by Nile Rodgers
As religious as Lenora was, Mom was just as devoted to a science-based belief system. She had dropped out of school in junior high school but compensated by using whatever she had learned to the fullest. Though she idolized Lenora and listened and learned about men and survival, she had no use for Lenora’s belief in the supernatural. It made for a fairly entertaining mix for a little kid.
Things weren’t so bad at first, but over time, Lenora’s nonstop religious lessons grew more frightening the more she tried to compete with my mother’s cold atheism for dominion over my heart and soul. Like the nuns I’d soon meet in my new school, she tried to connect spirituality to everything. She always told me God was everywhere and always watching me. So many things that I had heretofore thought were fun now had dire consequences.
I can still remember what went down as one of the most confusing days in my life: my First Holy Communion. After confession, a ritual I thought I’d aced, Lenora asked, “Did you tell the priest that you had been playing cards?”
“What?” I said.
Could this be a real question? It felt like this was the West Indian Inquisition. I had no idea what to say. So I decided, for the first time in my life, to lie. “Yes,” I said sheepishly. She put a little spit on her hankie and wiped some sort of smudge off my face.
“Good boy, Junior,” she said.
THE AUTUMN AFTER I returned from Milbank, Lenora saw to it that I was enrolled in St. Pius V, the best parochial school in our very poor district of the South Bronx. To get into St. Pius, I had to take a reading test to prove I could keep up with the class. They gave me what was called back then a “first-grade reader.” “See Dick run. See Jane run. Run, Jane, run. Run, Dick, run …”—that sort of stuff.
Since I’d already learned to read that same book at Milbank, I recited it effortlessly, the words rolling out of my mouth as easily as I could make a Duncan yo-yo “sleep” or “rock the cradle.” (Not only could I read, I also happened to be the block’s yo-yo and spinning-top champ, another one of many benefits from my extended stay in Milbank.)
Sister Ann-Marie seemed startled. She gave me a second-grade reader. It was basically the same stuff with a few “bigger” words, like “funny” and “jump.” I aced this test, too. It wasn’t until I got to the eighth-grade reader that I started to stumble on unfamiliar polysyllabic words. But by then I’d made an impression.
“This child is a miracle,” one of the sisters cried. “He’s been touched by the hand of God!”
I’d never felt so loved and accepted in my whole short life.
There was only one problem: My atheist mother quickly dismissed anything of the sort. All she wanted was to get me into school and get out of there as quickly as possible. She seemed disinterested in hearing any praise.
I started thinking that the albino woman was my real mother, and that Beverly had stolen me.
ON SEPTEMBER 28, 1958, my mother gave birth to my first little brother. He was named Graham, after his father, but we called him Bunchy. I told the nuns how happy I was about having a little brother. Sister Ann-Marie was less pleased, since my mother had no plans to baptize him.
“When he dies, he is going to hell for eternity,” she told me.
The concept of eternity was completely overwhelming. I cried for weeks in bed at night, but dared not mention it to my atheist mother.
As I tried to comprehend my brother’s inevitable fate, I’d sing myself awake, reassuring myself that no one could kill me because I never let my guard down by falling asleep—except when I was on the subway, where I slept peacefully. Poor inner-city kids took public transportation to school. The first time I took the train by myself, I fell asleep so quickly that I missed my stop. The same thing happened on the trip back. Now I could sleep anytime at all—as long as I was on a train. But I was very young and couldn’t come up with many plausible reasons to ride the train at night.
Meanwhile, I began daydreaming during my waking hours. I loved fantasizing about wild adventures complete with the musical underscore during class. My first report card read “Nile is a bright student, but doesn’t pay attention in class and doesn’t play well with others.”
Were they crazy? I played well with others—lots of others! They were just mostly in my head—but play we did.
MEANWHILE, BEVERLY HAD DEVELOPED an extremely acute case of postpartum depression and was literally contemplating killing my little brother Bunchy every morning. For a few months she adopted a bizarre daily ritual: She’d prepare two sack lunches, slam a large butcher knife down in the center of the table, make a phone call, hang up, and say, “Take care of your brother, because if he doesn’t stop crying I’m going to bash his head in.”
She’d literally lock us in the apartment and leave. By the time she returned, I’d have eaten my sandwiches, given my brother his bottles, and changed his diapers. We stayed out of sight in the bedroom, watching TV. Our electronic babysitter did an exceptional job. My little brother and I were as well behaved as two kids ever were—well, that is except for his constant crying. It was as if he knew his short life was in jeopardy, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t leave this world without making some noise first.
In fairness to Mom, by now she’d had three coat-hanger abortions that had resulted in two very-near-death experiences. She’d had another child snatched away from her as soon as he was born—me. It’s easy to understand why she’d developed such a complicated psychological relationship to pregnancy and childbirth, aside from whatever hormonal swings she was suffering. Bunchy’s father never wanted children and he was not very involved in his young son’s life. Most of Beverly’s support came from Goodie and me. She could have snapped any day. This went on for a few months until a psychiatrist convinced my mother that she was not emotionally fit to take care of children.
Which meant Bunchy was sent to Graham’s mother in the Bronx, and I went by Greyhound bus with Goodie, to live some three thousand miles away, in sunny Los Angeles, California.
(Illustration credit 2.2)
three
Go West, Young Boy
WHEN THE GREYHOUND FIRST PULLED INTO THE EAST SEVENTH Street Terminal in Los Angeles, I did a double take. Had we come full circle? Downtown L.A. felt just like midtown New York, where our journey had originated days before. It was as if I’d just awakened from a cross-country dream and found myself in the same place I’d started. Even the summertime temperature was the same.
I’d soon learn that the bus station that welcomed us to L.A. was in a section of town called Skid Row. No wonder it felt so much like home: It was cramped, smoggy, and teeming with the same urban detritus—bums, hookers, runaways, cabs, newspaper boys, policemen, buses, and screaming fire engines—I knew so well from New York. There was the same ratio of derelicts to working people as in the Port Authority bus terminal we’d just left behind.
But that was where the similarity to New York ended. Instead of subways, my new town had trolleys, which they called streetcars. The Puerto Rican culture I knew so well back home had been swapped out for Mexican. The streets had south-of-the-border names like “Alameda,” “Santa Fe,” “Olvera,” and “Figueroa.” Taco stands were on every other corner.
En route to the house we’d be staying in until we got our own place, I saw highway signs directing motorists to destinations like San Pedro, Santa Monica, and Santa Ana. I’d read about Santa Anna fighting against Davy Crockett. He’d been portrayed as an enemy of the United States in school when I was back in New York. Out here they’d named a city after him. Now, that’s impressive, I remember thinking. Out here they name streets and cities after bad guys too!
Goodie and I would have a helping hand in our strange new environment. My grandma Lenora had also come west, a few months before us. Back home, her husband, Leroy Rodgers, my biological father’s dad, was terminally ill, and the Jack Frost Sugar Company, where they both worked, expected her to pay back the money they were spending on his hospital bills. Instead of paying, Lenora skipped
town with her new boyfriend, Walter James Adams, aka Bill, aka Pretty Bill, who happened to be a master tailor—and convicted murderer. Lenora changed her surname back to her maiden name, Clare, and dropped off Jack Frost’s radar with her life savings intact. She sent Leroy extra money under the table until he died. Had she paid his employers back, it would have bankrupted her.
Lenora was thrilled that Goodie and I were joining her on the West Coast. Bill was less than pleased, but he knew it made Lenora happy. And happy is the only way you’d want Lenora to be if you had to deal with her. Trust me.
Lenora wasted no time laying down her rules to me. Without the intervention of my mother, her missionary work on me was going to be a lot easier. She made it clear I was going to continue attending Catholic school, just as soon as Goodie got settled.
WE FOUND AN APARTMENT in a housing court. All the units faced a common yard filled with lush foliage like apricot and avocado trees, tropical cacti, and bushes filled with wildflowers and berries. Everybody could see the comings and goings of everybody else.
St. Cecilia (named after the patron saint of musicians) was the local Catholic primary school in our district. When I checked into school, I’d be going into the second grade, and yet again, I’d be checking in late. They didn’t roll out the welcome mat for me the way they had on my first day of school in the Bronx. No, these were not the same loving nuns who were so impressed with my precocious reading skills. Actually, they were pretty cross with my grandmother and me for checking in at such a late date. The head of admissions pounced on Goodie when she sensed her docile nature.
“I don’t think we can accept this child here,” the headmistress said. “You don’t have his records and he’s not even your son!”
I’ll never forget that. Nobody was more aware of the fact that Goodie wasn’t my mother than I. In the end it was Lenora who got me admitted. Beyond being a raging bull, Lenora was in very good stead with the Roman Catholic community. So she worked her black magic and got me in. Still, they didn’t want me there, and I didn’t want to be there.
Our housing court was on the corner of Budlong and Vernon avenues, in the Exposition Park area of Los Angeles. It bordered a nicer area called the Historic West Adams District. Compared to the West Adams District’s houses, where most of my new fellow students came from, our place was bleak. It was one story high and made of adobe-colored stucco. There wasn’t a designated play area, and no other kids lived there. The West Adams District’s houses were grand and palatial in comparison. Their gardens were all beautifully manicured; during Christmas season, cars would drive through the neighborhood to see the magnificently displayed lights.
I don’t have a single fond memory of my L.A. Catholic school classmates. I only remember feeling unhappy and receiving more punishment than the other kids, most of which came from the standard parochial school playbook: ruler slaps on the palms or knuckles, standing with your arms outstretched mimicking Jesus on the cross with books in your upturned hands, or worst of all, swats. These were administered with a handball paddle or a cricket bat, and delivered by a teacher with a full-on Babe Ruth swing.
I acted out and was sent to a classroom for older kids as a punishment. Instead of learning with kids my own age, I was sitting in a corner, or standing in front of the class holding books, and occasionally wearing a conic dunce hat. I hated it. One night I saw a film called I Accuse, the story of Jewish military captain Alfred Dreyfus, who was wrongly convicted of treason. I projected his story onto mine as the explanation for my misery.
I started to role-play even more, daydreaming, fantasizing, and scoring it in my head almost all day long. I pretended the nuns had convicted me of something that I didn’t do. I imagined that St. Cecilia was Devil’s Island and I had to escape. The school continued to dole out cruel and unusual punishment, but I kept thinking about how I was going to break out, which certainly made things at lot more fun.
One day I decided to stop plotting and act. My action plan was as complicated as D-day, but I had every detail worked out: Every morning, Goodie and I left home together and walked to the bus stop. Goodie worked for Lenora, who had a small business cleaning homes and offices. Normally, she’d wait there and I’d go west toward Normandie Avenue to school. Today, however, I sat with her until her bus came and then sent her off. “Junior, why aren’t you going to school?” she asked in her trusting voice.
“I am going,” I lied, “but they changed the time our classes start, and I don’t have to be there until nine-thirty.”
Goodie, of course, believed me. She didn’t think I was capable of lying. She was happy just to sit with me at the bus stop.
I waited until she boarded the bus and watched it rumble out of sight. Then I fished out my key, turned around, and headed back inside our apartment. It was that easy. I skipped to the kitchen, filled a pot with milk, and brought it to a simmer. I measured two heaping tablespoons of Nestlé’s Quik chocolate powder into a giant glass and poured in the warm milk. Then I turned on the TV, adjusted the rabbit ears antennas to get the picture sharp, and kicked back like Dean Martin with a cocoa martini. I watched in a trance until there was nothing good on. Around 10 a.m. I went outside to play by myself.
I was running through the bushes with my tree-branch spear and reciting dialogue from Tarzan when a man emerged from the apartment across from ours. He really caught me off guard—I hadn’t planned on running into anyone. I thought every adult started work around the same time as Goodie did.
“Hey, kid,” he said. “Whatcha doin? You live around here?”
“Yes, sir, right over there,” I said, cautiously pointing to the rear apartment. “My name is Gregory.” (I always used my middle name to try and fit in with the other kids; at the time the name Nile only generated dirty African river jokes.)
“How come you not in school?” the man asked.
“I go to Catholic school, and we don’t have regular hours,” I said in my polished “New York” accent. Then I confidently asked: “Where do you live, and what do you do, sir?”
“I live here and I’m on the county.” I had no idea what that meant. “On the county?” It sounded official, like he was an FBI agent or a cop. Thinking I was busted, I tried to flatter him, and said, “You’re probably important doing that, sir?” He burst out laughing. “Yeah, I’m important,” he said with a laugh. “I sit around here all day, and don’t go nowhere. I’m just headed over there to get me a little taste.” Finally! Here was something I recognized and understood. I knew what “a little taste” was. In the end I’d find out he was a wino named Ernest, living on welfare (“the county”). After our little chat, he waved bye and sauntered across the street to the liquor store. I wasn’t in trouble but decided our house was safer.
Back in the apartment, I watched Lucille Ball, Loretta Young, Father Knows Best, and other reruns the rest of that day. This was amazing. It was much better than school. And if you asked me, I’d say I learned a hell of a lot more from the TV.
When Goodie came home after work, she was none the wiser. I’d played hooky and gotten away with it. I was jumping up and down inside. I didn’t think they wanted me at that school anyway. It was win-win.
The next day Goodie went to work and I followed the same plan, but this time while I was outside playing, a woman who said she was a substitute teacher questioned me. I ran the same rap I’d used on Goodie, but the teacher often worked at St. Cecilia and she wasn’t buying it. She wound up calling my school, and for a short time I was in the doghouse with Lenora and Goodie.
AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT, I had another asthma attack and needed to stay home for a few days. When I returned to school with a doctor’s note from my grandmother, the nuns all seemed much nicer, and this didn’t go unnoticed by the dreamer and schemer inside me. It wasn’t long before I was playing hooky again. But now I got Ernest, the wino next door, to forge a note that I would keep in my pocket, just in case I got caught. I thought it would allow me to do anything and go anywhere, lik
e the “letters of transit” in Casablanca.
I dictated the contents and can still remember what the note said as if it were yesterday:
To whom it may concern,
Please excuse my grandson Nile’s absence from school. He was suffering from an asthma attack, and had to stay home.
Thank you kindly,
Alice Clarice Goodman
Thus began the most exciting seventy-five days of my life.
I was on my way to setting the national truancy record for the entire parochial system in the United States of America. I hope you can understand why I’m still sort of proud of this accomplishment.
To make a little extra money, on school holidays I sometimes worked with Goodie or Lenora. At the time, Lenora’s business had a cleaning contract with the Franklin Life Insurance Company, located on the corner of Wilshire and Western boulevards. I knew how to get there by surface transit.
One day, however, I took the bus on Wilshire in the opposite direction, and when it got to Pershing Square, I got off. Wow. I was back in Skid Row near the Greyhound Bus terminal. When I arrived, I was blown away at the sight of all the movie theaters, which reminded me of Forty-second Street and the grind-house theaters of the South Bronx—only this was that to the tenth power. I’d been dreaming about this day since our bus pulled into downtown L.A. Downtown L.A. was better than Disneyland and Coney Island’s Steeplechase combined.
After exploring awhile, I’d go to a movie theater box-office window and say, “One children’s ticket, please.” They rarely asked me, “Why aren’t you in school?” But if they did, and I had to resort to the asthma note, I would tell them, “When I woke up this morning, I was very sick. When the attack went away, it was too late to go to school.”