Du, Wah Diddy - What's In a Name?

This story probably “tells” better than it reads, but for the sake of posterity; and any sociological implications it may contain; here goes; I was working for Anthem Corporation, an excavating company based just outside of Baltimore, as an Estimator in 1988, which is when this story occurs.

It was early Monday morning and we had the usual crowd of applicants for the positions we had advertised for in the Sunday papers. At that time, before the widespread use of computers, that’s how people found work, in the Want Ads. Consequently, Monday mornings brought all kinds of applicants for the work, the first step being to fill out a simple job application.

Now, this was no “literacy test” type of thing at all; it was simply a form asking for your name, address, and contact information, along with your last 2 employers and an emergency contact. Naturally, the first question was the applicant’s name. We never got past the first question before the “trouble” began.

Now, when I say “trouble”, I may be overstating the case a bit. “What we had here”, as the warden says in the film Cool Hand Luke, “was a failure to communicate.” To begin, we need to take a look at the time in which this story takes place.

In the late 1980’s and early 90’s there emerged a “Malcolm X” craze, in which millions of dollars of clothing stamped with the logo X were marketed to young African-Americans, some of whom; make that most of whom; had no idea of what Malcolm X stood for, or were under the impression that Malcolm died believing in the complete separation of the races. If you have read the book, or seen the film, then you know that this is completely false. At any rate, millions were made marketing hats, shirts and jackets emblazoned with the logo X. No quotation marks, no explanation, just the symbol of an angry young black male. This was the figure which now stood before me; an angry young black man; seeking work from “whitey”, “Mr. Charlie”, or what have you. And I’m a Jew from Brooklyn!

I said “Good morning”, and handed him the application, which he could not fill out. At that time it was customary for the Estimator to assist applicants who could not read or write. We were really only interested in your work history and your name. if you could do the job, you got the job. Period. But first I needed your name. So, we started on a narrative which I love to tell, because it underscores the type of polarization which destroys both sides of any division; even when that division is only held by one side of the argument.

“What’s your name?” I asked, beginning to fill out the application for him. He was a tall, thin African-American man; sinewy and muscular; just right for the position of “rodman” which requires the employee to move quickly with a measuring pole for the surveyors to take elevations. Those figures, in turn, tell the bulldozer operator, or excavator operator, to “cut”, or “fill” in each area of the job site in order to achieve an even plane. I told you this story “tells” better than it reads….

“Wa Du” came the answer, initiating a bizarre, but funny exchange. This is the part which makes Ed laugh;

“Wa Du?”  I asked, with an arched eyebrow like Chester Conklin.

“Yeah, that be what my people call me”, he said with apparent pride.

“Okay”, I said, “but what’s your name?”

“I done tole you, Wa Du”, he said with a bit of defiance in his voice.

“No”, I said, “You told me a nickname. To put you to work I need your legal name.”

“You mean my slave name?”

“Look man”, I said, noticing the X ball cap for the first time, “what does your mother call you?”

“She call me Du, like everyone else.”

Now I was in a real quandary, and getting a bit annoyed. “I need your full name. What’s your last name, Du or Wah? And if its Du, Wah, then is your middle name Diddy?”

“I goes by Wah Du. That’s the name I use” he replied.

“No”, I said, firmly, “I need the name on your birth certificate, the name your mother gave you when you were born. Do you have a Social Security Card?”

This he produced, quietly and without looking me in the eye. So, what was the name on the card? Donald James. And, I was suddenly struck, as I looked at the two “first” names on his Social Security Card, with the thought “Does it really matter?”

Uncle "I" - Talking a Walk

Somewhere there is a photo taken of Uncle “I” and me in front of 3619 Bedford Avenue in Brooklyn during the fall of 1958 or '59. He was teaching me to box. I was just about  4 years old at the time. The second Sputnik had recently been launched and he’d taken to calling me “Little Sputnik” as a way of showing his affection. I don’t know why; but I loved it from the moment he dubbed me with that strange sobriquet.

Now, fast forward almost exactly 10 years to my Bar Mitzvah in November 1967. That’s Uncle “I” and me in the photo above. I recently acquired the photos from my Bar Mitzvah along with some others, but this is my favorite one of them.

The Bar Mitzvah itself never really meant anything to me at the time. It wasn't until much later in life that I began to realize the richness of my own heritage and beliefs. But there was something which happened on that day which I never really fully grasped until I saw this picture; along with a few others; of my Uncle Irving with me on that special occasion.

Now, if you are at all close to me; or maybe even if you are not; you have heard me speak of Uncle “I”; which is how we addressed him; and know how important he was to me, and still is. I have never been to his grave. I was close to it when I visited my father’s grave in 2002, and it was even strongly suggested that I “pay my respects” while there. I couldn't do it.

You see, if I had seen the grave that day it would have been an affirmation that Uncle “I” had passed away. I’d seen him in the nursing home; a sad sight to be sure. I watched him waste away emotionally after he was betrayed by his sister; who was my grandmother at the time, a position she “lost” after the fact; so I knew he was dying. I was not present for his funeral because I was not told of it until afterward. I was running a bit too “wild” for my family at the time and so I was excluded from it. Inadvertently though, they had done me a favor, since; as a result of that exclusion; to me he has really never died. We still speak; quite often.

Now, let’s get back to the photograph. It was taken on Saturday November 5^th, 1967 in the foyer of my family’s apartment at 1310 Avenue R in Brooklyn just prior to my Bar Mitzvah ceremony. The weather was rainy and a bit raw, typical for Brooklyn in November. Everyone was getting ready to leave for the temple, which was located 2 blocks over and 3 blocks up from our place on Avenue R. I was supposed to ride with my parents, my brother and Uncle in the Pontiac Catalina we owned at the time. But, Irving wanted to walk. Moreover, he wanted me to walk with him. I eagerly acquiesced, as there was nothing I enjoyed more than being in his company.

We walked as Uncle “I” always walked; not fast; not slow. It was just the right speed for talking and I have often described these times with him as “talking a walk.”  And this one was one of the best ever. Uncle “I” told lots of stories; some true, others not so much. This was the reason behind the slightly derisive Uncle “I”; which sounded just like Uncle “Lie”. He knew we took his stories with a grain of non-truth, but he also knew that I loved them all the more, regardless.

But this “talk a walk” was different. Uncle “I” was very moved that evening of my Bar Mitzvah. He had no children of his own to deposit his memories with, and I was the depository that night, and it was a wonderful treat which I have held close for 46 years. He told me about his own Bar Mitzvah in 1908.

Now Uncle “I” rarely spoke of his childhood. His stories were mostly confined to his “glory days” playing ball on the school team, and various other heroics which could never be verified. But this was different. This was real. And there was no need to even stretch the truth slightly, as I was in rapt attention, struggling to hear every word against the sound of the wind as we walked, bent into it.

I was afraid of losing his words as they were carried away on the stiff breeze, and so I watched him as he formed each sentence, fumbling a bit for the words before he began each sentence. He was reaching back in time to a place only he could see but wanted to share and I was intent on capturing this moment.

His Bar Mitzvah was, as he told me, somewhat different than mine would be. His family; a brother named Nathan and a sister named Dorothy; who was my maternal grandmother; were raised by his parents; Max and Rebecca on the lower East Side, where they had settled early in the 1900’s after having lived in Vineland, New Jersey for a while. Originally they had lived in Philadelphia for a short spell after they arrived from the old country.

By 1907 my great grandfather owned his own livery stable and there was enough money for a modest celebration of my Uncle’s entry into manhood. He was ushered into the faith at the old temple, which I believe was on Rivington Street, and afterward the family repaired; with a few friends; back to their apartment for a “nosh” in celebration. He received a $1 watch and a fountain pen as gifts to mark his transition from childhood. That’s it; a watch and a pen. The watch would keep him punctual, and the pen was the first of the many which would be instrumental in his making a living in the garment industry for the rest of his life.

Arriving at the shul, Uncle “I” turned to me and said, “So now I don’t get to call you Little Sputnik anymore, do I?” And then he did something he never did before; or after; that night. He said, “I love you, Robert” and looked away. I looked directly at him and replied, “I love you, too Uncle “I”. We hugged, and then we entered the shul, where people were already waiting.

The Rabbi did his thing; and I did mine; at which point he pronounced me a “man”. That poor misguided creature. Even with all of his wisdom he could not have known that Uncle “I” had performed that function not 15 minutes earlier; right outside of the shul.

Baffled

At one time I possessed 4, or more, different, and current pieces of United States Government issued identification cards/documents. Foolishly, I used to carry them all with me, sometimes using one, or more, of the documents to bluff my way past security in order to gain entrance to places I should not have been, or obtain some extra assistance when necessary. I always found that, for the most part, the old adage “If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, then baffle them with bullshit”, worked well for me. 

At the time of this story I was carrying a valid US Passport, which identified me as a tourist. I also had a black Dept. of Defense identification card, which identified me as a civilian crew member aboard an American military vessel.

In addition to that I always carried my pink Armed Forces Reserve Identification Card, which stated that I was on Inactive Duty with the United States Navy.

And, as if this wasn't quite enough, I also presented my United States Coast Guard "Z" Card, which made me a Merchant Marine serving as an Able Bodied Seaman.

I also had with me my newly issued United States Coast Guard Third Mate's License, a document which identified me as an Officer and allowed me to operate vessels of any size in any waters. To be blunt, I was a walking enigma.

Now no plan; however well-conceived; works indefinitely, there must come a time when something, or someone,  comes along to block your path. Both of these forces came to play one night in Rota, Spain; across the bay from Cadiz; when I tried to enter the Naval Base. 

Dressed; as I was; in civilian clothes, with long hair to boot, I did not look like I belonged on any military base anywhere. Accordingly, the guard, who only spoke Spanish, motioned for me to produce my Identification. So, I decided to just overwhelm him with all of these official documents. 

Well, I did, and it worked. As a matter of fact, he was so overwhelmed that I was immediately arrested on suspicion of espionage due to the conflicting nature of the documents I was carrying. It was hard for the authorities on duty at the time to grasp that I was a civilian, who was also in the United States Navy Reserve, working for the Department of Defense as a Merchant Marine; as both a Seaman and an Officer; while in possession of a passport that said I was a tourist who had not even bothered to have it validated when I entered their country; begging the question of how I got there and just who the hell I really was.

It was hours later; when the whole thing got sorted out; that I remember being back aboard ship in my stateroom thinking, "Man, I really showed them..."

Rooftop - Views From the Top

I used to live around the corner from the Washington Monument in Baltimore, Maryland and the park which surrounds it. Sitting on a circular plot surrounded by the Peabody Conservatory on one corner; and the old Methodist Church on another; across from the Walther’s Art Gallery; this was the centerpiece of uptown Baltimore, which is less than a mile inland; or north; of the Harborplace.

Living in this area was a pure delight. There are many fine restaurants and stores, and housing is fairly reasonable. I used to have a furnished room in an old boarding house on Cathedral Street, simply because I had never lived that way before; with a toilet down the hall. It was different, and I’m glad to have had the experience. It was kind of like living in the Old West.

I must have lived in that neighborhood; on and off; for several years and never got to climb the monument. But a few years after I was married Sue and I returned to the neighborhood with our daughter Sarah, who was about 3 at the time, and decided to climb it. And I’m glad we did, as I could never make that climb again today!

I carried Sarah most of the way up while Sue took the great photo which appears as my masthead. It’s one of my favorite photos and hangs by my bed. These other photos were also taken by Sue at various stages on the way up. And she has her own version of this story, so I’ll let her tell you about it in her own words.

“Robert and I love to visit historical sites and this day we were going to the climb the Washington Monument in Baltimore. Being young and fit, I couldn't imagine that I would pay for this excursion physically for a week. As I approached the inside, I saw a circular stairway going straight up and we began the climb. I started holding Sarah and quickly handed her over to Robert. 

Within a few circles going up I could feel this was going to be a challenge. I had to slow down my pace as I was feeling dizzy but that was going to be the least of my worries. About a quarter of the way, the back of my legs were starting to ache. I didn't understand as I am a walker and often took long walks; holding children as I did so. My friend Betty and I would walk up the hills of ‘Keswick’ during our lunch hour at work and I walked in the evening to wind down from the day. 

We lived in a house with stairs and I took the stairs at work. Why were my legs aching? I continued the climb, each small circle going higher and higher I had to push myself to make it to the top. I was no help with Sarah, Robert had to carry her the whole way, I barley was carrying myself. The view from the top was breathtaking, it was a beautiful day and I was able to take some great pictures. 

While we standing there together looking out, I told Robert that I had to remember this view as I was sure I would never be able to ever make this climb again. Down we went, same circular route, and the trip down only added to make the ache into pain. At home with Motrin and rest, I was sure this would pass. 

No – a whole week of heating pads, ice, pain kills and I could still barley walk. I managed to get to work but had to use the elevator and hold on to the railings and walls to propel myself forward.  I've seen a few circular stairways since this torturous trip up the monument but I stay below and remember that I got some great photos but at what price. : )”

Uncle I and the Fat Man (1960)

If you are expecting anything remotely resembling a plot in the following narrative, then you have come to the wrong place. And, if you are expecting any sort of moral preaching, or political correctness, concerning the circus; and the Fat Man in particular; once again you will be disappointed, as this is just a memory from April 1960, when I was not yet 6 years old and Uncle “I” took me to the circus with my brother.

I have no illustration to post with this. Uncle I never had a camera as far as I know, and though he literally spent hundreds of days with my brother and I, there is not a single photo of us from any of these outings. But the mind’s eye is the best camera of them all, and the images of Uncle Irving are still sharp and clear; especially when I think of the story about his encounter with the Fat Man.

If I was 5 and a half, then my brother was 7, and Uncle I was somewhere around 65; his age changed with the document you were looking at. Uncle I was about 160 pounds and maybe 5 foot 7 inches tall at the most. He was no scarecrow; but neither was he a match for the Fat Man.

Now, in those bygone days before the politically correct crowd got going, there was a side show at the circus which was nothing like what you might see today. There were still remnants of the old Freak Show about it and Uncle I simply followed the crowd as we herded into the old Madison Square Garden for the show.

We soon broke away from that horde of crushed humanity and found ourselves in an open area not quite behind the stands, but definitely not an area usually open to the public. Uncle I was particularly adept at this sort of thing. Since he knew just about everybody everywhere we went anyway, we were greeted with friendly hellos wherever we went. I remember this day he introduced us to several people, with my Uncle saying, “These are my niece’s children”, with definite pride in his voice.

There were a few other people milling about, seemingly concentrated in one area. We approached that scene and made our way up front where the Fat Man had his trailer. This area must have been underneath the seating area, and it was arranged with trailers that served as living quarters for the people who comprised the acts which made up the circus. How odd it must have been for these people to live “indoors” as it were, rather than outside, which was the usual way the circus set up outside of the city.

The Fat Man was standing outside of his trailer and; accompanied by a man I assumed to be his manager; was fielding questions. "How much do you eat for breakfast"; "what do you weigh"; and assorted queries of the like, were being hurled at him faster than spitballs. To his credit he answered every one of them with a gentle voice which belied his size.

The crowd was beginning to leave and Uncle I took us right up to the big man and was introducing us when the Fat Man turned around and stepped forward, his foot landing squarely against my Uncle’s shin and then traveling downward until all 750 pounds of him were resting on my Uncle’s foot.

Uncle Irving never screamed; didn't even yell in pain. He just quietly told the Fat Man that he was standing on his foot and could he please remove the extra weight as he was with his nephews. The Fat Man looked terribly pained and apologized profusely to my Uncle for hurting him. Then he did something that has never left my memory; he asked Uncle I how much he weighed; which is probably why I know that figure so well. When my uncle told him, the poor man felt even worse.

We saw the rest of the circus with Uncle I frequently checking his increasingly swelling ankle. By the time we were headed home he was limply noticeably. Still, he refused to show any sign of the pain and discomfort he was surely in. Instead he made repeated jokes about the whole incident and even told strangers on the subway that he had just come from Madison Square Garden, where the Fat Man had stepped on his foot. He even showed off his wound; more than once; to other, admiring passengers. I think he was actually proud of it!

Looking back on the whole thing now makes me smile. But, even if there is no lesson here for you, I learned several lessons that day from both my Uncle and the Fat Man. From the former I learned to accept discomfort, accept your limitations with pride, and even joke about them. From the latter I learned humility, which the Fat Man showed by being truly concerned about what he had accidentally done to a much smaller human being.

A Mother's Nose / A Mother Knows

My Mom was really very sly. Oh, she had the sweet Mother thing down pat, but she was shrewd. I like to tell this story about her and me;

I used to visit my Mom in the hospital. Whenever I was in town I would go to see her. I have always been a smoker of the left handed persuasion and this was an issue between us. So before I would visit her I would eat something, or have a mint or swish mouthwash. Then I would walk into her room and bend over to kiss her. The result was always the same. She would ask me why I was still smoking. I would ask her what makes you think I still smoke. She would always answer the same way- “A Mother always knows.”

About a month before she passed away I went to see her at home. It was very clear that she was going fast and this might be the last time I would see her. I went through the usual routine of mints and gum etc. Then I walked up to her bed, bent down and kissed her. I got the same result as always, “When are you going to quit smoking?”

Looking at her laying there dying I had to know the answer to a question that had bothered me for several years, How did she know? So I asked her, “Mom, how do you know I’ve been smoking? Every time I see you I try to cover it up- but you know! And I’ve got to have an answer- how do you know?”

She looked at me with amusement in her dying eyes as she answered, “It’s in your beard.”

The Sanko Prestige Meets the USS Milwaukee

On the night of January 3rd, 1980 the USS Milwaukee was berthed at the Destroyer and Submarine Piers in Norfolk, Virginia. The Sanko Prestige, a Malaysian flagged oil tanker, lost steerage in the channel of the James River and hit the Milwaukee. Her bow struck our port quarter abaft of the beam. That's a fancy way of saying the left side and rear. It was also where I slept!

The berthing quarters below mine were for the Deck Departments 1st Division and it was wiped out. So were the Chiefs Quarters.

I had been out on liberty with Dennis Langlands and Ron Tabb and we were just coming down the pier when the Sanko Prestige hit. We raced to the bridge, where we proceeded to make preparations to be towed to an anchorage should the need arise. With 7 million gallons of fuel we needed to be as far from the shore as possible should there be a fire aboard.

In the engine room men were attempting to get boilers on line from "cold iron." This usually takes 12 hours. They were on it in minutes! When Captain Page arrived 20 minutes later from his home in Virginia Beach the ship was ready to answer all orders.

Here is what Mike Metcalfe of E-Division has to say about that night- "I had just gotten aboard after Xmas leave. We made a McDonalds run. I was drinking my shake when this Crazy chief came running into Eng. berthing and told us all to run for our lives!!! We all laughed until the Collission alarm sounded...one of the scariest 5 minutes of my life...and then the relief...when you realized the 7and 1/2 million gallons of fuel we were sitting on didn't blow. That crazy Chief saved a bunch of lives that night. Some of the guys were in their racks, and when it was over...their racks were outside the ship. It all didn't happen the way the papers said, but we were back to sea after a month in Newport News shipyard. They did however miss a giant dent on the starboard side where the ship hit the Pier, and cracked it too. (right through the shore power disconnects.) NAVY...it sure did have it's moments."
Mike Metcalfe, EM2, E-Div, STREAM Div. 78-82

The night was hectic and trying- but the whole crew pulled together and did what they were trained to do. It was a moment of immense pride for a hard working crew. And you know what? It worked. And in 4 weeks we would be back at sea refueling the fleet and battling a major storm. Man, I loved that ship!