A funny thing happened the other day: Long Island Press stoked a mini-controversy among the Irish. But along the way, a few important points were lost. So here are a few clarifications for those who refused to listen to our side of the story, and the story itself for those who missed it.
On March 5 the cover story, “Drinking Problem,” which was the latest in our monthly Our Children’s Health series—this one about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome—featured a picture of a baby being fed a bottle of whiskey. But not just any whiskey, we went with a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey because, well, that is the whiskey of choice among our graphic artists.
Basically the thought process went like this. Graphic artist A: “Hey, we need a picture of a bottle of liquor for this cover image I’m creating.” Graphic artist B: “OK, let’s take a picture of this empty bottle on my desk and we’ll use that.” And through the magic of graphic design, the rest is history.
Then, once the paper hit stands, the calls came. There was the guy who yelled at our receptionist before he angrily hung up: “Why didn’t we use a bottle of tequila or vodka!?” There was the woman who said “how dare we,” especially when this is “so close to my holiday,” with a brogue. But when my editor took the call, he thought he was just going to have to explain that this was a story about FAS and we were not encouraging babies to drink liquor. He didn’t realize the woman was inconsolable because she felt her heritage was disparaged.
Then there was the bar owner who canceled delivery of the paper. Same problem: We offended some Irish folks with within weeks of St. Patrick’s Day. Eventually, a representative from Jameson’s parent company wrote a letter, which we ran with a response from our editor.
Certainly, from a public relations standpoint, it is not hard to see why Jameson’s would be upset—especially when they donate to a FAS research fund. And the legality of our creating the image has already been addressed by my boss. All I want to clarify is just where we are coming from, since everyone kept hanging up when we attempted to explain.
So like I said, the graphic artists here love Jameson. It wasn’t some kind of anti-Irish sentiment that inspired the image. We certainly weren’t intending to perpetuate the stereotype of the Irish as being alcoholics. A few of the designers are Irish themselves. The receptionist who took the call? An Irish lass. This writer and the majority of people I share an office with? You guessed it: Irish.
What we found most odd was how much those who complained seemed to directly associate their heritage with a brand of whiskey. So here’s a short list of a few Irish contributions to society that are a tad more meaningful than the one beverage we’re stereotyped as being addicted to.
Seismology: Those who live in earthquake-prone areas would have even more difficult lives without this Irish invention.
Oscar Wilde: Anyone who has ever read Portrait of Dorian Gray knows this significance. And this is only entry in the volumes of Irish literary contributions that have become classics.
Atom Smashing: The scientist to first accomplish this is still the only Irishman to win the Nobel Prize for science.
Hypodermic Needles: Sure, everyone hates getting shots, but where would modern medicine be without one of its most essential, and Irish-invented, tools?
History: Irish monks who recorded much of Western civilization’s history through the fall of Rome to the Renaissance stored the books in their impenetrable castles through the rampant plundering of the Dark Ages, successfully preserving our culture.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Depressionistas
The week after “Party Like It’s 1929” (Feb. 19) ran, I got a call from Philip Bolger, an 82-year-old from Franklin Square who wanted to let me know that he was sending me a letter with some of his stories from the Great Depression, as he too was a survivor. In the course of my research for that story, I realized that there was enough material for 100 cover stories, if we only had the time and space to run them all. So I’m sharing his stories below, since he was kind enough to type them out for me in his typewriter and it would be a tad unconventional to run on the Letters to the Editor page.
And as an interesting aside (for me anyway, I don’t know if you’ll care), Bolger—who is not related to me so far as I know—told me that he used to be a copy editor for the original New York Sun. The family founded and published the newspaper in New York City around the turn of the century, which means blood or not, my surname apparently has a long history in journalism. That came as a nice surprise, as all I know is my dad was a mechanic and his dad was a sailor who died at sea after he came over from Ireland.
I’m still trying to confirm that there were publishers named Bolger at one time, because I’m a dork like that. Anyone who has any leads, please email me.
Here’s Phil’s stories:
“So you want depression stories. Here goes:
1. I was attending St. Athanasius school in the Bronx in second grade. I had twin brothers in my class: Frankie and Willie O’Brien. One week I noticed Frankie came in to school on Monday, but not Willie. The following day only Willie came, but not Frankie; so it continued throughout the week. I later found out they only had one pair of sneakers; the father was unemployed for six months. The pastor got someone to get them shoes and the following week both came to school every day.
2. In those days, if a tenant failed to pay monthly rent for a few months, the landlord could call a storage company to have all of their furniture removed from the apartment and put into the street. My mother always asked me if I saw any such situation and when I did, she would put on her shawl and go to the dispossessed. The mother was usually sobbing and the father put out an old fedora so passersby could drop nickels and dimes into it. See, once he had $5, the storage people would come and take the furniture off the street and put them into a storage house. The bereft parents had to arrange for the children that night. My mother always took in one of the boys. This happened several times in my school days (The parochial school had no lunchroom and I had to run home nine blocks for lunch and then back again to make the ring-a-leevio game. Parochial schools got no aid; no buses for transportation of any kind. Just run).
3. It was common to hear homeless men singing in the alley of apartment houses for the pennies and nickels women would toss down to them.
4. Many homeless men built shanty towns near the rivers. One night the shanty town in Hunts Point went on fire and several of the homeless men died. The fire department came and destroyed the remaining huts.
5. Families helped one another while waiting for federal programs to kick in. My uncle Harry in Classon Point lost his job with the Otis Elevator people; he also lost the tenant who rented the upstairs of his house. He could no longer pay the mortgage. To help him, my father moved us up there as tenants and paid rent. Each night my cousins and sisters went down to the kitchen to paste buttons onto cards; this was called homework. For about 1,000 cards, my uncle got a $5 bill.
6. People forgot the positive part that the entertainment industry played to help us through the grim days. Songs of hope like Happy Days Are Here Again, Just Around the Corner There’s A Rainbow in the Skies, Potatoes are Cheaper, Tomatoes are Cheaper and Now’s the Time to Fall in Love gave us hope that it would end soon. The 10-cent weekend movie kept people away from misery and led them into a fantasy world of great momentary pleasure. But now and then Hollywood gave us the grim truth, like The Grapes of Wrath and Cannery Row. Of all the boys in my graduation class, only two finished high school. All the rest went to work to put bread on the table or lied and joined the service, some never to return.
7. A pal of mine, Billy B., could draw naturally. He would produce pictures of Little Orphan Annie and Dick Tracy on old scrap paper. He told me there was a WPA artist who held classes down near the Bronx Creek for about six people. He took me down there with him and we watched the artist and his pupils. Billie asked the artist if we could be in the class and the artist screamed “Get the hell out of here you kids or I’ll call a cop!” That was the end of my introduction to the fine arts. Looking back, I guess the artist was fed up. He got only about $12 per week and was probably on the verge of a breakdown because of the demeaning state he was in.
8. Life went on through it all. Young people got married regardless. It was never a catered affair, naturally, but the people got together and gave them a beer and baloney send off party. Usually they rented (for nothing) a church hall. For about $2 the girl’s friends bought cheap rolls of crepe paper and decorated. Usually there was a leftover Shamrock put up. A three-piece band played all night for $15. there was no formal invitation; everybody in the neighborhood was invited. The groom’s brothers sat at the entrance to keep “the no-goods” out. The girl’s brothers threw out the guy who couldn’t hold his beer. Mothers made baloney sandwiches. Scores of kids ran around the place eating ice cream. The funeral parlor donated chairs. Finally, the couple appeared and were cheered off for their honeymoon at the Half Moon Hotel at Coney Island.
Depression or not, people went on thinking life was great. Until, of course, the following Monday morning. And from there we went off to war to save our country.”
And as an interesting aside (for me anyway, I don’t know if you’ll care), Bolger—who is not related to me so far as I know—told me that he used to be a copy editor for the original New York Sun. The family founded and published the newspaper in New York City around the turn of the century, which means blood or not, my surname apparently has a long history in journalism. That came as a nice surprise, as all I know is my dad was a mechanic and his dad was a sailor who died at sea after he came over from Ireland.
I’m still trying to confirm that there were publishers named Bolger at one time, because I’m a dork like that. Anyone who has any leads, please email me.
Here’s Phil’s stories:
“So you want depression stories. Here goes:
1. I was attending St. Athanasius school in the Bronx in second grade. I had twin brothers in my class: Frankie and Willie O’Brien. One week I noticed Frankie came in to school on Monday, but not Willie. The following day only Willie came, but not Frankie; so it continued throughout the week. I later found out they only had one pair of sneakers; the father was unemployed for six months. The pastor got someone to get them shoes and the following week both came to school every day.
2. In those days, if a tenant failed to pay monthly rent for a few months, the landlord could call a storage company to have all of their furniture removed from the apartment and put into the street. My mother always asked me if I saw any such situation and when I did, she would put on her shawl and go to the dispossessed. The mother was usually sobbing and the father put out an old fedora so passersby could drop nickels and dimes into it. See, once he had $5, the storage people would come and take the furniture off the street and put them into a storage house. The bereft parents had to arrange for the children that night. My mother always took in one of the boys. This happened several times in my school days (The parochial school had no lunchroom and I had to run home nine blocks for lunch and then back again to make the ring-a-leevio game. Parochial schools got no aid; no buses for transportation of any kind. Just run).
3. It was common to hear homeless men singing in the alley of apartment houses for the pennies and nickels women would toss down to them.
4. Many homeless men built shanty towns near the rivers. One night the shanty town in Hunts Point went on fire and several of the homeless men died. The fire department came and destroyed the remaining huts.
5. Families helped one another while waiting for federal programs to kick in. My uncle Harry in Classon Point lost his job with the Otis Elevator people; he also lost the tenant who rented the upstairs of his house. He could no longer pay the mortgage. To help him, my father moved us up there as tenants and paid rent. Each night my cousins and sisters went down to the kitchen to paste buttons onto cards; this was called homework. For about 1,000 cards, my uncle got a $5 bill.
6. People forgot the positive part that the entertainment industry played to help us through the grim days. Songs of hope like Happy Days Are Here Again, Just Around the Corner There’s A Rainbow in the Skies, Potatoes are Cheaper, Tomatoes are Cheaper and Now’s the Time to Fall in Love gave us hope that it would end soon. The 10-cent weekend movie kept people away from misery and led them into a fantasy world of great momentary pleasure. But now and then Hollywood gave us the grim truth, like The Grapes of Wrath and Cannery Row. Of all the boys in my graduation class, only two finished high school. All the rest went to work to put bread on the table or lied and joined the service, some never to return.
7. A pal of mine, Billy B., could draw naturally. He would produce pictures of Little Orphan Annie and Dick Tracy on old scrap paper. He told me there was a WPA artist who held classes down near the Bronx Creek for about six people. He took me down there with him and we watched the artist and his pupils. Billie asked the artist if we could be in the class and the artist screamed “Get the hell out of here you kids or I’ll call a cop!” That was the end of my introduction to the fine arts. Looking back, I guess the artist was fed up. He got only about $12 per week and was probably on the verge of a breakdown because of the demeaning state he was in.
8. Life went on through it all. Young people got married regardless. It was never a catered affair, naturally, but the people got together and gave them a beer and baloney send off party. Usually they rented (for nothing) a church hall. For about $2 the girl’s friends bought cheap rolls of crepe paper and decorated. Usually there was a leftover Shamrock put up. A three-piece band played all night for $15. there was no formal invitation; everybody in the neighborhood was invited. The groom’s brothers sat at the entrance to keep “the no-goods” out. The girl’s brothers threw out the guy who couldn’t hold his beer. Mothers made baloney sandwiches. Scores of kids ran around the place eating ice cream. The funeral parlor donated chairs. Finally, the couple appeared and were cheered off for their honeymoon at the Half Moon Hotel at Coney Island.
Depression or not, people went on thinking life was great. Until, of course, the following Monday morning. And from there we went off to war to save our country.”
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