As part of an ongoing collaboration with MoCADA (the Museum of Contemporary African Diasporan Arts), New York City StoryBooth staff completed a day of recording in the basement of the building that is home to both StoryCorps and the museum in the Fort Greene neighborhood of Brooklyn. Curator Dexter Wimberly worked with StoryCorps to bring in a diverse group of artists to talk about their work, life, and inspirations, which led to the opening of the exhibition “The Gentrification of Brooklyn: The Pink Elephant Speaks” at MoCADA on February 4th.

While I was away, super StoryBooth interns Charlotte Okie and Liam Pierce attended the event to work the crowd, dish about StoryCorps, snap a few photos and take names.

Charlotte Okie reports:

The hall was chock full for the three-hour opening, but it didn’t seem to deter anyone; people kept pouring in, filtering through the exhibit and making contacts, and MoCADA had to force people to go at the end. Gentrification is a topic close to the hearts of Brooklynites, particularly residents of Fort Greene, the neighborhood where MoCADA and StoryCorps have set up their headquarters. Stories jumped off the exhibition walls (through art from the likes of Rachel Falcone and Michael Premo, who also happen to be former StoryCorps facilitators) and flew around the room.

“I used to live in Fort Greene, back when it was mostly Italians!”
“I had to leave because the rent kept creeping up.”
“We were afraid to walk down our street five years ago. Now I let my kids run ahead.”

StoryCorps was there to remind visitors to the exhibition of the importance of talking and listening, of telling these stories and remembering our varied and collective pasts, arguing and agreeing, and working together for a better future.

Thanks Charlotte and Liam!

For those interested, the exhibition will run through May 16 in MoCADA’s gallery.

One of the great privileges of working on the StoryCorps project is that as Facilitators, we are occasional witnesses to wonderful first person accounts of history that make all of those high school history lessons come to life, and seem more relevant. Participant Frank Scardiglia tells such a story to his son Mark Scardiglia at the StoryBooth in Lower Manhattan. Growing up in Lucca, Italy during WWII, he describes the summer of 1944 when SS soldiers occupied the small town before the liberation. “That was a very very painful part of our lives. There was a shortage of food, we were under constant bombardment.” Young men were frequently shot on sight and Frank learned to dodge mortar. “I learned to recognize when the shell came near us because the pitch of the sound decreased at a very rapid rate. As long as the shell kept a very high pitch I knew it was going over us and we were safe. Otherwise it was a bad situation.”

We were very glad when the Americans came. All the bells in the [church] steeples of Lucca started peeling like it was Easter.” It was the 92nd Division of African American Soldiers, also known as Buffalo Soldiers that liberated Lucca that day, and Frank’s encounter with one of the soldiers is particularly compelling.

“We were glad when we saw someone with a darker face because we knew they were not Germans! I came in contact with one. I knew not a single word of English, [but] I wanted him to tell my grandparents in Chicago that we were ok.” So he picked up an Italian-English Dictionary and using one word at a time, relayed the message. The soldier found his family’s address and three months later he got word from his grandparents that they had received the letter.

Frank never saw the soldier again, but his memory of that day and gratitude for the soldier’s service left indelible marks on his life.

Hector “Nicer” Nazario grew up in the South Bronx interested in art, but there were few outlets to quench his thirst. In the 1980s there weren’t many art school programs, so he was drawn to the art and color that surrounded him. The South Bronx landscape consisted of abandoned buildings and rubble, but it was the graffiti that decorated the walls and subway cars that caught Hector’s eye. “We didn’t know we were poor, for us it was just kids playing in our surroundings…it was just fun.” Hector chose the nickname Nicer for himself that remains his nom de plume. “It started as “Too Nice but then I found out there was a ‘Too Nice’ in Brooklyn. So I added an “er” [to Nice]. I liked the way it looked.”

Hector “Nicer” Nazario is considered one of the pioneers of the Hip Hop movement. Nicer and his crew would paint backdrops for Afrika Bambaataa’s shows and if you look closely you’ll see the work of Nicer and his friends in Bambaataa’s Planet Rock Video. That’s him scrawling on the glass near the end of the video in the ice blue cap and matching jacket.

“We didn’t realize we were doing work. The cash was alright but it was more about the paint. It was our lifestyle, our expression, [we were] identifying with the people from our community.” His mother didn’t think much of it at the time. “Eso no te va dejar nada” which translates to “That won’t leave you with anything.” Thirty years later, Nicer is still painting and his company Tats Cru are commissioned to do murals all over the world.

Upon his return from a Kwanzaa festival in December of 1994,  Malchijah Charles suddenly fell ill. He began suffering from seizures, slipped into a coma, and never recovered.

After losing her son to meningitis in 1995, Sharon “Ife” Charles was devastated and felt lost. “I felt as though my world had come to an end because the one thing I was sure I had done right in my life was having my son. Because of the kind of spirit that he had. When Malchijah died, the human part of me left.  I focused everything on what it was to be a mom and dismissed what it was to be a woman, an individual, and so I lost me.”

In the aftermath of Malchijah’s death, Sharon Charles turned to the Yoruba faith and adopted the Orisa name “Ife”, which means love. This became a source of strength for her. “Ife became a name that stuck with me because each time I said it I was forced to say love.”

One of Malchijah’s teachers knew of Ife’s commitment to her community and encouraged her to join a mediation training workshop at the Crown Heights Community Mediation Center, a unique neighborhood institution that works to improve community problem-solving, collaboration, and inter-group relations in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. In October of 1999 Ife began working at the Mediation Center where she quickly established a reputation as a unifier, community confidant and mother figure to many of the neighborhood’s youth.

This raised the question, “How many young people call you mom?”

“I lost one son, but I have approximately 8 sons and nine daughters, plus an additional 12 or 13, plus about 30 kids who call me mom or Ms E. or Ms. C.”

“Malchiljah’s name means a messenger sent by God. If anyone had told me by losing my child I would have gained so many children I would have laughed at them.”

Fighting back the tears, Sharon explained, “At first I used to feel guilty about embracing another child, but I know because of who he is and the things he has done in my life that when I hold onto one of the other kids that I’m holding onto my own son. It’s difficult because I don’t get to smell his hair or see his smile, but I get to feel the love they give to me and I know that it’s part of the love my son has for me.”

When asked what her work has meant to her, Ife invokes the spirit of her chosen name, “I have love for where I live, love for the mediation center and for the folks that I work with – its a genuine love. There are times I get completely frustrated but I’d love to see this community work hand in hand. It’s something I want to see.”

Always the entrepreneur, Roger would buy shopping bags for two cents a piece and sell them on weekends for a nickel. “I would come home with my pockets bulging with coins. Five or six dollars was like a fortune to me as a kid.” His family owned the first television in their apartment building. “I grew up on television. All the kids would come up and I would charge them a penny to watch The Howdy Doody Show.”

His fondest memories are of La Marqueta, which used to be on 110th Street and Madison Avenue. “My fondest memory is holding onto my grandmother’s hand as she did her shopping rounds, it was a magical world. It was a place where the world met, Hispanics from the outer boroughs, Puerto Ricans from Connecticut.” They couldn’t buy their products from local vendors like beans, cilantro, and banana leaves for pasteles, a very complicated dish that his grandmother made on holidays. “My grandmother used to get up at three o’clock in the morning and start making it.”

Roger’s boyhood hero and inspiration was the actor Jose Ferrer, who was the first Puerto Rican actor to win an Oscar for his portrayal of Cyrano De Bergerac. Roger wanted to be an actor and/or an architect and performed in some Off-Broadway plays, but ultimately he went on to become a social worker. “It was the next best thing. Coming from East Harlem I thought I had something to offer kids from my generation or younger kids (to) pass it on.”

Seitu, Amir and Tunisia Solomon come from three generations of steel pan musicians. As early as three years old their father taught them how to play and their uncle Phil made the drums in his factory in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Amir explains if you want to know what a steel pan looks like, “just look at a garbage can in the streets.”  The creation of a steel pan is work intensive. It starts out as a 50 gallon oil barrel then each steel pan is hammered, sculpted and tuned by hand.

The entire Solomon family travels together playing Soca, Calypso, Rumba and classical music at weddings and shows to the delight of audiences.  While all three mentioned being in the spotlight and getting attention as highlights of performing, they emphasized that the real benefit is being part of a musical family. “There’s always something we can agree with at the end of the day because everyone plays music. It’s special to have a family that can come together, go downstairs and just perform and practice,” says eldest sibling Amir.

Seitu agreed. “I really like it. Any song that I hear I can refer to anyone in my family to help me learn. It’s good to have them there. My family can adjust to any mistake that I make. If I mess up or miss my cue for a melody they all just shift accordingly to help me out,” says Seitu.

Amir appreciates the family bond as well. “There’s usually not a lot of communication in a lot of households, but with music the communication has to be there. You have to understand when the bridges are coming up. If you don’t communicate then it’s not going to be a complete song and the band won’t continue. A lot of families don’t have that thing that they can all come together and do. One kid likes basketball, one kid’s a nerd, one kid who likes getting in trouble, (with us) the music brings everyone together.”

At the end of the interview to demonstrate the range of his talents, Seitu broke out his chrome tenor single drum and played Mozart’s Rondo Alla Turca and the Carribbean classic, Fire Fire, that filled the booth with a warm island sound.

When participants Mustafa Ganem and Karl Coulter entered the StoryBooth to tell their story they seemed a little nervous, but quickly settled in and opened up. Karl spoke of the challenges of growing up Protestant in the midst of political and religious struggle with Catholics in Northern Ireland and his desire for a peaceful conclusion, while Mustafa discussed the challenges of growing up as an Arab in Israel.

Mustafa said, “I feel hopeful that there can be peace when I see other people like myself or like you who are willing to talk and get to a common ground and understanding. Like when I meet people at Face to Face. (They) let people talk about their conflicts and their own experiences and how did it feel, and it teaches you to listen. I think also the problem back home is no one from both sides are willing to listen to each other.”

When Mustafa joined Face to Face in 2006 he was part of a group of six Arab and six Jewish students. During his conversation with Karl he had an opportunity to reflect on the impact the organization had on what had proven to be a contentious relationship.

“They taught us the skills of listening. After that our group changed. They suddenly shut up and stopped arguing, we began to understand why this happened and why each of us reflects that way.”

Karl said, “It’s the same where I’m from as well. Everyone’s brought up to not talk,  not really communicate with the other. Whenever I went to Face to Face and met up with people like Pierce McConkey who is a Catholic and another guy who was affiliated with the IRA…you can see what they’re thinking, share their opinions, see they’re not the bad people they were made out to be. They’re just normal people with the desire for peace.”

By the end of the interview both vowed to remain hopeful and positive while keeping their ears open and the dialogue flowing. And what better way to break down cultural barriers and defenses than a hoop-less game of basketball in Foley Square?

_

Retired firefighter Harriet Duren and New York City Fire Museum director, Linda Burke, came to the StoryBooth in Lower Manhattan and talked about being in one of the first classes of female firefighters in New York City.

Born and raised in Harlem, Harriet talked about her family’s reaction to her decision to become a firefighter. “They laughed at me. My father was impressed,  but he never would say anything. My mother was adamant against it. She did not want me to come into this job. The idea of going into the fire department was something very strange. They thought that maybe a police would be better – at least I’d have a gun.”

She later describes what it was like the first time she entered a burning building. “The one thing that really enc0mpasses you when you go in there, it can be very quiet. And you can hear the fire crackling. It’s like you, you’re in a sound proof booth, because all of the smoke and gases are around and you have on your mask, and you’re searching, really searching….”

She also remembered her last fire in harrowing detail.

“It was on a Sunday  at 1:00 in the morning and by 1:05 I was on fire and out the window. We went in the top floor to search and it exploded and all of it came on me, and then I was on fire and I had to go out the  3rd floor window.

The fire truck couldn’t get the ladder over to us so they told us to jump. I saw my lieutenant go out the window and I saw my irons guy-and they never woke up. So I thought I was going to be dead too. I stopped to pray first, and when I did, firetrucks came, another firefighter ran up to the building, and when I got ready to jump he put his body in the way. I jumped from the 3rd floor to cement and I didn’t break anything. It saved my life. I never forgot him.”

Harriet was with one of the first fire engines to respond to the 1993 World Trade Center attacks – her engine received a medal for their work there.

After 15 years in the New York Fire Department, Harriet retired from active  duty, but is still fighting fires by teaching fire safety at the New York City Fire Museum.

Mamie remembers her first job teaching beginner’s algebra in 1939 at an all black school in Prince George County, Petersburg , VA:

“The students didn’t have any new books or materials to work with,” says Ms. Todd. “The children would have to sit together in the same seat and use a book that had missing pages, (there was) not enough pencils and papers. We weren’t paid very much at all and I had to share everything with them. ”

Her husband to be, who was also a teacher, brought her pencils and paper from his class to help them get by. Mamie complained to the principal about the lack of materials to no avail. She was forced to do the best she could with what she had.

One day two men stood in the back of her class room with their coats and hats on and didn’t say a word. (”I thought they were building inspectors.”)

The principal later informed Ms. Todd that one of the visitors was the Superintendent of Schools – and she had ignored him. The Superintendent returned to her class the next day and requested that she come to his office.

When she arrived, the secretary informed her, “Colored teachers come around the back. ” But Ms. Todd was determined:

“Well there’s his desk right there and here’s the swinging gate…so I walked on through and went to his desk.

I really leveled with him. He was a human being too. I knew we had that much in common. I always knew that people could change. I had been taught that. I trusted that if he knew like I knew…that he couldn’t sit behind that polished desk and do nothing about it.

By 10:30 the next morning a pick up truck came with everything I could think of that the school needed.

I wasn’t afraid of him. The worst he could do was fire me.”

Later, her daughter Ann wondered if Mamie had ever been afraid of anyone. Mamie paused as if to consider the question for the very first time.

“I don’t know. I’d have to think about it.”

Early morning residents of near by Chinatown practice Tai Chi on the park’s lawns. During business hours a steady flow of tourists pose and snap shots while the area’s nine-to-five inhabitants – business people, lawyers and civil servants bustle to and fro. A transient parks his overloaded trestle by a park bench and washes up muttering to sweet nothings to himself, children play in the cool water of memorial’s fountain. They all seem to lead disparate and disconnected lives. Later, two participants come to booth and spend forty minutes of quiet, uninterrupted time together. They come talk about anything, their history – family, friends, hopes, dreams, fears, loves of their life. In the end, they’ve shared a part of themselves, their stories, their lives, and leave having had an opportunity to make history. With their permission their conversation is archived at the American Folklife Center at the Library of Congress.

People come by the booth all the time to ask questions: “What is this?”, “Do you have a restroom?” (we don’t) or to proclaim “Now I gotta story to tell”. Many have returned to do just that.

And who says Lower Manhattan is dead after hours? When the sun sets, after the denizens of Lower Manhattan corporate life return home and the tourists migrate uptown, Foley Square becomes a destination some of the city’s more colorful characters, skateboarders practicing jumps, couples on late-night romantic walks, and those just looking for a place to rest their feet after a long day of touring the city. Each has a story to tell…