Everything Changes But Black

"I never had any friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?"

--Stephen King, "The Body" & "Stand By Me"


In the fall of 1979, I turned ten years old. I lived three houses south of Hadley on 41st St. in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and attended the 38th St. Public School. An intimidating 2.5 story brick building--the levels split as you entered; you could go up a half-flight to the first floor, or down a half-flight to the basement--the school's façade suggested more a prison than a place of learning. Perhaps that was done with architect intent, a sort of "spare the rod" intimidation for those entering, that they may not rise up against any figure of authority. That year, with "Another Brick In The Wall part 2" being played as an anthem for the ages, the building probably worked well for the teachers looking for whatever help they could to contain we unruly children.

Thanks to a silly test I had been given, I was placed in a 6th grade classroom; it was on the top floor of the school, the last room of the hallway. Though the difference between ages twenty-one and twenty-three or seventy-five and seventy-seven may not seem like much, the twelve year-old classmates who surrounded me seemed enormous. Any description I might invest in here would pale next to Cameron Crowe's movie, "Almost Famous," specifically the scene where young William Miller is in the boy's bathroom, a foot shorter and facial hair free in relation to those around him. I feared merciless beatings or being ostracized by turned backs, but instead was looked out for by two kindly children, Loy and James. I've no idea how exactly I ended up under their protective wings, but luck had me slide into the slipstream of their safety, and I was thankful.

I remember them quite clearly; James was black, like 80% of the school population, had a decent 1970's afro and always wore a smile on his face. In school or while out playing, James was the most vivacious, upbeat happy kid around. But as night drew near and curfew arrived, his demeanor would stiffen and grow somber. Where his "hello" was always bouncy and upbeat, his "goodbye" would be hesitant and halting. James' father was a Vietnam Vet and either insane, angry or both. James visited my home often, but I have no memory of ever playing at his. I never knew what happened under his father's roof, but you could read in James' face and eyes that it was nothing he enjoyed returning to.

Loy my other protector, arrived sometime after the school year started. A cracker like me, Loy had the most platinum blonde hair I'd ever seen. It was blinding, almost albino in nature. We bonded over comic books, and would skateboard together to Polaris, a comic book store on 50th and Center. West on Center to Polaris gave us the advantage of a slight decline, and the trip to was fast and painless. Pushing uphill the nine blocks back exhausted our little legs, but considering the X-Men rewards we were carrying, it was worth it. (Little did we know back then we were joining the series during its peak years; the Chris Claremont/John Byrne paring is still considered to be the pinnacle of the comic's entire run.)

As said, James and Loy looked out for me, as I was smaller and weaker than any of my classmates. I could have been bullied, but I wasn't when they were around. Some kids tired, but they were quickly put in their place. One evening on Grant Blvd, Loy and I stumbled across a nemesis of mine, someone who had given me flack once on the playground or threatened bodily harm in a hallway. Somehow, Loy shrewdly invested the boy in a game of "who can hit the softest." Though hesitant at first, the boy relented and decided all was legit and that he would play. Loy held up his palms so the boy could go first, seeing if he could lightly tap one and "win." The boy completed his round quickly, and it became Loy's turn. The boy raised his palms, and with the moment ripe, Loy clocked him unconscious with one punch. I remember seeing blood spurt, though from broken nose or split lip I do not know. A concerned citizen saw and came rushing out of the house screaming, so Loy and I ran. The boy never bothered me again.

Not to say I was entirely safe because of their protection. Violence, especially that of the random variety, was a very common event in our neighborhood. At the outset of the school year, every student, classroom by classroom, was taken outside to a waiting cube truck. It was a mobile police station, and one by one we were fingerprinted and given a file. Ostensibly, this was done in case we should ever go missing--the Atlanta child abductions were just getting under way and would scare the crap out of us for two years--but in retrospect, I'm certain the police loved having fingerprints on hand for all the future little miscreants in its district.

Many bikes were stolen back then; it was like a nice cottage industry for burgeoning criminals. One sunny summer day, my neighbor Mike and I--we didn't attend the same school, but were the same age and we hung out when Loy and James weren't around--were riding West on Center Street, a busy thoroughfare Center was lined with shops and stores more than homes, and their flat business fronts pushed right up to the sidewalk on which we rode. The street was by far too busy with cars for our limited abilities, so we played it safe with multiple games of chicken with pedestrians. As Mike and I rode in tandem between 40th & 41st, mere moments from the safety of home, a black figure jumped out of a tiny alcove. Moving with a dexterity I could barely comprehend, the figure swung a hard fist across Mike's jaw with one hand, while grabbing the handlebars with his other. Mike tumbled from the bike a dead weight, and the thief was on it and riding off seamlessly, almost as if no pause had taken place. Like a rider mounting a horse in full gallop, the bike's stride was never broken.

My own two-wheeled event came not with bodily harm, but the intimidating threat of it. Like always, in broad daylight--few residents were willing to get involved with hoodlumry and have their houses targeted for vandalism--I was riding my bike around the corner on Hadley south onto 40th Street. Spread out before me was a group of teens standing across the sidewalk, a little ways down and directly in my path. They were eyeing me, seemingly laying in wait, and I panicked slightly and had no clue what to do. I was too young and uncoordinated to turn and flee, nor did I have the necessary muscles to pedal off at a furious enough rate to escape, so I silently resigned myself to what was about to happen. I slowed the bike and stopped, possibly said, "excuse me," and prayed they would allow my trespass. Instead, we began a verbal little dance.

"That's a sweet ride you got. You should let me ride it," one started.

Even at ten I knew that translated to me never seeing my bike again.

"I have to get home, my mom is waiting for me," I responded, invoking mom, the protector of all. I was hoping they recognize an authority figure enough to allow me through.

"Come on, man... I'll bring it right back..." he intoned, stepping in to show intent.

My two options seemed to be: lose the bike easily, or injured. I chose easily. I climbed off and held the handlebars out to the leader of the little clique, who then got on and started riding back north on 40th, towards Hadley and presumably home or somewhere safe to dismantle the bike. In the most incredible case of instant karma I've ever been witness to, as the new owner of my bike slowed by the corner, looking his left, right, and left again for traffic, a figure jumped out from behind a hedge I had passed mere moments earlier, hammer-punched the rider square across the jaw and deftly performed the same bike control maneuver I'd seen done on Mike just a few days earlier. The rest of the posse, who had been meandering off in the same direction, dismissedly tossing a "later" my way as they did so, now broke out in a sprint. Whether they meant to aid their fallen leader or catch the new bike thief I do not know, but with the rising of their ire, I took off for home before I could become the catchable target.

Of course, I couldn't always escape attack, and was jumped once. It happened right on the school grounds during recess. Like the building, our playground was of hard exterior, with one small patch of green grass tucked neatly away in the northeast corner of the cement sea; in winter our biggest recess activity was trying to find a way to sneak back inside and stay warm. One day, a teenaged kid wandered into the schoolyard and began attacking kids furthest from the teachers. When he reached me, he put my head between his knees and pummeled me a little bit without reason or warning. Fortunately, in pinning me he protected my face and ended up punching my thick little noggin with his soft knuckles and did little in the way of damage. There was no reason behind the action, he was simply lashing out and assaulted several random students before being chased off and into a house across the street. The police were called, but they arrived to find the teen did not live in the home, he simply ran in the front door, through the living room and kitchen, and out the back, into the alley and away scott-free. I was taken to the station and had to go over mug shots, but never identified anyone.

Naturally, with violent culture comes criminal action, and though we were not angry, James, Loy and I were not innocent youth. I learned to steal by and with my two friends. When bored, Loy and I would hop on a bus and head to Capitol Court. Today, two white kids riding a public bus in the near inner city would most likely an invitation for disaster, and maybe it was then, too, but we were too innocent to see it as such. For our existence, it felt natural to be independent of our parents, and youth is generally more accepting of surrounding than adults ever are. Regardless, we probably never should have been roaming so far from home while unattended, but maybe it was Zen in a way, where acting on instinct and trust over thought and worry gets you optimal results.

We weren't thugs, we were thieves, and we put thought behind our targets; Loy showed me how to shove a book under the shirt and into the front of my waistband, so I showed him how to pick up two books, read one over while pilfering the other, then return the first innocently to its home on the shelf. That's right, we were the worst kind of robbers out there, nerds: we stole books. We stole science fiction, and I personally stumbled my way into adult erotica science fiction, where the lead hero would not only save the day, but then make descriptive, graphic love to a female alien in reward. After a heist, we'd make our way to the food court, where I'd disgust everyone by dipping French Fries in my hot fudge sundae. (Which still a delicious treat, by the way)

We would also steal donuts, and James came with us more often on these little sojourns. There existed a bakery on Burleigh, off the northeast corner of Sherman Park, across the street. The bakery was like every bakery in the world, with boxed items out front and the freshly created goods tucked behind the counter, displayed for all the world to see and savor. Two of us would enter into the store first, full of nervous excitement over the impending snatch, to distract the shop-keep. We'd hem and haw and point at one or another of the fattening treats, while the third member of our party gingerly arrived and remained in the front of the store. Sooner or later, we'd get the storeowner to turn his back, and then whoever was closest to the door would grab a box of donuts and dart. Naturally, as we were full of giggles and nerves, the two distracting figures would also run. We were either too wise or too dim to stick around and play innocent know-nothings.

Around the corner we'd sprint, north on 41st for a quarter block, then east down an alleyway for another block or two. I only remember the baker giving chase once, and it was as if we were all in a sort of madcap comedy, where he ran only to the alleyway entrance, then stood there either shaking his fist or with arms akimbo in frustration. Our bounty was shared on the rooftop of a daycare center whose storefront was on Burleigh. We'd climb on their dumpster, then shimmy our way up a telephone pole until we were safely out of sight in the sky. Or so we thought back then; the reality of the situation is it was a one-story flattop roof and not too difficult to navigate to for anyone of simple coordination. But in our minds, we were risking great peril to get to our secret hideaway.

We would eat our fill in caked goods, then lament the fact we never thought to buy any milk beforehand and make our way down to whatever corner store was closest. I would usually pick up the classic "Reggie Bar," my favorite chocolaty treat until I discovered Bar None, both of which have long since disappeared, and return home happy, high on sugar, and not in the slightest hungry for dinner.

If everything happens a decade into life, it would make sense then that 1979 is also the year I saw my first pornographic magazine. A not quite understood lower hemisphere longing for both a cast member of ZOOM and Pamela Sue Martin of Nancy Drew fame had already informed me biologically I was heterosexual, even if I didn't know the term. I knew I liked the female form, and if there is a way to discover it in all its naked glory and a way not to do so, my accidental initial wander was down the wrong path, with Hustler magazine. While I don't recall who brought it to my house, I do remember the focal point of the issue was a fetishists delight: pregnant women. I remember staring at the perfectly round bellies--and more importantly the engorged breasts the babies inside were helping to create--and being fascinated. The women were as captivating as anything my feeble little mind could comprehend, and though I had little real idea what sex was, I knew there was something about the non-pregnant women of the issue that made my little penis quite hard. I don't know if women thought the movie "American Pie" was silly in that Jason Biggs was given the comparison "warm apple pie" for third base, but young boys hear much odder tales than that. I was informed that if I plopped a lob of Vaseline in my palm and rubbed myself, it was exactly what sex felt like. In retrospect, the only real way we ever understand anything, I'd much rather have to clean apple off my hand than sticky, water-resistant Vaseline, but oh well. Live and learn.

(And for the record, I would have loved to have been introduced to naked women using the 1978 Pamela Sue Martin issue of Playboy. Again, oh well)

In the few months before my family moved for the umpteenth time in my childhood, gangs started making their presence known in the neighborhood. "The Warriors" was a teenage hit, and my friends and I loved the idea of having one another's back in a situation. We formed our own little version of a band of hooligans--"The 41st Street Gang" (never mind that 41st ran quite a distance and we only knew several blocks of it at best)--and we did not do so because we knew what a gang really was, but because we thought it sounded pretty cool.

I've no idea how, but another gang in the neighborhood, one situated one block north and closer to Sherman Park, got wind of us and sent an emissary sent down with word that we would have to "rumble" for "turf." To us, "rumble," meant "rock fight," because we were young boys and well versed in the ways of damaging one another under the guise of fun. We bundled together--there were probably only four or five of us at most, and went to the scheduled rumble point at the scheduled rumble time, only to find genuine high school gang members waiting for us. I remember being confused more than scared, and fortunately for us they must have been taken back, too. Instead of beating us to a pulp, they realized there had been a severe misunderstanding and that our "gang" was in no way a threat to them. We were dismissed with an eye roll and nothing more. In 1979, such was the way things were. Today, sadly, we probably would have been beaten and incorporated into the real gang to be used as runners. While real estate is all about location, violence is in the timing. Luckily, we accidentally had excellent timing in both our age and that of societal disintegration.

The rest of the year is wrapped up in vignettes, little synapse fires of memory that find no real home among the narrative. Sometimes I remember images more than specifics; I know there was a fourth boy that spent time with James, Loy and I, and though I can picture him quite clearly, I cannot bring to the forefront of my mind his name. Though James, Loy and I all had our share of less than stellar experiences at home, the nameless image I remember as friend had it worse than all of us, because his pain was public.

He wasn't a troublemaker, but neither was he studious. He was either failing, or close to failing, and his father (or step-father) arrived to have a "conference" with my friend and our teacher. They stepped into the side, walk-in closet where we hung our coats and placed our moon boots and their bread bag linings--being neither stylish nor effective, it's a wonder the moon boot achieved the popularity it did--and though I remember hearing no noise, when all three returned several minutes later, my friend was crying. My eyes moved to his stoic father, and all I could do stare at the belt he was wearing wrapped around a calloused fist. There are moments in life when you are at a genuine loss for words, the diagnosis of cancer, or aids, the loss of a loved one or the like, moments that just hit you in the gut and remove all speech. At that moment I knew had no words with which to comfort my friend. Chances are, I could barely even reconcile the fact I had just witnessed the immediate aftermath of his beating.

Another random image in my mind is of learning how to protect myself from a nuclear attack, with "Duck and Cover" being the national standard for safety in case World War III broke out. The cold war was in full swing back then, and those goddamn commies--which I believe was Reagan's catchphrase for election--were an ever-present threat. When the sirens went off, you were to climb under your desk, tuck your head down and cover it up with your hands. While this defense is surprisingly effective when avoiding nightmare monsters--making sure every body part is covered by blanket in bed--I'm not sure it related well to the atom bomb. I would stare out the grated windows--fire safety was of little importance to the school system--and imagine a mushroom cloud in the distance. All the rooftops in my eye line would be evaporated away clean, yet I would remain safe thanks to government grade school furniture? Even a child is not so naive. A thought as to why teenagers turn surly is possibly because we spend so much time lying to them as children.

I also saw my first live concert at age ten: KISS. They were on their Dynasty tour, and came to the Mecca Arena, where the Bucks used to play. My mom didn't want an un-escorted ten year old or even a pair of ten year olds attending, so she took me. I'm sure I was embarrassed by the idea of it all, until we got to the show and saw what I assume is a familiar sight to Hanna Montana fans: the entire audience was comprised of parents escorting their children. Unfortunately for KISS, the best way to lose your cool is to capture the elementary school market, because the teens that loved you up to that point will walk away faster than they ever embraced you. In 1980 KISS released "Unmasked," and it was their first failure in years. Relevance lost, years later they would have to take their trademark makeup off to shock the world into paying attention to them once again, and even after doing so they remained on the periphery of cool instead of being the defining aspect of it. Once you lose relevance, it's near impossible to get back.

(Just ask Kevin Costner)


That was it; one year together was all we got. After sixth grade, we all went our separate ways. My family moved to Appleton, Loy's family went somewhere else in Milwaukee, and I've no idea what happened to James. I wish I did.

Loy made it out; we reconnected this year, the first time in 29 years we'd laid eyes on one another. His photogenic memory and the wonders of Myspace had him stumble across me and shoot off an email. It is only in adulthood we begin to understand how strongly environment can shape who we become and Loy and I spoke of those dangerous "what could have beens," the games you play in life involving different paths and life outcomes. What if we had stayed in the neighborhood? Either joined gangs or became excluded from them as race became more important a factor in friendship and clique creation the older you got? Stealing books could have turned into stealing cars; robbing a bakery could have become robbing houses. A perpetuation of violence and failed future existed a mere cunt-hair away from our future, but we escaped.

Last month I visited Milwaukee for the first time in eight years. I didn’t go looking at all the old haunts, but I did take a slight detour into childhood. Around the time I moved in 1980, an attempted re-vitalization was taking place in the neighborhood. For years and years, a huge swath of city blocks running east to west between North Avenue and Meinecke had been empty, plain fields. Rumor was a highway was to be placed there, a new four-lane easy access to the lake. When this goal never materialized, a developer--or the city--made an attempt to gentrify the area a little; return some money to it, and hopefully lower the rate of devastation. A middle-class "paradise" was created, with nice two-story houses, picket fences and cobblestones being placed into the city streets for atmosphere. The hope was to return a tax-base to the area, and shore up funding for local schools, police and the like.

The experiment did not succeed.

When my family moved, Sherman Blvd, a four-lane large street with a nice median between the north and south lanes, created a sort of unspoken "buffer" between the "still good" and "going bad" neighborhoods. Today, the poverty and crime has spread west well beyond Sherman, up into the sixty-block houses. I used to go to a library on North and Sherman to read Doonesbury books; today the library is boarded up and gang-tagged.

In the eight years since my last visit, many areas of the downtown and east side had seen development, growth and change. Stagnation and even regression were still ever-present in my old neighborhood. The same boarded-up shops of old were still boarded up, and businesses once thriving had long since failed. As I drove around, two young men who spent more money on the rims on their car than they did their education eyed me at a red light. It was the first time in my life I actually felt uncomfortable being there.

38th Street School is also closed, an empty brick monster sitting in the middle of an impoverished neighborhood. What's funny, or sad, depending on your point of view, is when I called the Milwaukee Public School System to simply settle an inner curiosity as to why it was empty, I was transferred four times and given three different phone numbers to call. One woman was able to tell me that it just shut down as of last year, 2007, while another said she still had it listed as an active place of education on her computer.

(And these are the people in charge of opening children's eyes to information)

After fifteen minutes of confused turnaround, I finally got a kindly woman on the phone who told me lack of enrollment was the institution's death knell. From what I saw of the teens and young adults in their twenties roaming the streets today, it didn't look like they'd been interested in school for years. Poverty may be a bitch to overcome, but it has to start from within, first. Willful ignorance will kill a person faster than anything else in existence.

It is near impossible to choose the right words for reflection. While memories and feelings pound away at me profoundly, to anyone else they are mere tales. Maybe I am romanticizing my past, and adding too much value to friends I only knew for such a short period of life. But if so, fuck it.

Better to remember the past fondly than be haunted by it.



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