by Ingrid Croce
“One day I walked into class wearing a new suede coat,” Sal said. “So I asked my class if anyone knew where suedes came from. None of them knew. So I told them suedes were small rodents, like rats, that lived in the nearby Tinicum Swamp. I even took them on a field trip to the swamp. I had them wading through that polluted, murky water, searching for suedes.”
“Shit, Sal,” Jim said, shaking his head. “How many did you lose?”
“I can’t tell. Attendance is always low. But for weeks afterwards the kids would go by the swamp after school looking for suedes.” Sal laughed. “When they couldn’t find them, I told them the suedes were probably migrating.”
Although he had always shunned hard work, Jim was doing great juggling his jobs and still finding time to play music.
Each morning he rose early and brought me a cup of espresso in bed, just as his father had done for his mother. Then I made breakfast, and he took me to catch the train to Philadelphia for school. In between substitute teaching and radio work, he shopped and prepared elaborate dinners. He always made sure our evening meal was ready before he picked me up at the train station.
After dinner, Jim would play his guitar and light up a joint, a practice he’d begun at boot camp. I was uneasy with Jim’s indulgence.
“Don’t worry, Ing: smoking grass isn’t addictive,” he said. “It’s safer than drinking. Everybody does it.” I wasn’t convinced but let it go. While he played and we sang together, I washed the huge stacks of dishes, pots, and pans he had used preparing our meal.
As soon as he was discharged from the army, we resumed playing at the Riddle Paddock several nights a week, from 8 until midnight. Not only did Jim get the chance to try out new material, but we also began to develop our social life as a newly married couple.
By 1 or 2 in the morning, we’d crawl into bed exhausted.
Our house at 12 West Front Street soon became a gathering place for artists and musicians in the area. Friends came over to our place for home cooking and to listen or join in while Jim and I sang. Around that time, a young student who had met Jim at Villanova visited us to jam and play some of his new material. His name was Don McLean.
“Starry, Starry Night” and “American Pie” were among the acclaimed songs Don would later compose, but back then he was a young student seeking feedback and intelligent criticism. Jim became somewhat of a mentor to Don, who eagerly sought his approval.
Along with many other musicians, Don would drop by the house to jam, trade songs, and speculate on how to get an album deal. Some, like Don, were interested in making music their career but weren’t sure how to get started.
At the same time, I set up a gallery in our home called “The Hundred Little Pot Shop.” I constructed a window box to display one hundred miniature pots that demonstrated the different glazes and shapes of my pottery.
I also sold my paintings off the wall. Jim was creative with his hands too. On one wall hung unusual works of leather—“Little Uglies,” he called them—purses, wallets, and belts Jim had created. He wasn’t sure whether to be proud or embarrassed by their crude appearance and unsophisticated design.
When we could, we sold our work. What wasn’t sold would usually end up as a gift or an S for someone special to us.
Several afternoons a week, after class, Janice, age ten, and Kenny, now nine, walked over to our house. They attended a private Quaker school in the neighborhood and enjoyed visiting Jim, who sang for them and told stories of his most recent teaching escapades. Jim was their surrogate father and rarely put off seeing them, in spite of his heavy schedule. He felt he owed it to my dad, but he also truly loved them and wanted to help them get a good start in life.
During the summer of 1967, Jim and I accepted jobs at the Lighthouse, a camp for children who faced challenges: some came from disadvantaged homes, and some had disabilities.
Many of the campers came to Jim with rigid classical training and played music by rote. Some of them were close-minded to any music other than classical.
“I know they don’t play the guitar like this in the orchestra,” Jim would tell them, “but the guitar and the style of music I perform do have a great place in our history. Listen to this song by a man named Woody Guthrie. It’s called, ‘Click, Clack, Open Up the Door, Boys.’” He would start tapping his foot and deftly picking the strings. With a sly, funny grin he looked at each of the children until they smiled, and only then would he begin to sing.
In ceramics, I taught the campers to make coil pots and how to attach slabs of clay with slip. The pottery the children made was charming and very creative. They seemed to have a great experience and were proud of the work we displayed at the end of the summer. I was also thrilled to teach several young blind children who could see more with their hands than some sighted children did with their eyes.
In time, with perseverance and imagination, Jim managed to spark interest and get a laugh from even his most serious-minded kids. He prepared an act as a one-man band, adding more instruments and sounds as needed to impress and surprise his young students. Jim was determined to use his music to communicate. And by the end of the summer he felt he had been successful. Some of the campers asked if they could take private guitar lessons from Jim.
When camp was over, we were both asked to return as camp counselors for the following year.
In the fall, when I was a junior at Moore College of Art, Jim returned to teach at Palansky Junior High. Three days into the new school year he was offered a full-time job teaching special education.
“It’s no coup,” he told me. “Fourteen other teachers have quit this position within the first three days! The class is supposed to be uneducable. I don’t think the administrators expect me to last either.”
On his first day in class, only eighteen of the thirty students on the roster appeared.
Even though they were in junior high, most had flunked several times, and some of the seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds were well over six feet tall. Jim admitted to me that he was intimidated by them, but he knew he couldn’t show it.
“You wouldn’t believe it, Ing,” he said one evening over dinner at the end of his first couple weeks at school. “They need a referee, not a teacher, to handle these kids. Today, I tried to break up a fight between two of my girl students, Wanda and Joyce. Wanda is a promiscuous fifteen-year-old, and Joyce Elizabeth Taylor Carter-Potter-Brown must outweigh me by at least 150 pounds. She knocked me to the ground. Then Wanda, the little over-sexed one, comes and presses up against me sayin’, ‘Jim, I had me a black baby last year. How ’bout you makin’ me a white one this year?’
“I told her, ‘Be nice now, Wanda. You know I can’t do that. Besides, don’t I teach you to do your history and geography so you can go to high school next year? You don’t want another baby, do you, Wanda?’ and she pouted and strutted on her way.
“Then Joyce shoved me back against the wall, and said, ‘Well, fuck ya, then!’”
Later that month, a seventeen-year-old cross-dresser named Harold showed up at school wearing a dress, packing a pistol, and proclaiming he had come to “kill Mr. Croce.”
For more than a week, Harold had been promising Jim, “I’m gonna kill you, man,” but Jim hadn’t taken the threat seriously. Then one day, in a burst of violence, Harold tore down a thick wooden fire door to the entrance of the school, searching for his teacher. Jim was alone in his classroom, and over the loudspeaker he heard the principal saying, “Mr. Croce! Mr. Croce! Lock your door! Harold has a gun. He’s looking for you!”
Jim locked his door, but that afternoon when he met up with Sal to swap stories, he was still tense.
“They got Harold before he got me,” he said, after relating the whole incident to Sal. “In the first three weeks I’ve had my tires slashed five times and the driver’s door of my VW bashed in. My car has so many dents in it now, we call it the Raisin. Ing and I spray-painted it basket brown last week to kinda hide the dents, but I don’t know how long I can take t
his.”
_____
One morning, Jim put his guitar case in the car.
“Are you going to play at school?” I asked as I climbed in the passenger side.
“Yeah, I’m gonna try somethin’ new,” he said. “If I can get the kids to pay attention to the songs they like, maybe I can teach them to read. It’s worth a try.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said.
“Yeah,” Jim said laughing. “And next week I’m gonna give them a math lesson. Teach them long division. I’ll bring in Italian bread, salami, cheese, and peppers and see how long it takes them to make a sandwich. Then I’ll have them do the math, and if they figure it out, we’ll have a party.” Jim paused as he maneuvered the car through traffic.
“Did you know,” he continued, “according to my class, Camden and Willowgrove, New Jersey, were part of the thirteen original colonies? Ing, we’ve finally found people who know less about geography than you do.”
“Yeah,” I said grinning, “but just don’t teach them the way you taught me!”
We pulled into the parking lot of the train station. I gathered my books and portfolio and leaned over to kiss him good-bye.
“Keep up the good work. You’re doing a great job with those kids. Just don’t get killed while you’re doin’ it.”
“Well,” he said, before pulling away from the curb, “I think they’re liking me more now. Yesterday a kid named Maurice, who never really talked to me before, came up in the hall and asked, ‘Mr. Croce, who do you like better, your wife or your woman?’ I said, ‘Hey, wait a minute, Maurice, I’m a married man.’ He gave me a blank look. ‘I know you’re married,’ he said, ‘but all men have their women.’ And I told him, ‘Maurice, my wife is my woman.’ He shook his head in disappointment. ‘Jim,’ he told me, ‘it’s a mighty poor rat only got one hole.’ And the little guy strutted back down the hall.”
“That’s quite an education they’re giving you,” I laughed.
That morning in class, Jim handed out copies of sheet music to songs by the Drifters, the Supremes, and other Motown groups. Even though the students were functionally illiterate, they studied the pages with an interest he hadn’t seen before. The singing went well. One girl smiled shyly when she proudly proclaimed at the end of class that she could now spell “I love you, baby” and get every letter right.
That night Jim told me about his success with a new sense of enthusiasm. “I heard administration doesn’t like me bringing my guitar to school,” he said, “but they’re not saying a thing for fear I’ll quit. I hope next year something happens with our music before they fire me.”
_____
In the spring, I received a fellowship to study painting and ceramics for a semester anywhere in the world. Jim and I talked it over, and I chose San Miguel de Allende in southwestern Mexico. Its ceramics program had an excellent reputation, and Mexico was inexpensive. The $1,000 award seemed like a fortune to us. Based on the budget I put together, Jim would be able to join me for two months of the trip. I paid our bills, bought the plane tickets, registered at the school, and still had spending money left over for the trip.
Mexico excited me. I had never been outside the United States before. But I was unhappy that the art program began at the end of May, more than a month before Jim would be finished teaching. He was apprehensive about his bride traveling without him and being in Mexico alone for a month. I finally talked my closest friend, Deborah Warner, into accompanying me and insisted on buying her ticket.
The two of us flew to Acapulco for the weekend before classes started.
The day we arrived, we sat down at a juice stand near the beach and ordered a tropical fruit drink.
Two young Mexican men approached.
“Are you ladies from the United States?” the tallest one asked in good English. He wore a crisp blue shirt and cardigan sweater. “My name is Miguel. And yours?”
“I’m Deborah,” my friend replied. “And yes, we’re from the East Coast.”
“I’m Daniel,” the other man added, smiling broadly. “We’re students at the University of Mexico. Are you studying down here?” He, too, was also impeccably dressed and had a cute, boyish look.
“I’m here on a scholarship to study art for the summer,” I explained in Spanish. I had studied the language in high school and spoke well enough to make conversation.
“Bien!” Daniel replied. “You can practice your Spanish, and I’ll practice my English.”
“Hey, would you like to go and watch the cliff divers perform?” Miguel asked. “You won’t want to miss it if you’ve never seen them before.”
“Thanks for asking, but I’m married,” I said.
“That’s okay—this isn’t a date,” Daniel replied. “Just a little Mexican hospitality.”
“Well . . . I don’t know.” I looked away, embarrassed.
“Ah, come on!” both students pleaded.
Deb shrugged her shoulders.
“Why not?” she asked happily.
“Alright,” I agreed, naïvely. I liked the idea of a Mexican tradition, and I wanted to see and learn all I could about Mexico.
Both Deb and I enjoyed the divers’ precision and grace, and found our student escorts to be perfect gentlemen. On the way back to the hotel, we stopped at a seaside café for dinner.
“Wow, isn’t this beautiful,” I said as we got out of the car. “Look at that amazing sunset!” I wished Jim could be with me to share the romantic nightfall. The colors of the sky were magnificent, and Acapulco was a paradise.
The café was filled with American tourists and Mexican students, all fueled on rum and tequila.
“Try the specialty of the house,” Miguel suggested. “It’s rum, mango, and lime. You’ll love it!”
“Oh, I don’t drink,” I told him. But he insisted, and the beverage was so delicious I drank it quickly before our food arrived. I rarely drank liquor, and felt dizzy and sick right away. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I asked the hostess where the restroom was.
“Afuera,” the woman said, pointing outside. “Por alla.”
I walked several hundred feet out onto the beach. I felt queasy, but the cool night air helped me get my bearings. I used the toilet, splashed water on my face, and combed my hair. When I came out of the restroom and walked back across the beach toward the restaurant, before I knew what happened, someone grabbed my shoulders from behind and, overpowering me, threw me violently to the ground. With one hand, he covered my mouth, pinning my head. With the other, he yanked my skirt up to my waist, then fell over me from behind. All the breath was crushed out of my chest. He dropped his trousers and forcefully raped me. Gasping for breath, speechless and powerless, I was no match for his size and weight. Scrambling to his feet, he disappeared into the night.
I lay motionless, my heart and head throbbing. Terrified, I opened my mouth, trying to scream, but no sound came out. I forced myself to sit up and brushed the gritty sand off of my face, chest, and arms. Horror and anguish engulfed me. Oh God! I thought. I can’t believe this happened to me. I held my stomach. Tears rolled down my dirty cheeks. I thought of Jim and was suddenly filled with shame. Slowly I got to my feet and walked back to the restaurant. Still stunned, I headed inside, eager to just grab Deb and get back to the hotel.
Within a few feet of the table, I knew my assailant was sitting there. Daniel stared at me, forcing back a grin.
“Hey, what took you so long?” he asked.
I wanted to scream but felt paralyzed.
“Let’s go, Deb,” I managed to say. I wanted to heave in repulsion. Deborah sensed the urgency.
“Okay,” she said.
“Why so suddenly?” asked Miguel.
“They must need to get their beauty sleep.” Daniel laughed.
“We’ll call a taxi,” I said.
“No, come on,” Miguel insisted. “We’ll drive you back.” He got to his feet.
I leaned against Deborah.
“
What’s wrong?” she whispered. I couldn’t reply.
The students drove us back to our hotel and let us out. The minute I got to my room I bolted for the bathroom and threw up. Frightened and angry, I lay trembling on my bed.
I was furious this man had raped me and then acted so cavalier. At the same time I wondered if it wasn’t my fault. If we hadn’t gone to see the divers and then out for dinner with these students, it wouldn’t have happened, I told myself.
Finally, vacillating between feelings of rage and guilt, I fell asleep. I dreamed a dream that had haunted me ever since the court forced me at the age of eight to move from my father’s home to my mother and grandmother Mary’s apartment in Center City.
In the dream, I’m in an alley on Savoy Street, behind the Rittenhouse Claridge apartments, where we lived. It’s very dark and very late at night. Suddenly a man jumps out from the shadows and comes after me. I’m running away, and I try to scream, but no sound comes out, no matter how hard I try. I keep running and trying to get help, but I never get to the end of the dream without waking up—until that night in Mexico.
I woke up scratching myself all over my body and intuitively jumped out of bed. I looked over at Deborah, who was already on her way to the bathroom down the hall, saying that there were bedbugs everywhere. We ran to the showers, where we stayed the rest of the night, huddled on the hard floor.
My body was full of welts and scratch marks, but all I thought about, while lying there in the corner of the shower, was Jim. How could I ever explain this to my husband? I thought. I didn’t say a word about the attack to Deborah. And I was too ashamed and frightened to report the rape to the Mexican authorities.