The Grand Island Experience

Then, suddenly, and without warning, my parents told me one bright spring day that they were going to quit farming and move to Grand Island, a city of twenty thousand, fifty miles to the north. I was stunned. I had never been to Grand Island, and I had no idea that they had been planning such a move. I guess I should have known given the fact that the last of my older brothers was finally drafted into the Army and my father was no longer able to maintain the farm alone, but I wasn't. Maybe I didn't want to know. Strange, but I can no longer remember the details of that event. The year was 1946, and as I now reflect, the experience of moving from the farm to the city represents for me the first over-riding conflict within my life, a conflict I never did resolve until the obstacles set forth in my path were overcome. Why my parents decided to move to Grand Island, and not to a town closer to where they had lived all their lives is yet a partial mystery. They never did talk about their reasons to me. I suspect that it may have had something to do with my brother-in-law who also moved to Grand Island at the time, but it is not my business to judge my parents' motives. Except, their decision to move did, greatly, affect my life, and the whole experience of living in Grand Island for the next four years, nine months, is not an experience I would like to repeat. I can still remember how I felt, even after all these years. I didn't like the city, especially at first. The change was too abrupt. There was nothing in the city for me to identify with. Everything was different. Whereas before, our closest neighbor was beyond sight, we now lived sandwiched in between an endless row of houses on all sides. To make matters worse, no one around me seemed to think of talk about the things that were bothering me which, at the time, seemed to give rise to my already heightened sense of isolation. I can definitely understand the feelings and hardships of the North-American Indian or any other group of people who is suddenly uprooted from their environment and then transplanted into another. It must have been a flight into hell for the Indian to have had his total way of life destroyed by a bunch of mean, selfish, insensitive, savage bastards from Europe. But, it would appear, that we humans must all live in a sea of darkness at one time or another before we can scale the mountain of perfection—we just run around pretending that we don't. The road to Becoming, for sure, is a great mystery.

In a minute way, what happened to the Indian also happened to me. Of course, my experience of being uprooted at the age of eleven, and taken to a strange environment, is not meant to be placed on the same tragic level as the plight of the American Indian. I did recover; the Indian did not. Nevertheless, my Grand Island experience taught me to be considerate of other people's views, feelings, and background. In the short run, I must confess, it was quite another story. Like most, I didn't always react to my hurt feelings with a positive attitude; I fought back and rebelled at every opportunity to the best of my ability.

Because my parents were of Catholic faith, I was entered into a Catholic school. This may appear to be a contradiction of what I said earlier about my parents not forcing their beliefs about God or religion upon me, but it is not. There were other reasons. As it was, one of my brother-in-law's sisters was not only a nun, but she was also the Mother Superior of the Saint Joseph's Order, the same religious order as the school I attended. And, as luck would have it, one on my brother-in-law's other sisters was actively teaching some of the very classes I would be taking. But even with my family's ties to the school's leading authority, my first two years were a total disaster. For my first eight years of schooling I had been the only child in my class, and then to be suddenly thrown in with forty or fifty other classmates was beyond my understanding or emotional constitution. I can still feel and remember my first day at the new school. There I was, just barely settled in at my assigned desk when I heard the teacher call out my name. "James, would you come up here please, so I can introduce you to the rest of the class?" "Yes, Sister," I embarrassingly responded as I got up slowly to make my way to the front of the class. The next thing I heard, and I shall never forget, was the dear Sister saying: "Class, I would like all of you to welcome James to our school; James is a straight A student."

Well, from that moment on, and for the next two years, that would be the last "A" I would receive—in fact, I flunked nearly every subject. As I recall, during the first year, I received an almost perfect score of "F" in every class except music. And then, even after being forced to repeat the ninth grade over, I didn't do much better.

"How can this be?" I have asked myself, "how in the world was it possible for me to have been a straight A student for the first eight years in school and a total failure for the next two?" Obviously something was wrong in the equation. I don't remember being sick or even late for my classes. I can't imagine how a boy of eleven through thirteen could have been totally responsible for this oddity. There must have been extenuating circumstances. I don't believe that I was a total failure or an unruly misfit anymore than I believe that any child is totally responsible for his or her adolescent behavior. But sitting here today, in the present, trying to piece together the how's and why's of my personal development makes me realize how dependent and responsive we humans are to our environment. As I recall, prior to moving to Grand Island, I was an eager learner. I was not only interested in music, but in science as well. Moreover, I loved to build model airplanes, play with my chemistry set, and work on machinery. At the time, I was even enrolled in a National contest for young people interested in designing the car of the future—I won an award. Then how in the world could I have been so stupid as to have flunked my first two years in high school?

For one thing, the new school placed learning and purpose on an entirely different scale than I had previously known. Before I moved to the city, life for me had been basically non-judgmental. On the farm, I was given the freedom to learn. I didn't always learn or do something because I had to, but in the city it seemed to me—especially at first—that someone was always telling me what to do and how to act; then too, in the country I had time, but in the city I never seemed to have enough. Or said another way: in the country there was an absence of time, whereas in the city time was everywhere. Everything was measured by the clock—even learning. This was especially true at the new school. The whole scheme of things wasn't at all like that of the one-room school where life and learning had sort of flowed with the seasons. To make matters worse, everyone seemed to assume that things would take care of themselves and that I would simply adapt by observing others and by following orders. But it didn't work out that way. I had never been taught to follow the leader or to measure myself in relationship to others. (Interesting: to this day I am still lost in the competitive [predatorial] world.) For the most part, my parents had always given me the freedom to learn, and the how and the when was left up to me. Learning for me had always been predominantly a process of reflection rather than an external process, and, regardless of what others thought, for me, having inner peace constituted, and still does, my greatest satisfaction.

It was during this time that I became acquainted with the misfits of our society. Suddenly, without any preplanning on my part, my friends and fellow workers began to include the drunks and railroad bums. How this came about I no longer remember in any type of detailed order, but I do remember making friends with the school's leading "bully" shortly after my arrival. His name was Leo, and as fate would have it, we had an encounter on my very first day at the new school. As it happened, I was walking toward the school when I chanced to meet Leo and three or four other boys sitting on a brick wall bordering the walkway. Not knowing what to expect—and besides, I could see that they were all eyeing me very closely—I pretended not to notice their presence, but this was not to be.

"Hey, you! Where do you think you're going? I want to talk to you," I heard the biggest of the boys say just before I could walk past.

"I have to get to class; I don't want to be late," I responded as I continued on my way.

The next thing I knew, and before I could say "jack rabbit", the biggest of the boys was in front of me.

"I thought I told you I wanted to talk to you," he said in a commanding tone.

From then on, things happened so fast that it would be hard for anyone to tell what was happening, but I do recall saying a few rather offensive words just before he threw me on the ground. Actually, it wasn't much of a fight. Leo was not only larger than I, but he was also older by a good year and a half, which can make a big difference at the age of twelve.

Personally, I don't think that Leo ever meant to do me harm, or, for that matter, even have a fight that day because the moment he threw me on the ground, he let me up again. He wasn't all that bad of a boy. I am more inclined to believe that he got carried away with himself trying to prove himself in front of his friends. That is the way young people are; they quite often act out of impulse and emotion. Regardless, that was the beginning of our friendship. The whole affair just sort of happened, which makes one wonder sometimes about who or what is controlling the sequence of events in this existence. My life may have been quite different had it not been for my friendship with Leo. Who knows? I may have even developed a friendship with the more studious ones at that time instead of with those like Leo who never did graduate from High School. It almost makes one believe that there is an invisible alien force loose in the universe. How else is it possible that some people seem to have all the luck while others are forced to experience one pitfall after another from birth until death? But then, Leo may have been a God-send. It all depends on the outcome. Like the wise man said, "Out of the muck grows the lotus."

So how did one thing lead to another after my parents and I moved from the farm to the city? Everybody always said that I was such a good boy, that I had always been eager to get along with others, and that I had always shown signs of being gifted in certain areas—especially the humanities. My mother always said, "Don't worry about James, he'll be alright," and even after the Parish Priest came to our house to talk about my failing grades my mother insisted that I would be all right and that the Priest need not be concerned.

So why did I begin to flunk every class from day one at the new school? Frankly, I don't know, except, it would appear that I had reached a point in my life where conditions and events were so overwhelming that I was forced to develop a schizophrenic character in order to survive. As I recall, I didn't like being forced to live a lie. I would have been much happier in an environment where I could have been myself. I hated being inside all day confined to a desk. I couldn't wait until the day was over so that I could be physically active and breathe the open air—and as for the rest of the activities at the Catholic school during my first two years, they were for me almost unbearably boring. I sometimes think that high school has done more harm to the development of humanity's mental, emotional and spiritual well-being than any other institutional ritual we humans have constructed. What could be more socially discriminatory than to separate the various age groups from ne another? It is not natural. It is unrealistic, and to place a mass of teenagers together without the balancing factor of the other age groups is self-defeating; it teaches us from early on that we individuals are not a part of a unified whole, but rather a fragmented organism that must claw and fight its way toward the top to survive. (Obviously, the vast majority disagrees with what I have just said, but even they must admit that humanity has developed some grave social problems, and that by placing a few teachers in and amongst a mass of teenagers cannot possibly be sufficient to instill upon our youth the necessary social graces.)

There were two things at the Catholic school that did, however, greatly impress me which, to my knowledge, are not present here in the United States at any public school: the beautiful Cathedral, its art work, and the Church choir—they were a conscious as well as a subconscious inspiration for me.

Needless to say, it was during this interim period that I began to openly rebel against authority and my other classmates. You might say that I was rapidly becoming a bully like Leo, the school's senior bully. I began to fight and pick fights for no reason. It is hard to admit, but it would appear that I was a deeply troubled boy. I needed guidance, but as fate would once more have it, those who were to inhabit my social environs were equally at a loss in respect to my problems. But then, there wasn't a whole lot the nuns could have done about my mischief without changing the entire social structure; consequently, they continued to do what they did best: they unwaveringly practiced the art of patience and forgiveness, at which art, I must say, the nuns could excel beyond all others—and who knows, their patience and forgiveness may have taught me more in the long run than anything else they could have given me.

In the meantime, I gradually migrated toward making friends with the other boys who, like myself, were having either one problem or another trying to adjust to the rigor of formalized education; and, as fate would further have it, Leo was the leader of the pack—having flunked two grades himself before I entered the scene.

It was in the midst of this childhood drama that I began to hang out at Rockwell's Bowling Alley, as it was called. There was always a lot of activity going on which seemed to give me a sense of security and well-being. As it were, Rockwell's was one of the major gathering centers in the area. There was not only a large bowling alley at Rockwell's, but a pool hall, lunch counter, a large full service restaurant, and a large assortment of pinball machines spread throughout the center. Everyone working there appeared to have a meaningful purpose. I liked that, even if it was no more than to play pool or to throw a ten pound ball down a long wooden alley. I was fascinated by the amount of skill it took to play the games, which interestingly led me indirectly to my teenage occupation of setting pins at the bowling alley—the reason being, I needed the money to play the games. Leo taught me how to do both: play the games and how to set pins. He was very good at both, although he didn't like to set pins anymore than he had to. He would rather play pool and rack up the balls for his extra spending money, or, if he got lucky, play pool with some of the older men for money whenever he could find some newcomer who thought that he was just some green kid. As for me, I seemed to enjoy the hard work necessary to set pins. I don't know why because setting pins was the hardest work I had ever encountered. It was unbelievably strenuous. When I first started, I could only set the pins for the bowlers on one alley for two hours before every muscle and fiber in my body would begin to cry out in pain. But for that amount of work I received one dollar and five cents which, back in 1946, was a lot of money—especially for me. I could go to a movie, have a bag of popcorn, a candy bar, and still have enough money left over to play a game of pool.

Gradually, I became as hard as nails and as agile as a chimpanzee as I continued to find solace in my newfound occupation. ( I was twelve, in the ninth grade, and failing school, but for the moment I didn't seem to care.)

It was not long before I was not only able to work harder, but longer. I remember how pleased I was the first time I was able to set the pins on two alleys instead of on only one; for this accomplishment I was able to earn twice as much money in the same amount of time: a grand total of two dollars and ten cents for every two hours worked. And, then, it was not long after my first accomplishment of being able to set pins on two alleys at once that I was further able to extend my working day to four hours instead of two. I couldn't believe it; neither could my mother: I was now able to earn $4.20 for one night's work. I thought it was a fortune. And it was, especially for one born during the Depression who had never had more than fifty cents for his own before—that was more money than a lot of men were making at the time. Of course, older men could not withstand the physical strain of jumping in and out of the pits—picking up the pins—at breakneck speed. That is why were called "Pinboys" and not pinmen. The job was only ideally suited for boys between the ages of 12 through 16; but not for all boys, only those boys who had a special combination of need and desire—plus the necessary physical stamina and agility. I was one of those boys. (Note: in order for a pinboy to earn $4.20 in four hours he would have to, on average, pick up 6000 three and a half pound pins; 1000 ten pound balls; jump up and down 1000 times, in and out of the pit, and slam down a large mechanical device approximately 600 times—all in a period of four hours.)

Why I chose to work so hard when I didn't have to is not easy to explain in the present world. People don't seem to understand the joy of work as they did in my childhood; or , at least, they don't make it publicly known. I don't know what it is, but there is definitely something missing today that was once present. People used to be proud of their work, even if it were no more than to dig a ditch by hand or to wash dishes in the local café. The truth was, I really liked setting pins when I was a boy. But why, when my parents never told me that I had to get a job or help out with the expenses? Of course, I bought my own clothes, provided myself with spending money, and bought my own lunch at school, but I didn't have to, which to me is interesting. My parents would have provided me with the basics to the best of their ability...I am sure.

Then why did I work so hard at such a young age? Why didn't I simply follow the path of least resistance and do as other children in my class were doing at the time? Why did I have to rebel and set myself apart? For one thing, I got respect. Respect was the one thing I didn't feel when I first arrived at the new school. At Rockwell's, I felt like I was an integral part of the environment. I had responsibility. But at school, it seemed to me that I was nothing. Everything at the new school seemed to me so one-sided. No one in the new school seemed to respect my individuality or previous experience. Maybe that wasn't completely true, but that is the way I felt. Of course, I didn't think in terms of individuality or one-sidedness as a child. I only knew that the new school didn't make me feel like I was either needed or wanted. I didn't feel that way at Rockwell's Bowling Alley. Mr. Rockwell treated us kids with respect. He knew that he needed us, just like we needed him. He never raised his voice or showed any anger toward us, even when we horsed around or didn't show up for work which, at times, would place him in a very awkward position because he would have bowlers standing in line to play the game with no one to set the pins. I can see now, sitting here today, after the years have passed, and in clear view of what has transpired during the interim that working at Rockwell's afforded me a unique educational opportunity not afforded to those who were, in the world's eyes, more fortunate than I.

I can see now that my having to work at Rockwell's—in and about the misfits, the occasional homeless bum who would work a few hours in order to be able to buy himself a bottle of wine, and the kid who like myself would smoke and play pool—taught me some invaluable lessons about life, respect, and kindness.

Granted, it was a hard school, and having to take part in the misery and vice of the world in order to learn and pass the ultimate test I did not even vaguely understand until much later. But working side by side with Old Black, the only black man in Grand Island, gave me an opportunity to understand—and accept— the Oneness of all humanity.

At Rockwell's, Old Black received the same amount of respect as everyone else. We didn't call him Old Black out of disrespect. We called him Old Black because he was much older than the rest of us pinboys and because he was black, just like people called me Slim and the boy down the street Wild Hair. We never poked fun at Old Black because he had only one eye, or because he had lost half of his teeth in a drunken brawl, or because he was homeless and always in need of a drink—because he was our team mate; we set pins next to him. We worked together and we shared our sweat together. I recall he was a happy worker, especially when he had one too many nips out of his bottle. But he never bothered anyone, and, as long as he didn't make trouble, Mr. Rockwell could care less. Mr. Rockwell even let Old Black sleep in a small room in the back of the building so he wouldn't have to spend his hard-earned money on a room. Come to think of it, Old Black was probably getting his food free from the café as well, which meant that Old Black was doing pretty well economically, considering that his only expense was a cheap bottle of wine or a fifth of 100 proof whenever the need arose.

But this in itself does not reflect the total drama of that period: for, unlike those who were being consumed by their outer circumstances, there was a longing within my soul that began to bloom into a desire for truth and beauty. Corresponding to this period of unrest, I began to experience an unknown feeling toward music and self-awareness. For whatever reason, I began to be more interested in my internal process than the materialistic invention of society or others. Of course, I didn't think in these terms at the time. But now that I look back, I can see that I was, and had been, predominately conditioned to be reflective rather than outward bound. It was as though I was being awakened by something deep within. Gradually, music began to speak to me in a voice I could understand. This prompted me to ask my mother for a piano. She responded almost instantly with a simple and a resounding, "Yes, Jimmy! I think that is a wonderful idea."

I don't know where my mother got the money to buy me a piano because after my parents moved from the farm and bought their small house there was nothing left, and my father had to start all over at an age nearing sixty. Moreover, the only skill my father had was the ability to work at manual labor with love and patience. Even so, no one in my family ever said a negative word about my desire to play the piano. My father didn't, my mother didn't, brothers didn't, and my sisters didn't. They were all behind me one hundred percent. It was as if they were all saying,

"It is up to you James to express the love and longing within our hearts; we are unable." But isn't that the purpose of an artist: to express what others cannot; or the saint, to live what others dare not? But here, I make this last observation through hindsight and not as a child. As a child, I was not yet aware of life's labyrinth. For the most part, I was happy to live each day as if it were the first and last in my existence. I had very little fear of the past or future, which may have been part of the reason why I did so poorly during my first two years at the the Catholic school since what they taught was based largely upon a time frame outside my, then, present world. I was simply not interested in the study of Latin, Algebra, English, or Catholic theological thought at the time.

Music, on the other hand, was like a voice from heaven. It spoke to me in the present tense. It interrelated to my personal wants and desires. I loved the way it had to be constantly regenerated to live—it spoke to the here and now. Music seemed to always help me resolve, without fear, the conflicts between my inner and outer states of being. For me, music was a bridge between the seen and the unseen. It was the Art of the present, and paradoxically, it was the transitory nature of music that made it an ideal medium for my restless spirit.

If life ever gave us a gift, it must be music. I can think of no other element within this existence that has served us so unselfishly. The way I see it, the harmony found within vibration—as it relates to sound, hearing, and music—must be the Will of God because it constitutes the very structure of the universe. What could be more profound than to be a conscious participant in this wonder?

For me, music has always been an inspiration. It has uplifted my spirit when all else failed. It has rarely deceived me into believing that I am invincible or that my way is the only way. Quite the contrary, music helped me to develop a sensitivity toward all life as well as its Oneness.

I remember how inspired I was when I first began to play the piano. No one had to tell me to practice. Not once. Sometimes I would practice hours without ceasing. I even loved to play the scales, and I remembered being totally fascinated with the workings of my hands. Sometimes I would study the intricate movements of my arms, hands, and fingers in relationship to the keyboard for days in order that I might be able to play a musical passage to my liking.

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CONVERSATIONS

My Earliest Days

Recollections of WWII

Music Touches Me for the First Time

The Grand Island Experience

Individual and Collective Error

Pain - Notes