Sunday, May 31, 2020

"POWER TO THE PEOPLE, AMEN” by Mark Berger - 2019 Brooklyn Non-Fiction Prize Finalist - Honorable Mention


POWER TO THE PEOPLE, AMEN

by 
Mark Berger

These memoir stories take you inside two 1960s, Brooklyn-based, civil rights initiatives. Both were aimed at giving power to the people by directly challenging the political and educational establishments. In 1965, the Brooklyn Freedom Democratic Movement ran its own candidate for city council against the Democratic Party machine’s candidate. In 1968, the Ocean Hill-Brownsville Demonstration School District was established to give local residents control of their schools. I was involved and committed to both movements. These stories harken back to a time when “Power to the People” was more than a slogan, it was an organizing principle.
Brooklyn Freedom Democratic Movement
Leaning across the table in Junior’s restaurant, the well-known Brooklyn eatery, my political pal, Andy, asks me, “How’d you like to see Pete Seeger and Odetta for free?”
“Sure. Where?”
“Brooklyn Congress of Racial Equality is starting something new. There’s this big kick-off at the Siloam Presbyterian Church in Bed-Stuy.”
“Count me in.”
Meeting in the evening; we take A train to Nostrand Avenue. To get the church, we walk past storefronts and turn onto a residential street.
There are seats available downstairs, but Andy leads me upstairs to the front row of the balcony. Leaning over the railing, he scans the crowd.
“What a great turnout,” he says.
“Looking for anyone in particular?”
“Undercover fuzz. The police department’s Red Squad usually sends an undercover cop to spy on us.”
“Here?”
“Where else? If Seeger and Odetta are playing and the head of Brooklyn CORE is speaking, you can bet rats are listening. In Mississippi, the folks who trained us said we should look for people who almost fit in.”
Reverend Milton Galamison steps to the pulpit. “Tonight, at Siloam exciting things are happening….Some people call me a pain in the you-know-what, because of my commitment to civil rights. They charge me with wanting to be my brother’s keeper. I plead guilty. Our church pleads guilty. We are our brother’s keeper, our sister’s keeper too, because that is what our Lord, Jesus Christ, commands us to be.”
“Amen.”
“This evening, we’ll hear from our true representatives—Bayard Rustin, one of Dr. King’s most trusted advisers,and Major Owens, the leader of the Brooklyn chapter of CORE. Brother Pete Seeger and Sister Odetta have kindly offered to perform for us.”
First up is Bayard Rustin. Dignified and articulate, he delivers an impassioned glimpse into how the civil rights movement is expanding its scope.
“We must confront economic inequality, because it is the root cause of the poverty and problems, we see around us,” Rustin says. “Without good jobs and a decent place to live, you can’t have real freedom.”
“Right on, brother.”
“Now please welcome two true friends. They sang with the Freedom Riders in Alabama. They sang with us at the March on Washington, and, tonight, in this blessed sanctuary, they’re singing songs of freedom and justice—Pete Seeger and Odetta.”
Pete, playing his banjo, and Odetta, strumming a guitar, walk to the front of the pulpit singing, “If You Miss Me at the Back of the Bus.” The audience claps and sings along.
“Let’s go downstairs and see what we can see,” Andy says.
Moving down a side aisle, I study the crowd, thinking “almost fit in.” In the fifth row, there’s this white guy, thirtyish, wearing a new jean jacket. Instead of singing, he’s looking around, taking things in. Is this a little rat?
I point him out to Andy who nods. “I get the same vibe. Let’s keep an eye on him.”
After a rousing set, Seeger says, “Odetta and I raise our voices high in support of Brooklyn CORE. They know that real freedom means good schools, good jobs, and honest public officials. Please give Major Owens your full attention.”
Cheers and foot stomping welcome Owens, dressed in a business suit, to the pulpit. His determined voice booms through the church. “Brooklyn CORE has a message to send to the city’s leaders about freedom and peace. Freedom means holding a decent job, so you can give your children everything they deserve. Peace means having a safe place to live. Right here in Brooklyn, CORE organized a rent strike. The most successful one this town’s ever seen. Over a hundred buildings joined up and together, with one voice, we declared, ‘No more broken furnaces, no more leaky roofs, no more rats and roaches. We demand safe and secure places to live.’ As you all know, as everyone knows, we won that strike. We put the city’s powerbrokers and landlords on notice.”
“Tell the truth, brother.”
“Tonight, I’m here to tell you about a new, bold undertaking—the Brooklyn Freedom Democratic Movement.We’re challenging the Democratic political machine. It’s a mighty hungry machine—takes our votes and gives us nothing in return. It’s time our representatives represent the people, not the landlords and profiteers. So right here, right now, I’m announcing my candidacy for the office of city council from my neighborhood, your neighborhood, Bedford-Stuyvesant.”
The crowd rises in applause. A young woman, with a close-cropped Afro, and robed in a red, black, and green dashiki, takes the mic.“Our next councilman—Major Owens of the Brooklyn Freedom Democratic Movement. BFDM members are circulating donation buckets. Please fill them high with your contributions. Sign-up sheets are out there, too. Help us elect Major Owens, the people’s candidate.”
“I’m signing up,” I say. “Brooklyn needs to get its shit together. How ‘bout you?”
“Already have,” Andy says grinning, “I’m the BFDM weekend office manager.”
When people start leaving, we tail the rat, keeping our distance. Going a block, he lights a cigarette; we stop and pretend to talk. A black guy in green chinos and a white button down shirt joins him and they climb into car.
“How come all unmarked cop cars are the same—black Plymouth Furys?” I ask.
“Because they think everyone’s stupid. Sending two of them here means CORE’s got the Establishment up tight.”
“Feeling all that enthusiasm about getting Owens elected, fills me with hope.”
“Yeah, it was a great night, but things could get heavy. Mark, this is how the game is played. The Man can go outside the law, break all the rules—infiltrate the movement, wiretap our phones, set us up for busts—while we have to make damned sure that every single thing we do is legit. Make one mistake and they’ll break us.”
“When are they opening the office?” I ask.
“This weekend.”
“I’ll be there.”



Ocean Hill-Brownsville
As our final semester at Long Island University winds down, Dr. Moore, our education professor, talks to us about getting a teaching job in the fall.
He explains, “Education majors can either wait for the Board of Education to assign them to a school or seek a position on their own. Waiting for the Board to act will result in an assignment to a ‘rough and tough’ school, because that’s where most of the openings exist. Teaching spots in good schools are predominantly filled through word of mouth or personal connections.”
A student asks, “What about non-education majors?”
Moore replies, “Those individuals have to locate positions on their own. My advice is to all of you is: don’t delay; start searching immediately.”
“What about Ocean Hill-Brownsville?” my friend Barry Cohen asks.
“Let me be honest. Few future educators would want to work in a district that is run by the radical militants who caused the horrendous citywide school strike back in the fall.”
I smile to myself—that’s exactly where I want to teach.
After class, three of us go across Flatbush Avenue to the College Donut Shop. Connie Vincent, in her LIU sweatshirt, says, “My mother’s friend is an assistant principal in Bensonhurst and she’s promised me an interview at her school.”
“I have a provisional license.” says Barry, in a Cornell T-shirt. “I need a job, because I need a draft deferral. Any school is better than going to Vietnam, but where to start?”
“I know,” I say, “Ocean Hill-Brownsville.”
“Are you crazy?” asks Connie. “Didn’t you hear Professor Moore?”
“That’s his opinion,” I respond. “I followed what happened with the school strike and I definitely support Ocean Hill over the teachers union and the Board of Education.”
“So, you’re a militant?” she says, nudging me with her elbow.
“Look, the Board of Education has been failing minorities forever. Just imagine being a parent sending your child to one of those schools, knowing full-well that they’re the worst in the city? And, after decades of failure, what has the education establishment done to improve their track record? Nothing, nada, bupkis.”
“Hold on.” says Connie. “Too many of those kids come to school unprepared. Whose fault it that?”
“Mark’s saying, it’s a vicious cycle,” says Barry.
I say, “Last year the Ford Foundation came up with a new approach. With permission from the powers that be, they funded a couple of ‘demonstration districts.’”
“Yeah, they demonstrated how to shut down all the schools,” says Connie.
“The Foundation wanted to find out if education results would improve if the neighborhood residents elected their own school boards, like people do in the suburbs? They were hoping that if community reps and educators worked together, maybe they could come up with ways to make their schools better.”
Barry says, “But if that district superintendent, y’know, the guy with the pipe, Rhody McCoy, hadn’t fired all those teachers, the union wouldn’t have gone on strike.”
I shake my head. “That, my friends, is the big lie. The lie Al Shanker, the union boss, told over and over again, and the newspapers and television stations lapped it up. But that’s not what went down. All McCoy did was to tell 13 teachers and six administrators that the district wasn’t going to rehire them in the fall and that they should report back to the Board of Education for reassignment. McCoy never fired anyone.”
“Come to think of it,” Barry says, “I’ve never heard of a teacher being fired.”
I continue, “They all could’ve been reassigned in a day. McCoy was doing his job—moving out bad teachers and moving in good ones. Professor Moore calls it radical, but on Long Island, they call it common sense. Education 101: Students learn better with better teachers.”
“Your explanation makes sense,” says Barry.
“Everyone talks about making the world better, I can’t think of a better way for me to do that than becoming a teacher, the kind who really wants to make a difference.”
Walking back to campus, Barry asks me when I plan to contact Ocean Hill-Brownsville. I tell him I already have and they told me to call right after graduation.
Two days after our commencement, Barry and I are sitting in the reception area of the Ocean Hill-Brownsville Demonstration School District. The door to the inner office opens and there he is, the controversial school superintended, Mr. Rhody McCoy—well-built, wearing a camel’s hair blazer, and smoking a meerschaum pipe.
Introducing himself, he invites us into his office. “Gentlemen, thank you for coming. I understand you’re both looking for elementary school teaching positions.”
Barry says, “Yes, yes we are.”
“Good. Were you education majors?”
“I wasn’t,” I say.
“Neither was I,” Barry says.
“Then, you’re the kind of candidates we’re looking for.”
“Great,” Barry says, with a smile.
Mr. McCoy continues, “I say that with regret. I wish education departments properly prepared future teachers to educate less-fortunate students. The model they use is that of a middle-class youngster with an intact two-parent family. Often that’s not what we have here. We need to develop a new approach to education that meets our students where they are.”
“I believe in student-centered classrooms,” I say. “Being a teacher means knowing and respecting your students.”
“I like your enthusiasm,” say Mr. McCoy.
“I believe in community control, and I definitely don’t believe teachers should strike and shut down the schools. The kids have it hard enough already.”
“Today’s kids are tomorrow’s adults,” says Barry, “So whatever we do will have a big impact on their lives.”
Mr. McCoy says, “Please tell me about yourselves.”
Barry goes, “I’ve worked three summers as a day camp counselor and I really enjoy working with younger children.”
I’m next. “Last year, at the LIU tutoring clinic, I worked with a third grader and he really did great. I loved being able to help him. Also, a couple of years ago, I worked for Major Owens, when he ran for city council on the Brooklyn Freedom Democratic line. Although he lost that election, he wasn’t defeated. Last year, the mayor appointed him to head the city’s anti-poverty program.”
“I know him well. He’s a good man,” says Mr. McCoy. “All right, gentlemen, I’m convinced. I have a school in mind, P.S. 73, but you’ll have to persuade the principal, Mr. Grimaldi, to give you a chance. I’ll call him to let him know you’re on your way.”
The drive over in a gypsy cab reveals a neighborhood that’s filled with boarded up buildings, dirty streets, and few stores. At the school, we sit in the main office for an hour, while a constant stream of people enter and leave the principal’s office. Finally, the secretary waves us in.
Mr. Grimaldi, in his fifties, with a paunch, is matter of fact. “You both made a good impression on Mr. McCoy. I don’t have time to interview you, so instead I have a proposal—if you substitute teach here for the rest June and do a good job, I’ll hire you for September. Fair enough?”
“Start teaching now?” asks Barry.
“College is over, right?” says Mr. Grimaldi.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
“Me, too,” adds Barry.
“Good. See Mrs. T., the school secretary. She’ll set you up.”
While we fill out forms and give her our licenses, Mrs. T. asks, “Did Mr. Grimaldi tell you about the school?”
Barry replies, “He said if we did a good job subbing, he’ll hire us for September.”
“Trial by fire. No matter,” she says. “When I have a teacher absence, you’ll get a call either the night before or at 6:30 in the morning. You must get here by 8:40, in time to pick up your class. Can each of do that?”
“We have to, so sure.” I say.
On the subway, Barry says, “You’re right, McCoy’s a gentleman. He’s definitely not the racist that the news portrays him as. I mean he just hired us—two white, Jewish cats, without a blink.”
“Like I told you, he’s sincere about changing the schools.”
“Mark, tell me the truth, do you think we’re going to be OK?”
“We got jobs, didn’t we? The rest is up to us.”


No comments:

Post a Comment