February
2000 ac/dc by Todd Levin |
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Wild in
the Streets
I think the single greatest joy of my adult life
has to be my volunteer work with the Boys Club of America. On the third
Wednesday of each month, I host an after-school "fireside chat" at the
Spanish Harlem BCA center on Tony Orlando Boulevard. At these fireside
chats I have the complete attention of anywhere between two and seven
impoverished and desperate inner-city kids with whom I have license
to speak frankly about the issues that plague their daily existence.
These kids, who spend their childhoods never knowing when they might
get caught in the crossfire of a gang slaying or stuck in the revolving
door of the United States prison system, have at least one precious
guarantee in their lives: once a month, for 45 minutes, they know that
from the tattered carpet swatches that provide only marginal relief
from the ungiving concrete floor on which they're gathered they can
look up and, perched exactly 34 inches above the head of the tallest
child (as is stated in my contract) in an Aeron
adjustable work chair (voted "Design of the Decade" by Business
Week), they can stare into my warm, reassuring visage. And when
these kids look up, they see more than just another wealthy, tanned
Caucasian adult in a smoking jacket and Cole Haan loafers; they see
a friend.
From the summer of 1992, when I began my fireside chat program, I insisted
on avoiding any discussion of myself or my personal struggles. Aside
from sharing photographs of me and co-investors John Laroquette and
Jerry Lee (the scene-stealing German Shepherd star of K-9 and
K-911) at the ribbon-cutting for Planet Hollywood Warsaw, or
relating a particularly fantastic or perverse sexual encounter -- things
you simply can't keep to yourself -- I believed it was best to speak
as a caring authority and not a self-absorbed survivor. Last month all
of that changed. During some straight advice about when to and when
not to raise up when you spot the 5-0, Gilberto, a moon-faced 9 year-old
with a corrective shoe and a criminal record longer than his left leg,
inquired about a large tattoo arcing over my midriff that bears the
legend, "Kosher Death Squad". (It was warm and, probably owing to poor
judgment, I was wearing a crocheted halter top.) I could have lied to
him. I could have insisted it was birthmark. But how do you lie to kid
who's already limped his way through two armed robberies and one count
of impersonating an officer of the law? I did the responsible thing:
I rested my Caffe Verona on the head of Arcadio the Foolish (a fireside
chat regular since 1995 and a child who honestly needed prescription
medicine more than compassionate guidance but whose delightfully flat
head has been nothing less than a blessing for me over the years), braced
myself, and slowly told the rapt youngsters about my life as a member
of the B'Nai Brith Boyz.
Let me first say (although this hardly erases the crime) that I never
advanced beyond low-level thug, avoiding the brutality, danger and community
service responsibilities of higher-ranking street gang kingpins. And
I had no intention of ever mixing with such an extreme group of teenagers
in the first place. I was just another mixed-up kid whose mother wanted
him to have more Jewish friends. But nothing could have prepared me
for the paradise -- lavish Bar Mitzvahs, head of the line for kosher
lunches in the school cafeteria -- or the horror -- the tight-fitting
gang varsity jackets mended by one member's uncle -- that were the unshakable
baggage of being one of the
B'Nai Brith Boyz
.
There were 12 of us in the beginning and the first thing new inductees
had to do was memorize everyone else's gang name, a trick that was rendered
facile by the fact that each BBB gang member was already required to
wear a skull cap embroidered with his name. After 'memorizing' your
brothers' names you were given your own gang name - mine was "Stab",
given to me because that was already my actual middle name and therefore
easy to remember - and your first assignment as a BBB. The assignments
varied in risk and humiliation, and it was generally agreed that the
favored members were treated with deference when assignments were distributed.
For instance, another inductee, Yudel, was instructed to solve a pretty
rudimentary algebra problem. He nonetheless cracked under the pressure
and was never heard from again. Others would be asked to scan a Borges
poem. Or complete a Mad Lib. I was asked to run full speed into a cow's
ass.
After that it was pure gravy. Besides the uniforms and tattoos and
a couple of Chinese fire drills, being a BBB wasn't particularly exhilarating
or intimidating. We ate out a lot, attended comic book conventions,
and generally acted sullen. There were beatings, yes. But it was mostly
us being relentlessly thrashed by nearly every street gang in three
counties, and once by the Voorheesville High School chapter of the Future
Homemakers of America. (The FHA beating was particularly difficult,
as it occurred on Tub'shevat, a holiday we always associated with our
fearsome power and infamy.)
Like all things from my youth, my association with BBB proved fleeting.
Disregard for society's laws (stealing individual grapes from the local
supermarket's produce section) and reckless endangerment (wearing our
saddle shoes loosely tied, as was the style in those days) became stale
ideas as I prepared for my college entrance exams. And, in very much
the same way Alex and the droogs eventually grow out of their ultra-violent
youths, or a child outgrows his 'Little Slugger' windbreaker, I eventually
outgrew the juvenile hooliganism of the
B'Nai Brith Boyz
.
But to this day, I still celebrate that youth in my head, just as I
warn others against choosing the life I dared. And, even in adulthood,
as I read about rampant gang brutality across the globe, I find myself
becoming nostalgic for my days as a thug. In fact, I still attend the
BBB's annual bake sale. (each Tub'shevat, not coincidentally) Most of
the original members are gone, but some of their extended family remains,
collecting money for 50-50 raffles or shaking down senior citizens.
And although I keep my distance I do miss the original 12 BBB and I've
miraculously managed to keep all their names forever etched in the dust
of my memory: Avraham, Schmuel, DeeDee, Moishe, Benyamin, Sneezy, Blitzen,
Dr. Octopus, The Amazing Weatherbee, Hairless Omar, Schmuel 2, and the
guy who needed oral surgery.
Every time I look into the eyes of the
kids at the Boys Club, I see those guys from the BBB (although I have
to adjust and imagine guys who are much more pale and sickly, many of
them with asthma inhalers on a piece of twine around their necks). They're
long gone to me but I suppose they're also very much with me. I'm sure
we'll all meet again. I just hope heaven has a deli.
back to the junk drawer
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