The Man, something like nine to one Democratic.
This was preâMartin Luther King Jr. time and Adam Clayton Powell had the idea that he was The Man. Iâm sorry, he was the second-most powerful of African Americans. Bill was the most powerful of all straw bosses. As overseer of his people he won all sorts of pittances for them, while in the meantime serving Mr. Charlie very well indeed. He was in a sense the ideal overseer. The small favors offered to African American voters were more matters of gratuity than of gratitude.
Because of the sudden illness of an old acquaintance of mine, I was chosen to introduce Dawson to a liberal white middle-class audience. I remember the occasion well. I was in good form, and my debating experience and mastery of ambiguity released a flow of eloquent bushwa. Had Tom Paine heard himself so quoted, heâd have suffered a case of carbuncles far worse than those he did have.
Of course, I called upon the heritage of Frederick Douglass, Ida B. Wells, and Madame C.J. Walker. I introduced Bill Dawson shortly after mentioning the others. It was done so casually. Of course, the guest of honor, The Man, felt honored indeed. Said he to me, âSon, you should be in politics.â You see, Bill Dawson recognized a con artist immediately.
My ill friend, an active African American, was deeply appreciative. He actually convinced me I had done the right thing. What the right thing was, Iâm still trying to figure out. The fact is: I coulda been in Chicago politics. God, I coulda been a contender.
Â
Â
ONWARD AND UPWARD. There was a slight family split. A selling of the rooming house was in order. I accompanied my mother for a high school semester in New York. It was there that Meyer briefed
me for the first month Iâd missed at Morris High School in the Bronx. He was, hands down, the best teacher I ever had.
I remember one young teacher at Morris. His name was Bernard Drachman, a dead ringer for Robert Louis Stevenson. Tubercular; long, struggling mustache; and quite wonderful. I still remember a border ballad he taughtâSir Patrick Spens. Years later, as a disk jockey, I played a Burl Ives version. And damned if I didnât remember half the words.
But New York was not Chicago. I had become spoiled living in the archetypal American city. My father, medical advice or not, had to leave that bedside. He was in the menâs hotel with Ben, awaiting the kid. Annie, of course, was welcome, but heâd run the hotel, not she.
How will this one work out? I sure liked that name: The Wells-Grand. It was, to me, a melding of two cultures. I remember the Wells-Fargo from all the movie references. And of course that posh pre-Hitler Berlin hotel, the Grand.
5
Teachers of the Gilded Age
I havenât mentioned my four remarkable old teachers at the McKinley High School in Chicago. Some had begun teaching in the nineteenth century, during the Gilded Age. All four were Edwardian in style and demeanor. George W. Powles Jr., teacher since 1800-and-something. Pince-nez balanced delicately on nose, white mustache overflowing; his daily mantra: a cigarette was âa light at one end, a fool at the other.â He very much enjoyed my precise reading of Charles and Mary Lambâs Childrenâs Shakespeare. âOh, young sir, you could handle that Lady Macbeth all right. One day, Iâll boast that I taught Shakespeare to a young Sir Henry Irving.â I had no idea who Sir Henry was but obviously professor Powles put me in fast company.
Some of my fellow students were impish in natureâa few, members of the â42s, who were to the Mob what the Junior Chamber of Commerce members were to their elders. The â42s liked me because I always shoved my finished papers to my left while a certainâ42 member-in-good-standing was seated behind me. He moved his chair to the left. His vision was apparently 20â20 because heâd always wind up with an A, much to
This was preâMartin Luther King Jr. time and Adam Clayton Powell had the idea that he was The Man. Iâm sorry, he was the second-most powerful of African Americans. Bill was the most powerful of all straw bosses. As overseer of his people he won all sorts of pittances for them, while in the meantime serving Mr. Charlie very well indeed. He was in a sense the ideal overseer. The small favors offered to African American voters were more matters of gratuity than of gratitude.
Because of the sudden illness of an old acquaintance of mine, I was chosen to introduce Dawson to a liberal white middle-class audience. I remember the occasion well. I was in good form, and my debating experience and mastery of ambiguity released a flow of eloquent bushwa. Had Tom Paine heard himself so quoted, heâd have suffered a case of carbuncles far worse than those he did have.
Of course, I called upon the heritage of Frederick Douglass, Ida B. Wells, and Madame C.J. Walker. I introduced Bill Dawson shortly after mentioning the others. It was done so casually. Of course, the guest of honor, The Man, felt honored indeed. Said he to me, âSon, you should be in politics.â You see, Bill Dawson recognized a con artist immediately.
My ill friend, an active African American, was deeply appreciative. He actually convinced me I had done the right thing. What the right thing was, Iâm still trying to figure out. The fact is: I coulda been in Chicago politics. God, I coulda been a contender.
Â
Â
ONWARD AND UPWARD. There was a slight family split. A selling of the rooming house was in order. I accompanied my mother for a high school semester in New York. It was there that Meyer briefed
me for the first month Iâd missed at Morris High School in the Bronx. He was, hands down, the best teacher I ever had.
I remember one young teacher at Morris. His name was Bernard Drachman, a dead ringer for Robert Louis Stevenson. Tubercular; long, struggling mustache; and quite wonderful. I still remember a border ballad he taughtâSir Patrick Spens. Years later, as a disk jockey, I played a Burl Ives version. And damned if I didnât remember half the words.
But New York was not Chicago. I had become spoiled living in the archetypal American city. My father, medical advice or not, had to leave that bedside. He was in the menâs hotel with Ben, awaiting the kid. Annie, of course, was welcome, but heâd run the hotel, not she.
How will this one work out? I sure liked that name: The Wells-Grand. It was, to me, a melding of two cultures. I remember the Wells-Fargo from all the movie references. And of course that posh pre-Hitler Berlin hotel, the Grand.
5
Teachers of the Gilded Age
I havenât mentioned my four remarkable old teachers at the McKinley High School in Chicago. Some had begun teaching in the nineteenth century, during the Gilded Age. All four were Edwardian in style and demeanor. George W. Powles Jr., teacher since 1800-and-something. Pince-nez balanced delicately on nose, white mustache overflowing; his daily mantra: a cigarette was âa light at one end, a fool at the other.â He very much enjoyed my precise reading of Charles and Mary Lambâs Childrenâs Shakespeare. âOh, young sir, you could handle that Lady Macbeth all right. One day, Iâll boast that I taught Shakespeare to a young Sir Henry Irving.â I had no idea who Sir Henry was but obviously professor Powles put me in fast company.
Some of my fellow students were impish in natureâa few, members of the â42s, who were to the Mob what the Junior Chamber of Commerce members were to their elders. The â42s liked me because I always shoved my finished papers to my left while a certainâ42 member-in-good-standing was seated behind me. He moved his chair to the left. His vision was apparently 20â20 because heâd always wind up with an A, much to
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