Tag Archives: inner city life

Hello, old friend …

Text and photos by Rosalie Tirella

Yesterday was Memorial Day. So I visited my ol’ pal Tony Hmura. You know all about him, if you’ve been reading my columns these past 16 years. Tony – despite being a septuagenarian when I first met him – is one of the true rock ‘n’ roll guys, along with the OIF and “Just Joe,” my first serious beau (only 3!😢😢). By that I mean Tony embodied the spirit of rock music his whole life: sex, freedom, an unfettered mind and body. Three-somes?  Tony had them! And showed me the pictures! A juicer? Tony was concocting his own health potions years before the hippies mashed their first soy bean. He loved animals – especially cats…

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Cece!💙💙💙💙

… but he was suspicious of people, society. He was a gun guy. A few months before he died I found a pistol – new, silver, angular, heavy, loaded – under the seat cushion of his Lazy Boy while cleaning his living room. It was hidden under his blanket, next to an old Play Boy magazine. His easy chair (along with his gun) was strategically placed before his TV set – and front door. He watched his Humphrey Bogart movies – and front door – in Boggey style.

Tony did not give a shit what anyone thought about him. He did as he pleased, often living outside the law. He carried razor blades in his pants pocket at all times and once suggested that I do the same. He gave me a lesson in how to use a razor blade – cut up and fast. Like this, like this! he kept yelling at me. “God, Tony!” I said. “Put that away!” He didn’t. He showed me his three-some photos right before Christmas! He always carried them in his shirt pocket. The good old days. “Put them away!” I’d yell at Tony, alarmed. Yet fascinated. So Mick Jagger …

Tony surely went his own way, a loner dancing to his own crazy beat. But he always had – not at all obvious to most folks – his own wild moral compass. I recognized it early on, which is why we became friends. Like me, he grew up poor in Green Island, and his childhood haunted him. Through grit, pluck and smarts Tony pulled his entire family out of poverty – as a kid! He eventually made himself and his sons rich. But he always carried himself like a little sewer rat – same as me.

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Rose has baggage galore …

And he never forgot his roots. Giving money to every poor South Worcester guy or gal who crossed his path with a sob story. And, like me, his psychic pain roared unabated. No matter how good things were. We got each other on a deep level – often with just a phrase, or a sigh. I miss that.

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Tony, about 12 years ago. He had his WW II plane painted on the back of this leather jacket. Which he wore in all seasons.

Tony was a gunner in a bomber plane in World War II. He was a gunner because he was a little guy and gunners had to be small so they could crouch in the small sides of a fighter plane. Tony flew a ton of missions – the U.S. military kept increasing the number of missions the guys had to fly as the war dragged on. He was shot down twice and survived because he was so brutally smart. A SURVIVOR like I have never known! You felt it buying a cup of coffee with the guy! (no sugar, cream and two ice cubes, for Hmura!) He served his country with a tough grace that most people just don’t have. No judgements. It’s just a fact.

So yesterday, Memorial Day, when I went to his grave and saw his tombstone adorned with just that one classy beige cross AND ZERO AMERICAN FLAGS, I knew I had to get busy! I drove to the Dollar Store and bought a bunch of American flags, stars and plastic flowers – for Tony. For Memorial Day and the Fourth of July.

I really did it up for Tony!

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Sure, it’s not the most artistic looking tomb in the cemetery, but it’s what Tony would have loved: bold, in your face, colorful, red white and blue and a mess of Old Glories! The gaudiest, freakin’ most patriotic tomb stone in the whole cemetery!!

Just what Tony – a Type A personality all the way – would have loved!

And I put a red plastic rose on his stone so he’d know it was me, Rose.

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See? There’s his plane – a perfect replica – etched onto his tombstone.

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And in back his birthday. He lied to me about being born on the Fourth of July! But that’s ok – the lie was out of love for country!

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I like how Tony’s death date isn’t engraved onto his tombstone… It’s like he hasn’t died! Or refused to go!

Keep rockin’, Tony! Keep flyin’ above the clouds!💗💗💗💗💙🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

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Some thoughts on “Ma,” President Trump and his (my???!) America

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Rose and George.       pics: R.T.

By Rosalie Tirella

Tonight I’m holding tight my late mom’s George Washington calendar from the 1940s (above). Like many young poor folks of the Great Depression and World War II – kids who knew they were lucky if they were eating a square meal a day –  my mom was resourceful. For example, she collected her own “art” from the free or inexpensive advertising lit all around her: With trusty scissors in hand she cut out and saved grainy black and white photos or colored illustrations (often muted – not very colorful at all!) from school and church calendars, Hollywood movie fan magazines and sheet music cover pages, church prayer cards – even Polish Christmas wafer wrapping paper  – anything  that captured her young imagination. My mother loved music and drawing. She was very good at sketching! She used to draw pictures for me and my sisters when we were little kids. We’d sit and watch Ma as she quietly created her art for us with an old number 2 pencil: a little girl with pigtails, a little kitten with ball of yarn, a cherub perched on a cloud … the cliches of her day, beautifully  rendered. I remember in our Lafayette Street flat, in a closet  – now lost forever! – the huge poster Ma drew in pencil of one of her beloved Boston Red Sox batters in mid-swing!  She was 12 – a total baseball freak! – when she drew it and it was a fine sketch! But I have none of my mom’s big sketches – usually made for a St. Mary’s School project – only lots of her “clipped art” – all in pretty ok shape for gussied up scraps of paper three quarters of a century old!

Ma made good use of her finds, like the sleek, smart crow who weaves bits of shiny gold ribbon into her cozy nest … She taped some of the art to her bedroom walls, used some pieces as book marks for her prayer books and sent some pictures to friends, instead of store-bought greeting cards. But mostly she saved her paper jewels – a poor girl’s dreams – in a  small, wooden brown chest in her family’s Green Island Bigelow Street tenement and later in our Lafayette Street flat. The contents became mine when Ma died.  I gave the small painted brown chest (painted by my grandfather) to one of my sisters.

The chest, I believe, was a kind of hope chest for Ma, a love song to America in which she kept all her American dreams. America was new to her family – her parents were Polish immigrants who experienced the promise –  and ugliness – of America. My grandfather worked like a slave in a textile mill in Douglas and, to relax once he got home, played the harmonica and smoked the unfiltered cigarettes he rolled for himself using his own little white square smoking papers and little cig rolling machine, a funny looking little contraption that Ma used to work in the mornings, to roll her Dad’s cigs before he went off to work. Cigs he could smoke during break … My mother’s mother, my “Bapy,” raised five kids, cooked everything from scratch, prayed every hour on the hour, went to mass EVERY day, but outside her Catholic faith and family, was lost in America. If not attending church or friends and relatives’ Polish weddings she stayed home. Praying and cooking.

Ma was the baby of the family, and the apple of Bapy’s eye. So she grew up an optimist and focused on the bright spots: special memories from her Polish immigrant church by Kelley Square, like her First Holy Communion prayer book which I have! (below), …

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A photo of Rose’s mom with her First Holy Communion children’s prayer book! (Cece got a hold of its back cover and Lilac ate it!)

… postcards, prayer booklets and stamps from her 10-year stint in Springfield as a housekeeper for the Bishop of Springield, pretty little gifts that her big brother – my Uncle Mark – brought back from Japan after he served in the U.S. Navy during World War II. I especially love the calendar cover my Uncle Mark gave Ma (from his ship – probably taped above his bunk): a sexy Miss America hanging from a huge American flag. A gorgeous but stern Lady Liberty wearing an oooh la la blue diaphonous robe that showed her perky little breasts and “mound”! My uncle was pretty good looking and a bit of a ladies’ man. Ma teased him when he came home from the war with blond hair. She believed he dyed it – he said the tropical sun bleached it. This Lady Liberty was right up his alley! – worth fighting for! I ended up with the picture and crudely framed it a few years back. Saint Lady Liberty – the patriotic pinup gal proudly wearing her Virgin Mary-blue sheer gown over shaved pussy! AMERICA = #1!!!😄

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But I digress! Back to GW! My mom was a huge George Washington fan because she was born on his birthday – February 22! And because he was America’s first President – perfect to her –  America’s God, back in the days when the ideas of America and God were entwined in complex, beautiful, dangerous ways. My mom, true to her generation, and I, like all Baby Boomers, grew up hearing the George Washington grade school lessons/myths, almost Biblical: George Washington at Valley Forge in the winter, leading his troops …they wore torn boots, their frozen feet wrapped in cloth…The young George Washington chopped down the cherry tree when he wasn’t supposed to but said: I CANNOT TELL I LIE! IT WAS I WHO CHOPPED DOWN THE CHERRY TREE!

Ma and I were getting the boiled-down-for-the-plebs American history lesson: George Washington had a TON OF INTEGRITY. What we didn’t know: When some of the colonists clamored for him to be King of America for years and years – because he was such an outstanding military leader and first President and the times were so chaotic – Washington said: No way! That’s not what this country is going to be about! There are no kings here!

At the bottom of my mom’s George Washington calendar picture, it reads: “The love of my country will be the ruling influence of my conduct.”   –  Washington

Wow.

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Can you imagine these words coming out of the mouth of our new President, Donald Trump?  Can you imagine the IDEA even blooming in that narcissistic, almost insane brain of his? (Neither can I!) He is someone who wants to buy America’s love, on his terms only. LOVE DONALD – OR ELSE!

For me, Trump’s inaugural speech was Hitler-esque. Dark, foreboding, fist-pumping, military might-extolling, self-aggrandizing, self-idolizing … maniacal. I’d never read or heard an inaugural speech where America, the land of George Washington and Mrs. Tirella!, was painted in such ugly terms – “American carnage” and “tombstones” stretching from sea to shining sea! No wonder wife Melania chooses to live in NYC – and keep her little boy safe by her side. To live with such a sick man always peering into the abyss (or is it just a pose, a con so that Trump can trash America only to lay claim that he saved her? ), a husband with such a soul-shrivelling world view, dipped in Trump gold!, is too much! I predict Mrs. Donald Trump will be a sexed-up version of the late Mrs. Harry Truman: No thanks, White House, I pass! I’ll live somewhere else. Mrs. Truman was the epitome of post-WW II frumpiness; Mrs. Trump is the epitome of 21st century foxiness. But they’re cut from the same cloth: at heart, small town girls freaked out by the prospect of living in the hub of the world’s Super Power. War. Peace. Laws of the land. It all begins with the stroke of the Presidential pen. Scary, for some people.

Funny, but here on Ward Street these past couple of days, it felt like the kind of America Donald Trump painted in his inaugural speech. Very different from the Ward Street my mom walked down as a young girl with her Polish mother as they made their way to their Polish church, Our Lady of Czetchowa, a church that still stands and which I can see from my kitchen window …

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These days Ward Street is Heroin/drug Central of Worcester. Last year I wrote about the big drug bust next door (complete with confiscated cash –  40K! – and weapons – machine gun!!!) But we’ve got the low-level drug runners, too, here in our ‘hood: Kids (usually boys) 15 and 16 years old who hop on to their beat up bikes to pedal to our inner-city backyards to do drug deals. In like 5 seconds! These kids don’t live in our houses, just use our backyards as office space! – out of the way, hidden places to sell packets of heroin. A quick sale. Money exchanged for smack. Then they put their ear buds back into their ears and  hop on to their bikes and pedal away wicked fast! The deal goes down in seconds!

A few days ago I saw such a speedy transaction occur in the yard adjacent to ours. The kids, both boys, about 16 or 17 years old, were there during school hours. They had come on their bikes and I had come upon them! They looked and acted hard and business-like in a way many of our neighborhood kids don’t look and act. Lots of kids in my neighborhood are sweet, skinny, sad, fun loving. They’ll smile at you and tell you about their little adventures or pets. But these two kids? Uh uh. It was so easy to see.

One of the kids looked surprised and miffed to notice me at the periphery of his deal. The other kid, scrawny and tall, looked frightening in his hardness. When he saw me, he unzipped the front of his thin jacket and his hand went to a shirt pocket. I thought: He’s going to shoot me now.

So I chatted him up. Played the un-hip, oblivious middle-aged lady. The box that society puts you in.

“Don’t be afraid of my dogs! They’re friendly!” I said, smiling.

With a cold, dead-already face, making perfect eye contact with me, he said, direct and serious: “I’m not afraid.”

Chilling.

A day later I saw the  same kid, his pale ghoulish face smiling as he rode away lickety split on his bike, being chased by a police cruiser in the middle of our downtown. The cruiser’s siren was off because it was the middle of the afternoon, but all its lights were pulsating.

The kid was in the middle of a gang of kids – 20 or more youths – all on bicycles! Three or four of them wore Halloween masks, pale, scowling ghost masks that covered their entire faces. Lurid and other worldy… Four or five of them wore cotton bandanas over their faces – right up to their eyes – so you couldn’t see their features. They looked like they had rolled straight out of some sci-fi Western! But they weren’t galloping through Dodge on horses – instead they were riding, herd-like and hard, on our Main Street, yards away from Worcester City Hall, on ramshackle bikes! Laughing! Free! Most likely – at least a few of them – armed!

I was mesmerized by this dystopian image coming straight at me (I was in my car driving by the Hanover Theatre), straight out of the Donald Trump playbook. I pulled over and the group of kids – they filled the entire street – rode past me. They were laughing and talking easily among themselves, as the police cruiser chased them. I saw and heard my ghoulish kid barking out something to the other youths. He was smiling. High on an adrenalin high. He felt safe – and cocky – in the herd.

Had they just robbed somebody? Mixed it up with another bandana-, mask-wearing group of kids? Or were the cops just pursuing one kid? – a definite challenge when he’s in a large pack of kids, all on bicycles. Bikes are the perfect getaway vehicle – they  can easily go up and down one-way streets, go off and on sidewalks, sail through back yards and city parks, be carried up flights of stairs and stashed in apartments …

As I watched this wild little spectacle, I saw how these kids showed ZERO fear. They acted like outlaws! And like their Wild West counterparts, they  were indeed misfits – unhealthy outsiders, bedraggled and maybe unloved – still riding to their next adventure. With a few firearms thrown in for good measure.

The herd sailed right by me, then the police cruiser.

I found myself rooting for the kids. Their nihilism was so honest! They were America … America’s underbelly. Her lack of love for her poor, especially her poor children. One in five kids go hungry in America! That means Worcester, too. … The Worcester factory jobs are gone for their un-skilled parents – men and women who read at the third or fourth grade level. Minimum wage jobs don’t begin to pay all the bills. Parents feel trapped, go MIA. Our public schools sometimes become holding pens for these kids, a safe place to eat govt funded, free breakfast and lunch and, sometimes, a place to rest or sleep, if there’s violence/drugs in the family.

Trump’s America! The one he says he wants to save! Here in Worcester! Here on our Ward Street and Main Street!

His solution to a deep, generation-spanning societal ill, often sealed with depression, PTSD or other mental illnesses? More police. Good paying jobs.

I don’t think two –  or even three – Worcester police cruisers chasing the masked kids through our downtown would have changed the narrative. Saved the kids.

Maybe good paying, WPA type infrastructure jobs would help. Young people or their parents working on rebuilding our bridges and highways a la Franklin D. Roosevelt for good pay … Yes, that may make things better. So that our families, instead of developers or investors, can buy and live in the three deckers in our  old blue collar neighborhoods. Like it used to be on Ward Street, Perry Ave, Endicott and Sterling streets – all over lower Veron Hill and Green Island! Homeownership 101. The rhythm in all our Gateway Cities for most of the 20th century. The American Dream!

Trump is right: The global economy has left behind thousands and thousands of neighborhoods like mine. Millions of working-age adults who live in them! I don’t believe in all the Moral Majority crap: poor families are Godless and gone to pot – that’s why their neighborhoods are “bad.” Most parents in my neighborhood try to love their kids – I see their love displayed daily, despite the harsh circumstances! – but the pressures keep mounting on them –  from all sides… . Families implode.

Good paying jobs for our people will help. Tremendously, to use a Trumpian word!

Maybe the Donald is onto something. If only he’d drop all his nefarious baggage…

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A view from Grafton Hill

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The Mayor’s Walk began at Friendly House. FH Director Gordon Hargrove (center) begins the early evening tour! pic submitted

By Gordon Davis

Joe Petty, the mayor of Worcester, walked the Wall Street neighborhood yesterday with city officials, District 2 City Councilor Candy Mero-Carlson and neighborhood folks. He visited the Friendly House, Westerman’s, Grafton Street School and more. One of the stops on his walk was the empty lot that used to be the El Morocco Restaurant. The lot sits on high ground with a terrific view of the Worcester skyline.

A housing project of 90 units of 1, 2, 3 bedroom apartments is being planned for the now empty lot. All of the units will be market rate. There will be no affordable housing units. The developer stated that he could not build any affordable housing units under the state program.

Longtime director of Friendly House, Gordon Hargrove, felt that some of the units will eventually become affordable units.

Mr. Hargrove is working closely with the developer to ensure some additional benefit to the neighborhood. He indicated that the project would include upgrades to the Shale Street School playground.

The Mayor and developer showed a schematic of the building layout. However, the developer saidthe final project would look different than what was on the schematic. He did not have a copy of the revisions.

Like Mr. Hargrove, the Mayor felt that the housing units would help the neighborhood and the city.

The streets in the neighborhood are narrow, as most of the streets on the East Side were built well over 100 years ago. There might be some concerns about traffic and parking. For planners one and one-half cars per unit is considered standard.

Another concern expressed was how many children would live in the project and where they would go to school. An employee at Grafton Street School, only two blocks away, said the school was at capacity.

She also said Grafton Street School is the oldest functioning school building in the Worcester School District. There are some renovations going on at the school today, including a new boiler, windows and an elevator for people with physical handicaps.

During the walk City Manager Edward Augustus asked a DPW employee how often the storm drains were cleaned on this street, as he pointed to a clogged drain. The DPW worker said his department cleans the drains.

The walk ended on an interesting note – at Westerman’s, a vendor in Worcester that provides props for local movies. Included in props was the Teddy Bear from the movies “Ted” and Ted2”!

Now that election day is behind us, let’s talk REAL TRASH!

By Rosalie Tirella

As in Worcester’s HUGE ILLEGAL DUMPING PROBLEM!!!

I’ve lived in the ‘hood for most of my life. It’s never been this bad in our city. I took this pic a month ago … This photo and several others were published in InCity Times. Garbage galore on Worcester streets!

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Let’s face reality: The city’s yellow garbage bags, recyling bins and drop off center in Quinsig Village aren’t enough. People are basically shoving their shit anywhere they please – usually in District 4.

Why is that?

Are people too poor to buy the $10 bag of city trash bags?

Are they sick of lugging things up and down in their recycling bins?

Are people moving in and out of Worcester inner-city apartments because they are fleeing domestic violence, unpaid rent bills, gun play and are just too freaked out to dispose of their shit in an orderly, legal fashion? So they just dump their crap, thinking: I’ll get another bureau at Good Will. I can leave this desk on this street corner and my sister will give me her old one. GOTTA GO!!!

In other words: folks, under duress, just abandoning stuff before heading to their next urban catastrophe.

Is it depression? People so overwhelmed by their HUGE PROBLEMS that they’re just too crestfallen, sad, stuck to expend the energy needed to dispose of their garbage properly?

The broken window theory? As in: look at all this garbage strewn all along lower Endicott Street…What difference does it make if I dump my old desk top computer on the sidewalk? … And the next person comes along and thinks the same thing vis a vis his box spring mattress!

You should see our Worcester inner city streets! You should see how people have adjusted to the piles and piles of debris! Kids and families walk by all the garbage as if its part of the Worcester scenery. A few days ago I saw five teens walking down lower Endicott Street. They were friends, talking animatedly among themselves, laughing. Having fun. How heartbreaking for me as an adult to watch the casual way they walked by a HILL of green contractor bags filled with crap! As if they were oblivious to all that ugliness! I grew up on these streets. My mom and kid sisters and I never walked past a HILL OF GARBAGE BAGS! It would have been such an affront to the way my mother raised her kids/ lived her life.

Do you think the middle class renter or, God help him/her, developer is going to want to put his/her money into a neighborhood that looks like a landfill? Do you think some middle class person with a job and a car and a career – or even a working-class worker bee – is going to want to LIVE in these refuse-choked neighborhoods?

Do we want our little children walking to school past all this UNSANITARY SHIT?

A few months ago, I saw a big slimy rat, in the dark, skulking towards garbage. How many rats’ nests do we need to find before we DEAL WITH ALL THE ILLEGAL DUMPING IN OUR CITY??? How many of our little kids have seen rats in their backyards?

Some ideas TO SOLVE THIS PROBLEM:

Create one or two FULL-TIME City of Worcester inner-city garbage guy/gal jobs. Not DPW nuisance patrol – a team that goes to spots after the city’s received numerous calls about illegal dumping at the sites … but two folks whose job is simply to drive up and down our inner-city streets picking up the tv sets, sofas, bags of clothing, etc. The jobs should be given to two District 4 folks. The requirements: KNOW YOUR ‘HOODs. KNOW WHERE THE GARBAGE IS. AND PICK IT UP. For 7 hours a day. For 7 days a week. There is certainly enough crap in our urban core to make weekend shifts a must!

These special inner-city garbage guys and gals may have to go to the same inner-city street corner every day FOREVER to pick up the new trash dumped on that particular day. Who cares? You can’t put a price tag on a lovely looking city. A clean city. Trust me: These folks will be worth their weight in gold!

Free yellow trash bags for the working poor. NOT welfare recipients. PEOPLE WHO ARE PLAYING BY THE RULES AND STRUGGLING TO KEEP A ROOF OVER THEIR HEADS. Ten bucks is a lot if you are working full-time at ACAP and renting an apartment in Worcester and trying to pay all your bills.

Easier and less expensive ways to dispose of junked furniture etc at the Quinsig Village dump

Put ALL CLOTHING DONATION BOXES AT THE CITY LANDFILL. GET THEM OUT OF BUSINESS PARKING LOTS, OFF WORCESTER SIDEWALKS. People are abusing the situation.

HUGE FINES for businesses and landlords whose properties, for whatever reasons, have become garbage-magnets. We can think of three businesses right off the top of our head. I’m certain you can too! They stay bold and do nothing because they figure the city is too busy with other stuff. City leaders need to tamp down on these folks – make them take responsibility for the restaurateurs they’re renting their space to…make them put in a dumpster if they have several sketchy apartment situations in their building…

OUR GARBAGE PROBLEM IS NOT JUST A D 4 ISSUE. IT IS A CITY ISSUE in that it impacts DEVELOPMENT IN OUR URBAN CORE – keeps potentially solid renters and home buyers from wanting to come into our inner city and actually make a commitment to a good chunk of Worcester – to live and raise their families on our streets.

Streets filled with very cool old Victorians, three deckers and older apartment buildings, I might add!

And lots of very nice people doing the best they can, under not so hot circumstances.

This past weekend Worcester’s inner city was alive with fall fun!

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On Cambridge Street, in Maloney Field, we saw scores of kids and their parents playing soccer. All the families were, pretty much, folks of color. Poverty, struggles do NOT stop kids from playing – nor interested parents from joining in the fun.

So important for Worcester politicians to keep Worcester’s older neighborhoods in mind. The middle class can always buy themselves out of problems and dilemmas. The poor face them every day – and surmount more than you think!

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PLEASE VOTE TODAY FOR WORCESTER POLITICAL CANDIDATES WHO STAY TRUE TO THE PROMISE OF OUR INNER-CITY!

I’m a former (and present-day) Worcester inner-city kid: Worcester Public Schools student, kindergarten – grade 12; participant in Worcester’s Summer’s World; dreamer in the Worcester Public Library’s children’s room; belly flopper in Worcester’s Crompton Park swimming pool, mad dasher at the Girls Club on Vernon Hill, quiet girl at St. Mary’s church and catechism class in Green Island … eons later owner and editor of InCity Times.

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The City of Worcester services, parks and schools worked for my single mom and us kids. The WPS teachers supported the work ethic that my mom was all about, the Worcester parks and our public library and their city events – the Fourth of July fireworks at East Park, the free musical instrument instruction at Lamartine Street School – kept things interesting and fun for us. FOR FREE. For kids and grandkids of immigrants.

The American Dream in ACTION – WORCESTER!

Worcester politicians need to remember first and foremost we’re a Gateway city. They must INVEST in the kids and parents and adults of our urban core. We’ll most likely be here for the rest of our lives, giving the city its true feel … .

… Its every day music.

– pics and text: Rosalie Tirella

This is the way Massachusetts makes “welfare queens”!

By Rosalie Tirella

Mary Rondeau lives at 48 Ward St., Worcester. She has her section 8 housing voucher which means free rent for the rest of her life. She has the rest of the Massachusetts package: food stamps, fuel assistance, free health insurance, free electricity. Mary goes to food pantries to supplement her free food stamp food. You would think with all the heavy lifting done for Mary by the state and federal governments, by society, that Mary Rondeau would be grateful, humble even – or at least have more than enough time on her hands to have been able to raise an outstanding son. Or at least a non-criminal one. Nope. The elderly landlord has told me Mary’s son has been in prison. So Mary’s progeny, courtesy of the American taxpayer, has been taken care of, too: fed, clothed, sheltered, healed when sick. For Free, on the taxpayers’ dime.

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Here is Mary Rondeau’s car, underwritten by the American taxpayer! Mary usually parks over the yellow line into the other parking space because she feels the tenant on the other side “can’t drive” and she doesn’t want her car nicked, even though the other tenant can barely get into his/her car with Mary’s car parked two inches away from the driver’s car door. It is Mary’s societal FREE RIDE that has enabled her to feel entitled to break this rule and flout dozens of other rules society has set up so we can all live under the same sky without slitting each other’s gizzards.

Having her entire life underwritten by the American taxpayer has ENABLED Mary to develop ZERO SOCIAL SKILLS FOR LIVING IN A CIVILIZED SOCIETY. Mary cheating the government big time gives her the feeling that she is ENTITLED TO CHEAT IN OTHER WAYS, BREAK OTHER RULES. It’s the mental health version of THE BROKEN WINDOW THEORY. All niceties thrown out the window – the broken window!

But I’m getting ahead of myself!

Mary Rondeau gets a Free Ride through life, while the rest of us bust our humps to pay our bills, our mortgages, etc, because she has asthma…is disabled. This enables her to get her package plus a monthly disability check from the government.

But if Mary Rondeau has asthma, then why does Mary Rondeau, $$ courtesy of the Worcester/Massachusetts/American taxpayer, buy and smoke weed incessantly? LIKE ALL THE TIME. I mean the entire three decker front hall and other apartments reek of marijuana. How can some one with debilitating asthma, asthma which she lists as the reason for her inability to work/pay her bills, the reason she gets her life paid for by the government, smoke so much freaking pot? Even during my hippy UMass undergrad days the proud Mary didn’t keep rolling the way it rolls at Mary Rondeau’s! Mary’s pot bought and paid for by the American taxpayer!!

Mary vacations three weeks each winter in warm, sunny Florida, courtesy of the taxpayer. I guess it’s possible to skip Worcester’s brutal winters if you’re not tied to a job, have all your bills paid by someone else (us!!) AND if you have a boarder who pays you rent under the table, which Mary does. The boarder furnishes Mary with fun money! The boarder does this by working her 2 or 3 low-paying jobs ALL THE TIME TO PAY MARY RENT. The boarder works hard to also pay for her cute little car, clothing and her little cat, which she adores and is proud to say she has paid $159 in veterinarian bills to get healthy (the kitten was a rescue). This is what my late mom and all working poor folks do: WORK THEIR TAILS OFF JUST TO HAVE THE BASICS and a teeny bit extra. I give props to this lady because, outside of being a hallway smoker, which Mary demands, she does everything that every able-bodied welfare cheat should do but refuses to do: WORK HER ASS OFF, BUY CLOTHING, BUY GROCERIES, OWN A CAR, PAY RENT, contribute to society … keep it all going and best of all, BE PROUD TO BE ABLE TO KEEP IT ALL GOING. Just like my late mom was … to FEEL ENGAGED because to feel engaged IN LIFE is to feel FREE.

Back to Mary: This exemplary boarder enables Mary to be a bigger welfare cheat: Run and profit from a side business, the boarding house biz, courtesy of the American taxpayer.

Just so you all don’t scream racism: MARY IS WHITE, THE COLOR OF MOST FOLKS receiving government assistance. Not all of these folks are blatant cheaters, robbers really, like Mary Rondeau. Lots are tiny, frail, malnourished kids … and the kids break my heart because they are usually saddled with loser parents like Mary!

Then what?

The cycle perpetuates itself, America’s under class grows bigger by the minute! Ignorance supplants education, fear trumps hope, a life lived fully becomes mere existence – sitting in front of the TV set smoking weed .., AND THINKING THAT IS OK, NORMAL, ACCEPTED BY SOCIETY.

Because it is.

Mary “lets” – and I put the word “lets” in quotation marks because Mary feels she is entitled to entitle someone else – her boyfriend park his car on the sidewalk by 48 Ward Street – two wheels on the sidewalk EVERY DAY!!! Two wheels on the sidewalk, practically up against the bushes when everyone else in the neighborhood parks in parking lots or on the street – all four wheels of their vehicles touching Ward Street. Here’s a picture of his car:

CAM00620

Now why do all of us here on Ward Street, old and young, black and white, handicapped and able bodied, sober and buzzed, smart and befuddled, cocky and meek, follow the parking laws and rules of Worcester? Why do all of us park in designated parking lots/spots or on the street, all 4 wheels on Ward Street?

Because we don’t feel we have the privilege, are entitled, to park whichever damn way pleases us.

This would mean chaos in a Worcester inner-city neighborhood that has experienced guns, shootings and more this summer. Maybe Mary feels THE HOOD IS GOING TO HELL IN A BREADBASKET anyways so WHO gives a shit ABOUT THE PARKING?!

WE DO,Mary!

Parking in designated parking zones/spaces is part of living in a city, in a city governed by laws and rules created to ensure that every citizen can lead his/her daily life. If people see you flout the laws, they’ll jump in, too. It’s human nature. Cops call it the BROKEN WINDOW THEORY, that, theoretically, if a broken window in the ‘hood is allowed to go un-repaired, then people think its ok to break another window. After that happens, it feels normal to dump garbage on the street under the broken window, or speed down the street with the garbage and busted panes because … look at the god forsaken street! …who really cares about this dumpy Worcester neighborhood, anyways?!

BUT IF YOU ARE LIKE MARY RONDEAU – NOT A FUNCTIONING ADULT, NOT A CONTRIBUTING MEMBER OF SOCIETY – your values are skewed. You do whatever the fuck you want to do – and your friends do, too! Then others follow your twisted lead and our urban core grows meaner.

Questions: Why does someone who snoops into the hood’s business – we’re talking Mary Rondeau here – SHUT HER MOUTH AND NOT DIAL 911 WHEN SHE SEES SEVERAL KIDS NEXT DOOR WITH GUNS?

Because Mary is a coward.

How does her boarder, a smoker who smokes in the community hallway because Mary is ok with her place smelling like marijuana but not ok with her place reeking of cigarette smoke, see a gun lying on the front stair to the building and not dial 911? Just walk over it and go to Mary’s apartment to … smoke OUTSIDE the apartment?

Because she has given up on the neighborhood.

Which is a tragedy because she is doing everything (except for the hallway smoking) right! Society should feel safe for a woman who has fulfilled her side of the social compact!

But the rules don’t apply to Mary and she’s made money, her living!, by flouting the rules! And she’s proud of the fact, proud that her tiny – actually pretty pathetic – life, can purr on – that she, unlike the rest of us, is immune to job loss, higher rents, the rising cost of food or natural gas, inflation, deflation … the everyday worries and bumps and bruises of every day life.

Mary Rondeau is a queen.

An American welfare queen.

***********

At the check-out line at the Dollar Store

Writing the above reminds me of the below!!:

I was at the check-out line of a local Dollar Store waiting to pay for a bunch of doggy toys for Lilac (my new 6 month old hound mix). The salesman at PetCo said: Why buy our pricier plush doggy toys for your Lilac when she rips them up in 20 minutes? Go to the Dollar Store and buy them there! Just remove plastic eyes and other small parts before letting your dog play with them.

So there I was, in the Dollar Store buying toys for Lilac, while Jett, my husky mix, and she waited in my car.

It was a warm day and the air conditioning was not on in my car now that I was out of it, in a store.

I found myself, at the check out line, behind two people, a middle-aged man and a middle-aged woman. They had about a billion autumn doo-dads, knick knacks, paper plates, wall hangings, you name it. They had just paid for, with their EBT/welfare card, some Dollar Store food. Now, with cash, they were paying for all that crap.

I thought: Here I am buying five $1 dog toys with cash I earned cuz that’s all I can afford. Here are these two, with their welfare card, buying crap food and with cash, $32 worth of paper frou frou goods! 32 dollars worth of plastic gourds and orange napkins and paper maple leaves … while I – and other blue collar working folks – would NOT – could not! – SQUANDER 32 bucks on crap.

Before they were about to be rung out I hinted that I had two dogs in the car, it was warm and I just wanted to get a few things. I’d be out of their way in two seconds.

Not happening. The lady, heavy, the fat falling over her pants waist band said: Dogs? Well, I got my dog waiting! She said this while winking at the guy, her husband. He smiled back stupidly. She was saying: WHO GIVES A SHIT ABOUT YOUR DOGS? I’LL JUST TAKE MY SWEET TIME … And she proceeded to give every teeny doodad, every paper good to the cashier who looked closely at each paper product, as if inspecting it, and smiled before she rang up each one …

Angry at myself and them, fretting about my dogs in the car, I blurted out: Well, at least one of my dogs is smarter than your dog!!!! (I meant Lilac, of course)

The woman dropped her jaw.

Her husband looked at me and said ONLY IN AMERICA.

Then I said, to the woman, who was white: ONLY IN AMERICA WOULD I SEE TWO ABLE BODIED ADULTS in the middle of the day not working, ON FOOD STAMPS but buying, and I bit my tongue, but still said: ALL THIS crap!

That’s right! she said. On welfare for 38 years!!!

We were mixin’ it up at the Dollar Store!

She had said 38 years so defiantly that it felt like being hit in the head with a hammer.

She looked to be in her early 50s.

I said: My late mom worked her whole life for minimum wage. For decades!! Something is wrong in America! The system is broken!!!!

Then the woman behind me in the check outline chimed in! She said: I worked my whole life, too! I’m 54. I worked 20 years in one job. Then five years in another. I was always glad to have a job. Now I’m retired. I’m glad I’m retired.

She had about four items she was checking out at the Dollar Store.

I looked at her: she was wearing the tiredest clothes. Her face was all red and mottled and rough, half her teeth were gone, one of her eyes was red and swollen shut,the other eye half open. She was smiling, like some Dollar Store Quasimodo.

Here was my ally! Here was a fellow worker bee! Another American who believed in the good old American work ethic! We were a team!

YES! I said, looking at her, smiling as warmly as I could. Yes! I wanted to grab her hand and squeeze it tightly.

The woman looked so beat up…the way my late mom did (without the eye problems) at the end of her working life!

It is wrong that a person who worked hard in America should look this way, courtesy of the American economy … end up so broken down for contributing to society, working a job.

It is wrong that Dollar Store patron #1 has sucked off the Massachusetts welfare state for years, just like Mary Rondeau, and has no desire to achieve self-sufficiency. EVER.

Why should she?

She was able to buy way more stuff at the Dollar Store than me and D.S. patron #2!!

Cockeyed American economy!!!!