my car

In 1949, 11-year old Marvin Klegman was assigned to noontime duty at Lowell Elementary in Tacoma, Washington. As he walked to his assigned post, just before noon, he felt the ground begin to rumble. He spotted second-grader Myrna Phelps in the school yard and instructed her to remain still and stay clear of the school building. Marvin ran inside the building as an earthquake began shaking the structure. He found kindergarten student Kelcy Allen alone in a hallway. Marvin led Kelcy outside to safety, but was unable to make it clear of the crumbling building. Marvin lay on top of Kelcy, shielding him from the shower of rubble. Marvin was killed but Kelcy and Myrna were saved due to the young safety officer's direction and quick action. While undoubtedly stirring, this, of course, was not typical of the Junior Safety Patrol.

When I was in elementary school in the 60s and early 70s, of course, there was a Junior Safety Patrol. Perhaps you have visions of obedient, fresh-faced young men sporting that white Sam Browne belt accented with a shiny silver badge. Maybe you are envisioning a confident young man standing attentively at a busy street corner, taking extra care to ensure the safety and well-being of the tiny younger students on their way to another informative day of public school education. If that's the mental picture you have when you think back about the Junior Safety Patrol of your youth, then you probably didn't go to elementary school with me.

Cream of the crop

There were no "Marvin Klegman"s in my neighborhood. If there was, I'm sure he would have been verbally pummeled with the same anti-Jewish rhetoric I was subjected to. My neighborhood was chockful of street tough boys, just a few years away from a full-blown life of crime. They were sneaky, lying, deceitful little bastards who thought nothing of shoplifting, stealing a bike, or rummaging through Mom's purse for a few unaccounted for dollar bills. They would regularly pick fights with friends, throw snowballs at passing cars and spew a nasty stream of racial epithets when the mood struck. It was from this cesspool of humanity that my elementary school had to select members for their Junior Safety Patrol. Left with no choice, school officials weeded through the dregs of the dregs and came up with the least offensive they could find... like naming the nicest Klansman. Their final choices were unsavory little shits who, once adorned with a badge and a modicum of jurisdiction, became power-drunk enforcers wielding their minuscule authority as though they were sanctioned by J. Edgar Hoover himself. Some roamed the school hallways with their chests puffed out, their arms swinging at their sides and a snarl on their lips, silently daring anyone to challenge them. Others were assigned to "keep order" on the school buses on the morning commute as well as on the ride home in the afternoon. They would pace the center aisle of the bus, gripping the edge of every seat as they passed. They'd glare at the small, intimidated occupants of each seat with a beady-eyed threatening stare. Sometimes they'd stop at a seat where two trembling lower-class students were sitting. The "safety" (as they were colloquially named) would announce some trumped-up accusation ("You were talking too loud during announcements" or "You stood up while the bus was in motion"). As the scared student fought back tears, the "safety" would point an accusing finger in their direction and seethe though clenched teeth: "You're going up!" This was a threat that no one wanted to hear. "You're going up!" meant that once the bus arrived at school you would be taken straight to the principal's office — do not pass GO!, do not collect two-hundred dollars. It was a promise that was rarely — if ever — carried out. "Safeties" were just as scared of the school's principal as other students were. But, they didn't want you to know that. Instead, they behaved as though they were special agents, working on behalf of the principal's master plan of a tight grip on every student at his school. But, if the principal passed them in the hallway, they would choke up with paranoia just like everyone else. (Kind of like being followed by a police car and knowing you've done nothing wrong.) I don't know anyone who was taken by a "safety" to see the principal, but I witnessed numerous threats. (In reality, the principal was an easy-going, not remotely intimidating guy who enjoyed playing street baseball with the neighborhood kids, some of whom were my brother's friends.)

Unread

On the last day of school, I was riding the bus home for my final time as a fourth grader. I remained quiet for most of the ride. Suddenly a "safety" named Danny, an older boy from my neighborhood who — on several occasions — had levied some anti-Semitic comments in my direction, stopped at my seat and told me: "On Monday, you're going up!" My lower lip began to tremble and I could feel tears welling up in my eyes. Just then, one of my older brother's friends reminded me that this was the last day of school and there were no more "Mondays" left in the year. He added, reassuringly, that there was no way Danny would remember his unfounded threat three months from now when school resumed. I sighed with relief. Sure enough, my first September as a fifth grade student was unspoiled by a trip to the principal's office.

However, years later, Danny stole my bike.

www.joshpincusicrying.com

let's call this song exactly what it is

Four jobs ago, I used to ride the train every day to downtown Philadelphia. I'd see a lot of the same people at the train station (which is just a few feet from my suburban Philadelphia home). Of course, I didn't know any of these people. They were just commuters, like me, on their way to work. In my mind, I'd make up little stories about them to amuse myself while I waited for the train to arrive. I had a lot of time to let my imagination wander, as the train was rarely on time. 

There was one guy who I saw on an almost daily basis. I don't like to pass judgement on people (who am I kidding? yes I do!) whom I don't know. But, as human nature would have it, I formed an instant opinion about this guy from the moment I saw him... and I didn't like him. He always sported a smirk on his face and swung his large briefcase nervously as he expounded some long-winded explanation to a small group of similarly-dressed men in way-too-loud a voice.

The job to which I referred — the one that was the destination of my train ride — was working at a mid-sized law firm. While my position didn't require me to interact with lawyers regularly, I did have several encounters with attorneys over the course of the dozen years I worked there. Some of them — not all — were arrogant and nasty. The ones that fit into that category all exhibited the same hubris in their conversation, demands and actions. Sure, there were plenty of lawyers who were nice and personable, but still, there was this over-arching air of "I am better than you" that one could feel hanging heavy in the course of any verbal exchange — no matter how brief or lengthy. In my personal experience, I concluded that those who attended law school were convinced that the certificate they received upon graduation assured expertise in the field of law — as well as every other profession. Even ones in which their course of study did not cover. I don't remotely profess to know anything about the legalities of anything, but I have had attorneys point out all the things I was doing wrong in graphic design.

The guy at the train station, I discovered via a long-time friend and travelling companion, was a lawyer. I revealed my instant, though admittedly baseless, dislike of this guy to my friend. My friend vehemently dismissed my assessment of the guy, telling me, "No! You've got him all wrong! He's a sweetheart!" Granted, my friend is an eternal optimist, always seeing the sunny side of pretty much everything. She likes everyone. I can't understand how we've been friends for so long.

Sometime after my friend's reprimanding of me, I overheard the train station guy again. It was tough not to overhear him, as he spoke loudly. Very loudly. Way too loudly for the other person in his conversation. He spoke as though he was addressing the entire train station assembly. Perhaps he was. All he was missing was a podium. He spoke of how he was running for a position on the local school board and talked about all of the plans he had once elected. 

(Get ready for another opinion)

I have lived in my house for 35 years. I love this neighborhood, but there is a very elitist attitude among some of the more  — shall we say  — "affluent" citizens. Their houses are bigger than mine. Those big houses sit on more property than I own. And their "say" in local matters is more influential than mine. This little coterie likes to serve on committees and tell other people what to do. Makes 'em feel important and a contributor to "the greater good" — their own personal "greater good." The train station guy is one of those "I like to serve on committees" people. He won a spot on the school board and, subsequently, became the head of the school board of my district.

I don't take the train to that job anymore. As I mentioned, I have had three jobs since then, so I don't see the train station guy anymore. Until this week.

It's graduation time and, as head of the local school district, the train station guy offered some words of inspiration to the high school graduating class of 2021. Clad in an honorary cap and gown, a pair of comically-large glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, the train station guy delivered a speech in which he quoted — although misinterpreted — from a blog post by an acknowledged hero of his, Professor Heather Cox Richardson, a professor of American History at Boston College. The train station guy related anecdotes about abolitionist Frederick Douglass, saying that Douglass had a "pretty good position" relative to other black slaves.  He also said that his escape to freedom in 1838 was — and I quote — "ridiculously easy." The majority of the student body of the high school is African-American. Murmurs rumbled through the audience and graduates as the words echoed through the public address system. The train station guy is just another white guy in a long line of white guys who don't know when to shut up about things they don't know about. Oh... wait.... there isn't any subject they don't know about.

A very short time after his speech, an official announcement from the school board was released. It explained that the train station guy was stepping down from his position as school board head. It also related an apology for his insensitive expression and inappropriate use of the forum. The story made local, national and international news. A YouTube video of the commencement ceremony was edited and carried a newly-inserted disclaimer at the beginning.

I can't understand how the speech got as far as being actually spoken. Didn't the train station guy run it by a few close friends or family members or colleagues or anyone who isn't white before saying "Yeah, this sounds right. This is what I'll go with."? In all of the wisdom which he flaunted at the train station, couldn't he see the insensitive and hurtful nature of the words he deemed appropriate for a high school graduation speech? I suppose not.

But it looks like my first impression of him was spot on after all.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

hush, hush, keep it down now

This has been a pretty adventurous year for Mrs. Pincus. A die-hard driver, she agreed to take the train into Center City Philadelphia a whopping three times this year! I, of course, have been a daily train commuter for nearly eight years (as chronicled regularly on this blog). But there is still something both cute and quaint in Mrs. P's fascination with "how the other half lives." I love watching her scan the train car in the same wondrous manner as when she boards a ride at Disneyland. I smile when she earnestly thanks the conductor when we exit at our destination — something no regular, monthly pass-carrying train passenger would ever consider doing. After all, those bastards make us late for work most mornings.

"Meet me at the Eagle"

Our latest adventure on the train took us to the annual Wanamaker's (now Macy's) Christmas Light Show. The display, a multimedia presentation comprised of blinking lights synchronized to a soundtrack of familiar Christmas songs, has been a Philadelphia staple since its introduction in 1956. Every two hours, crowds pack the famous first-floor Grand Court, surround the famous bronze eagle sculpture (a central meeting place for Philadelphians for decades with the universally understood direction: "meet me at the Eagle") and marvel at the animated lights that stretch several stories high. The highlight of the spectacle is the musical accompaniment by the world's largest, still-playable* pipe organ.

Mrs. P had not seen the show for years. I, coincidentally, just saw it this past Monday, taking advantage of a day off from work and meeting my Center City-dwelling son. The two of us stood among the throng of shoppers who ceased their bustling long enough to enjoy a bit of free holiday entertainment — a rarity in these times. It was hokey and endearing and very cool.

Afterwards, we strolled the store like tourists in our own city (or at least former residents who had been relegated to the suburbs thirty years ago). The once-majestic store, featured in several motion pictures like Blow Out, Mannequin and Twelve Monkeys, has lost some of its unique grandeur and now looks closer to its cookie-cutter mall counterparts. My spouse, never one to pass up an opportunity to buy something, made a couple of small purchases before we headed out to nearby Chinatown for dinner. It was like an old-fashioned "Date Night."

"No meat! None!"

We walked five or so blocks through a blustery December evening to New Harmony, a small, nondescript restaurant, one of the few in Chinatown offering an exclusive vegetarian and – gasp! – vegan menu. And the place has Kosher certification, to boot! We entered the restaurant and were shown to a table in the nearly empty dining room. As we studied the menus, a group was seated at the table next to us, a mere foot or two away. It was two young ladies and a fellow approximately of early college age. We tried to disregard them and concentrate on our dinner selection, but that was difficult.

They were loud. Very loud.

And their conversation was inane. Distractingly inane.

On my daily commute to and from work, my train makes a stop at Temple University. I am both intrigued and appalled by the conversations I have involuntarily overheard between students boarding at that station. Considering they are (allegedly) furthering and honing their education, they can passionately discuss, at great length, such riveting topics as the pros and cons of various protective coverings available for earbuds. I've heard interactions that were fraught with incorrect information, mispronounced names and locations and improbable accounts of events... all punctuated with nervous twitches and insecure giggles. This is the future of our society, dammit. An awkward, uninformed, ill-mannered, unwashed faction, poised to keep things running smoothly when you and I are sucking our meals through a straw.

So, the small representative group who were nearly our dining-mates loudly perused the menus, reading selected entrees to each other, as though none of the others had menus themselves. Every so often, they'd stop and loudly question if the "meat" that was listed for each entree was indeed a vegetarian substitute... despite the large, bold headings noting "IMITATION MEAT" on every single page. When the waiter came to take their order, the fellow (the loudest, and obviously dimmest, of the bunch) again asked, "It's not real meat, right?" The waiter assured them several times. 

My wife and I tried to ignore them. However, at times, conversation between us (just inches apart) was overpowered by the loud, atonal squawks emanating from our young co-diners. A few times during their meal, I still heard the guy's grating cackle ask, "This isn't real meat, right? I keep forgetting." Nervous laugh.

We finished our dinner (it was really good, in spite of the company). After paying the check, we stood and began gathering our scarves, gloves and coats for our trek back to the train station. As I was threading my arm into my jacket sleeve, I glanced in the direction of the nearby diners, now finishing up their meal. The fellow — his big, gawky head cocked to one side atop his elongated, Adam's-Appley neck — was shoveling spoonfuls of rice into his mouth... straight from the serving bowl. I bit my lip to stop my gut-reaction of screaming, "You moron! That's for the whole table!!" I covertly gestured to my wife. She rolled her eyes. He continued to feed from the community bowl, to the slight chagrin of his female companions.

We left. We left a future generation of decision-makers stumped by the ponderous choice of fortune cookies.

The future looks bleak. I hope they have good Chinese food.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* The world's largest pipe organ is in Boardwalk Hall in Atlantic City. Like most things in Atlantic City, it is in a state of decline and no longer fully operational.