You see things differently, interpret them differently than I. I can’t change that, but maybe my little wriggly friend can, over time, cause you to wonder and question certain things, like I do.
They say that people (mostly celebrities) who have been written about in the press, forever after never trust anything they read in the press. Today the press is gone from the warm soft folds of newspapers. It is now ever-present, 24/7. It comes at you from your computer screen, your TV, your car radio, your phone, even the gas pump (Wow! Gas is really expensive now...). And it’s all pretty much the same—a chorus of voices all singing from the same hymnbook.
When I was a sophomore in Catholic high school, a new program started called, ‘Shared Time.’ The Catholic schools in Philadelphia would send the students who signed up, to spend their mornings in Philadelphia public high schools that had ‘vocational programs,’ that is, ‘shop.’ These were course in automobile repair, welding, plumbing, carpentry, electronics, that sort of thing. I signed up for electronics. Looking back, my parents had never gone to college and did not push me in that direction. They sincerely believed that my best opportunity lay in ‘learning a trade,’ and working hard at it. I agreed. But I have to confess that I also thought that the courses would not be as difficult and as much work as the college preparation courses at my Catholic high school. And so, some laziness played a part in my decision as well.
We ‘shared time’ Catholic high school students would travel by bus and trolley to Bok Technical Vocational High School in South Philly. We spent our mornings there, learning our trade. Then, about 11:00, or maybe 11:15, we left to travel by trolley and bus to our Catholic high school for our academic courses. To save time, we would eat our lunches on the trolley that ran up 9th Street. It must have been spring, because I recall the weather was pleasant and everyone had their windows up. We numbered about forty kids, comprising most of the trolley riders, and sat on the leather seats, eating our sandwiches, drinking our juices and sodas, happily chatting away.
We entered the crowded area of the Italian Market and the trolley slowed. Produce stalls lined the sidewalks and men hustled about everywhere, stepping into the street to push hand trucks piled high with of boxes of produce; others, hunched over as they shouldered sides of beef from trucks into the butcher shops. The trolley crept through the mayhem slower than a person could walk. I heard a noise behind the trolley car (I and my friends were seated in the wide back bench seat). I turned to see a short man wearing a dirty white apron reach up and grab the cord leading upward to the pole that contacted the electrical wire above. He gave it a yank and the lights went out and the trolley stopped dead. People looked around, not knowing what was going on. I and others told them that a man who looked like he worked in one of the market stalls had pulled the cord. We continued to eat and talk as we waited to begin moving again.
Soon we noticed a half dozen paddy wagons pull up behind the trolley. (For younger readers, ‘paddy wagons’ were window-less panel trucks with long benches on either side in the back. Yes, the common name for these vehicles was a slander on Irish Americans, Paddy, being a common name for an Irishman back in the day. And no, we did not burn our neighborhood to the ground over it.) Not long after, police boarded the trolley car and told us all to get our things and exit. We were herded into the backs of the paddy wagons, still laughing and talking, wondering what was going on? Maybe the trolley was broken, and the police were going to take us to our school? Nobody knew.
When the back of our wagon was full, the doors closed, and we drove off. Ten or fifteen minutes later we arrived at the police station at 11th and Wharton Avenue. The police led us inside and we were made to stand in a wide circle on the tile floor in the main room. None of us knew why we were there. Then, after a half hour or so, a story started to filter through our ranks. Michael Day, a black student (I mention his race because this was the 1960s and there was still a lot of suspicion and tension between blacks and whites), had carelessly thrown a banana peel out the window as he ate his lunch. The seats in the trolleys were up high and he evidently did not see the little man passing by beneath. The banana peel landed on his shoulder. He took insult and he was the man I saw reaching up to pull the power pole off the line.
This event happened more than fifty years ago, so I have forgotten some details. However, I do remember we were there for three or four hours, none of us allowed to call our parents. Many of the girl students were distraught and crying. It was not a pleasant experience as we were all worried about what might happen. At some point, we were transported back to our high school. I’m not sure how that was accomplished. But there was no school detention, no lecture from one of the stern Christian Brothers. Nothing. At the end of the day, we went home. Period.
The next day, on the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer, at the bottom of the fold, was a headline, “West Catholic Students Arrested in Bottle Toss.” The ‘news’ article stated that a near-riot had broken out on the 9th Street trolley with wild West Catholic students throwing bottles and missiles out the windows at the hard-working employees of the open-air market. It was all lies and fabrication. I was astonished and angry. No bottles were tossed. I saw absolutely no interchanges between my fellow students on that trolley and the market workers outside. The fact that we were never disciplined at school or home reinforces that.
However, being young teens, we all quickly forgot about it and went on with our lives. I have wondered about the incident a couple times over the course of my life, but I never understood the ‘why’ of it till it came up while reminiscing with someone from my old neighborhood. This person told me that the whole thing was rigged, staged, to make the Catholic high school students (and their school) look bad. Why? Because there were a lot of people in power who did not like Catholics, and especially did not like their children getting educated in public schools—despite the fact that the Catholic parents PAID for those schools with their tax dollars.
My take on the experience is that I was lucky. At a young age, I learned an important lesson, that things are often not as they seem, and sometimes (maybe oftentimes) people in the media lie! To this day I don’t believe the media care about truth. They are all about ‘changing the world,’ into their own warped fantasy of what it should be. And if the truth gets in the way... well, sometimes you have to break a few eggs. And boy-oh-boy, did they break some that spring day so long ago!
My point, obviously, is that we ought to try and not get caught up in the latest hysterical media breaking news firestorm. Maybe look at a few other ‘news’ sources to balance out what you’re hearing. Maybe put a good CD on (or stream one) the player, or watch a movie, maybe an old Western about old people who seemed to know intuitively what was right and what was wrong. Well, most of them, anyway. Or... maybe read a book.
Oh, that’s right. Come to think of it, I just wrote one and it’s on sale. The first five or six months of a book’s life are critical. They often die in the cradle from a lack of love, just like human babies. So please go to Amazon and read the free sample. The first story contrasts the simpler life in America in the 1960s with the confusing, tense, seemingly nonsensical life of now. If you like it, the rest of the story is just a click away. Here’s a link.
Good article. I too am visited by random memories of bygone days and tend to understand more clearly now what was going on. I have zero use for any media now (aside from occasional links on sites like Instapundit, which provide a very adequate grasp of what's up). Best not to buy into the outrages, many of which are just ploys for getting donations or at least email addresses. Books--definitely Escape from the Future--are a far better use of one's time.