ROCKIN' THE BRONX - A NOVEL & ODE TO BAINBRIDGE AVENUE

 The scene in the Irish Bronx between the 1970’s and the 1990’s was so wild and in-your-face, I figured it would last forever. It never occurred to me that by the end of the century all the temples of intemperance where I used to play would have morphed into nail salons and bodegas.

 

This Irish Bronx stretched from The Concourse up to Yonkers, and from the Hudson River to God knows where. But it definitely contained Kingsbridge and Fordham Roads, and the immortal Braindamage (Bainbridge) Avenue, circa 204^th Street. Only God again knows how many bars thrived on those rugged boulevards, for they changed names and owners with dizzying frequency.

 

I began my Bronx career with Turner & Kirwan of Wexford in the mid-70’s at Durty Nelly’s on Kingsbridge Road. We had been making a name for ourselves down in Greenwich Village and were approached by a rogue with a twinkle in his eye from Carrick-on-Suir. Phil Delaney booked us for Nelly’s and we found our way to Kingsbridge one Indian summer’s evening.

 

The place was jammed, everyone awaiting these “Village Superstars” as we were billed. After a few tokes out in the van for inspiration, we took to the stage and blasted into our psychedelic 20-minute version of The Foggy Dew; we had them Paddies rocking for about 90 minutes until I noticed Phil waving at us like a baseball umpire. 

 

“Will yez, for Jaysus sake, take a break,” he screamed. “We’ve barely sold a drink since yez started playing!” Thus, did we learn that flogging booze trumped all artistic pretensions on Kingsbridge.

 

Back then, the scene was still run by those who had emigrated in the 1950’s. They preferred the showband 3 slow/3 fast dance sets; jiving was still the rage, ladies in dresses, gentlemen in suits, all of whom discreetly disguised their level of inebriation. 

 

As the 80’s rolled in, however, and economic depression deepened in Ireland, a new breed arrived – mostly undocumented who worked long hours for cash on Manhattan building sites; they were joined by many from the North who had gone toe to toe with the British Army. 

 

The tastes of these “New Irish” had broadened to the Punk of The Undertones and the Trad of Planxty. Most of them drank like fish and in the words of a local wag seemed “neither here nor there.” Always looking back at Ireland, but in no hurry to return. I knew what they were going through for I had decided I was never going home permanently again.

 

In my four-hour stints onstage, I had much time to observe the new arrivals, and one night in The Village Pub I had an epiphany: they were enacting a story that no one else had yet dealt with in any literary form. This was around the beginning of the 80’s. Pierce Turner and I had formed a new wave band, Major Thinkers, and were doing well downtown, but money being tight, we’d moonlight up in The Bronx. 

 

The drinking was beyond ferocious and the signs of burnout were all around. I had little doubt I was on the same road to ruin. Why had I come to New York in the first place? To “make it?” That was happening - Major Thinkers were about to sign with Epic Records, tour with Cyndi Lauper and UB40; still, I was uneasy about my life’s direction. I began writing plays and was fumbling around for subject matter.

 

Onstage in The Bronx I wondered about the stories of the young immigrants. I began to question them between sets, and in the long, liquid post-gig hours before I’d head home to the East Village. 

 

Most of my interviewees had left Ireland because in the words of The Sex Pistols there was “no future”. Others had quit from boredom or broken hearts, while those from the North were tired of being second-class citizens in their own occupied country. 

 

Were they happy in The Bronx? Well, they had everything they needed, pockets full of cash, bars where they were welcome, diners with good food, county matches at Gaelic Park on Sundays, the occasional Christy Moore concert, even sex with like-minded others freed from the conventions of home. 

 

Life was full, but there was an emptiness too: they didn’t trust their closest neighbors, the Puerto Ricans and Irish-Americans, and few took advantage of New York’s many opportunities. Why bother? They had their own private universe in The Bronx.

 

The years passed. Major Thinkers got dropped by Epic Records, and Pierce and I parted amicably. I leaped off the merry-go-round of “making it” and became a full-time playwright. I still needed to make money, so I often returned to The Bronx to pick up a gig or two. Everyone had gotten a little older, but I still listened to their stories during breaks. 

 

I was learning my theatre craft, writing, directing, and producing my own plays and musicals. And then one night Chris Byrne and I formed Black 47, and before I knew it I was back full-time on Braindamage Avenue. Our music was not only political but we intended to become a fully original band ASAP. We had need of songs, especially those relevant to our immigrant audience.

 

I drew from the stories I had been told during breaks; the songs were mostly character-driven and told a story. Among them were “Funky Ceili,” “Banks of The Hudson,” “Fanatic Heart”, and “Rockin’ The Bronx.” 

 

One was called, “Sleep Tight in New York City,” it told the story of Sean Kelly who had left rural Ireland to find his girlfriend, Mary Devine, in The Bronx. She hadn’t written and he feared the worst. When he does find her he discovers her problem, and has to change his own life and expectations. He must also accept Danny McClory, a gay construction worker with an IRA past, and rambunctious Kate from County Mayo, the heroine of Black 47’s “Livin’ in America.” 

 

Rockin’ The Bronx was done with some success as a play, but in order to capture the complexities of New York I adapted it to a novel. Some readers may recognize themselves or others in the characters. 

 

One person I barely changed was Brian Mór, the artist and political activist, he’s easily identified as Benny, the bouncer at the traditional bar, The Gallowglass (The Bunratty). Why? Because Brian looked after me in real life, much the way he looks out for bull-headed Sean Kelly in the book; then again, it took me years to realize that I had often based Sean on my own shortcomings.

 

Rockin’ The Bronx captures The Bronx in all its unvarnished glory around the time of the deaths of John Lennon and Bobby Sands. It was something that I’d set out to do on that night of Epiphany in the Village Pub. Fordham University Press recognized the value of the story, and now we finally have a written account of what we were up to in those wild years. 

 

Rockin’ The Bronx went on sale last week. For those who were there it will bring back memories, for those who weren’t, it’s full of laughs, loss, dreams, drink, politics, music and, most importantly, hope.

 

At the book’s end, Sean comes to the conclusion: “The Bronx had been far from easy on me. It had pruned and tempered my expectations. I arrived a boy and was leaving a man, a little scarred perhaps, but a great deal wiser; yet I had no doubt that my years spent on its bristling streets would stand to me down all the days to come.”

 

Rockin’ The Bronx can be ordered at all stores and at Amazon and all digital outlets.
https://www.fordhampress.com/ is offering a discount of 25% off, plus free shipping (paperback and eBook). Use code ROCKIN25-FI   Autographed copies of the book can be purchased at SHOP at www.black47.com

CONGESTION PRICING ON CANAL

Canal Street in Lower Manhattan runs just over a mile from East Broadway to West Street. It’s big, broad and bustling and many the famous person from Alexander Hamilton to Lou Reed has walked the wild side on its well-worn cobblestones and concrete. 

 

Until recently, it was one of the most dangerous streets in New York though neither the Post nor Fox thought it worthwhile to mention. 

 

Canal Street put the shivers in you because from the Manhattan Bridge to the Holland Tunnel it was jammed to the gills with cars and trucks. You took your life in your hands crossing that street of dreams.

 

With only the occasional cop in attendance, drivers used traffic lights as suggestions rather than hard and fast rules. Pedestrians were treated as mere extras in the movies of these mostly out-of-city drivers. 

 

Meanwhile, mired in its automobile adoration, New York City authorities still only allow the barest of time for pedestrians to make it across the street. You get a couple of seconds of a white “walk” light before a countdown of “run for your life” in flashing red. I once saw a hobbling elderly gentleman hoist his crutches over his shoulders and race betwixt and between honking cars to the unguaranteed safety of the opposite curb.

 

All changed, utterly changed since we unworthy sprinters were granted congestion pricing. Traffic is suddenly silent and gently flowing like the Hudson River. 

 

Time to celebrate, you might ask? Hardly for King Donald down in DC has decreed that he prefers the choked streets, poisonous fumes, the honking, and the occasional life and limb sacrificed to the great god, Automobile.

 

Unlike Alexander and Lou this former denizen of Queens likely never spent much time on wild and wooly Canal Street; what need hath he for the brittle Manhattan Bridge or the jam-packed Holland Tunnel in whatever gigantic SUV he’s been towed around in? 

 

The vast majority of us who live in Manhattan wouldn’t be caught dead owning a car. Where are you going to park it? Instead, we take the subways – or walk – and now, hallelujah, the aforementioned subways will be financed by those who insist on driving in below 60^th Street.

 

You don’t like subways? I assure you they’re much safer than the congested streets. I know, they smell occasionally and there’s always a chance you’ll share a car or platform with a disturbed person.

 

But then, how much crazier is someone who texts while driving? I know you’d never do that, but many do. In fact, in the bad old pre-congestion pricing days, one of the essentials crossing Canal was to gain eye contact with furious drivers trapped by red lights, but already revving up for their next 3 miler per hour dash. 

 

Gaining the attention of these Formula One wannabes was never as easy as it sounds, for many heads were locked downwards in mid-text forcing you to roar your loudest New York “YOH!” 

 

One thing I never would have predicted with congestion pricing is that Canal Street foot traffic would increase, leading to more crowded stores and happier merchants. 

 

Tucked in between expensive Soho and Tribeca, Canal was always a haven for bargain hunters. From Chinese jewelry to Lebanese suitcases, Italian cannoli, to the finest of sub-Saharan counterfeit Chanel, Prada and Gucci, we have it all – and you can bargain in up to 40 languages.

 

On the south-east corner of Church and Canal, known locally as Senegal Alley you can experience the finest beat-driven devotional music by Youssou N’Dour and Salif Keita, and you now can hear it all without the ongoing accompaniment of honking horns.

 

How pleasing to finally stroll in the footsteps of Hamilton and Reed through streets originally designed for horse and carriage.

 

I can only think of one comparable New York City edict that made a real difference to the lives of its citizens – the ban on smoking in bars and restaurants. 

 

So be aware Mayor Adams, Mr. Cuomo and others seeking the mayoralty, there are many of us who won’t even consider voting for you without your guarantee of support for congestion pricing.

Now if we could only make the same threat to “Yer man from Queens” in the White House. But he knows New York City would never vote for him anyway.

RUTH SANGER - THE MOST SUCCESSFUL IRISH-AMERICAN?

Who was the most successful Irish-American? 

In my book, she was a fugitive, a prisoner, vivacious, beloved, despised, and competitive; she continually challenged church, state, and the mulishness of men. 

She was married twice, had many partners, enjoyed sex into her 80’s, and set out to change society upon watching her tubercular Irish-born mother die at age 49 after 11 childbirths and 7 miscarriages.

In short, she believed that every woman should have the right to decide how many children to have, while still enjoying sex. Her name was Margaret Sanger, known to her oldest friends as Maggie Higgins.

Margaret Louise Higgins was born in Corning, NY in 1879. She was the sixth of the eleven surviving children of Michael and Anne Purcell Higgins. Both parents had emigrated from Ireland in the years following the Great Hunger.

Michael “Marble” Higgins was a stonecutter and a free thinker. Though times were tough, there was no shortage of books in the Higgins household. Maggie was bright, and after her elder sisters paid her way through high school she studied nursing at White Plains Hospital.

There she contacted TB but married William Sanger, an architect. Against medical advice, she managed to have two children, but when their fine house in Westchester burned down, the family moved to New York City.

Both she and William became members of the mainly middle-class Socialist Party. She worked as a nurse in the fetid immigrant slums of the Lower East Side, and was appalled at the unsanitary conditions, and how women were forced to deal with frequent childbirth, miscarriages and self-induced abortions. 

She became a member of the International Workers of the World (The Wobblies) and forged a strong bond with another second-generation Irish-American, Elizabeth Gurley Flynn. Flynn’s father  was also a stonecutter and even more of a free-thinker.

Together these two fiery young women became leaders of the 1912 Bread and Roses strike in Lowell, MA and won a great victory for the impoverished textile workers. However, a year later, they rushed into a poorly financed strike in Patterson, NJ, and were no match for the power and resources of Wall Street and the Silk industry. 

Despite rising political and industrial agitation nationwide, it became apparent to Sanger that there could be no real societal change while women were unable to plan their pregnancies. Contraception was illegal and, with few exceptions, doctors wanted no part of it.

She began challenging the Comstock Act by mailing information on contraception through her magazine, The Woman Rebel. Sentenced to jail, she escaped to England at the outbreak of World War I. While there, she learned more about European methods of contraception and before she returned to the US to serve her sentence, she arranged to import diaphragms.

In 1916, Sanger, along with her sister Ethel Byrne, opened the first American birth control clinic in Brownsville, Brooklyn. It was an immediate success with the local Jewish and Italian immigrant women.  But 9 days later, the sisters were arrested, Byrne went on a 185-hour hunger strike before being force-fed, the first American woman to face such a fate.

The case became a national sensation. Byrne was pardoned, and Sanger was offered a more lenient sentence if she promised not to break the law again. When she refused she was sent back to jail.

But in 1918, a New York Court of Appeals ruled that New York doctors could offer contraceptives to their patients. This victory caused many donors to open their purses to the growing birth control movement; Sanger became a household name while challenging authorities in searing speeches across the country.

She formed Planned Parenthood and many millions of women have since availed of its services. She did not favor abortion, feeling that if contraception was available, there would be little need for it. 

She led a long contentious life always promoting feminist issues. She married a wealthy industrialist, James Noah Snee, who subsidized her causes as she moved easily through all strata of society, but her greatest wish was that every woman should have easy access to affordable contraceptives.

This happened shortly before her death in 1966 when contraceptives were finally declared legal for married couples, and the long hoped for birth control pill became universally available. 

After watching her mother’s exhausted death, the dream of the stonecutter’s daughter became a reality for Maggie Higgins, arguably the most successful Irish-American.