Rant #2,471: Everybody's Beautiful

Well, it really isn't in my world, at least, but I can say that there are people in this world who are nice, and others who simply aren't.

I know that you those readers of this blog who live in other places and have no idea what I am talking about when I mention my old neighborhood, I am going to try again to tell you about the magical place where I grew up during some of my most formative years--from age seven to age 14.

Rochdale Village, in South Jamaica, Queens, New York, was then a new neighborhood, and I mean brand new, as buildings were rising as residents move into the sprawling development in 1963. Most of us moved in during 1964, and to be seven years old and see the next of the 20 13-floor buildings rise was a wonder, and yes, was truly magical. It was like the toy dump trucks we played with in the still virgin dirt--no grass planted yet--had come alive right before our young eyes.

Thousands of middle-class families--mainly New York City union members--moved into this new neighborhood, and all of these families, in turn, each seemed to contain one or two or sometimes three and four children, all of Baby Boomer age, so it seemed that there were thousands of kids now calling the place home, and in fact, there were, based on the fact that three public schools--two grammar schools and a junior high school--all rose on these new grounds.

The first few years there were nearly idyllic. We thought that we were in our own Garden of Eden, and our parents thought they would live there forever, whites and blacks living together in a way that only could happen in story books or on an episode of TV's "Julia."

Or at least it seemed so on the surface, but underneath, there was lots of bitterness, lots of misunderstanding, lots of miscommunication.

The first residents of the community moved in during a seismic upheaval of our world, just around the time that our president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was murdered. When Rochdale Village--named after the first co-op in England--was firmly establishing itself, its residents also experienced another seismic upheaval, when Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King were murdered in 1968.

Couple that with almost seemingly constant teacher strikes and other social changes in society, and Rochdale Village turned into a battleground, of sorts, a predominantly white area existing in a traditional black neighborhood.

One thing lead to another, and most original residents left. Eve had bitten the apple in our own version of the Garden of Eden, and things would never be the same again.

Rochdale Village survives more than 50 years later as one of the most thriving predominantly black neighborhoods in not only New York City but in the United States, and its future, once doubtful, will sustain it into the future.

That, in a nutshell, is the story of Rochdale Village, and that begs the question: Why am I even bringing it up anyway?

The reason is that for whatever reason, the bond between those who lived there survives decades after most of us left there.

My parents still have friends that they are friendly with from the old neighborhood, and their advanced age--my parents are 88 years of age and some of their friends have got to be in their 90s--has dampened the enthusiasm they have in talking to each other and keeping their friendship intact.

As for their progeny, there was something about growing up in Rochdale Village during those early years that was truly magical. There is no other way to describe it.

All of us Baby Boomers are joined at the hip, and I mean firmly joined at the hip, and social networks like Facebook have helped us maintain, or even start anew, or friendships.

Case in point what happened yesterday to me. I will let my Facebook post describe exactly what happened:

"During this period where I am in-between jobs, I have learned that people DO care, and that makes me feel good.

And while I won't reveal the person's name who has my back--I will tell you that the person is a lawyer--that person did a nice thing for me today, which was to circulate my resume among his or her fellow law firms.

Although it has not borne fruit yet, it really made my day ... and what made it even more special is that the person knew me from my old neighborhood of Rochdale Village, South Jamaica, Queens, New York.

I will not reveal the person's name, but this person really did a "mitzvah" today, and I will never forget it, even if it leads nowhere.

There are nice people in this world, and this person is one of them.

Thanks to that person. What a nice thing to do, and it came completely out of the blue!"

Yes, I didn't know the actual person who did this that well, but I did know a member of his family very well, someone who also lived in my old neighborhood of Rochdale Village.

It was this person's cousin, who I knew very, very well. He was one of my best friends, and one of my life's regrets is that I did not keep up the friendship. And the time is lost, as he passed away at a young age so many years ago. His sister contacted me a few years back when she saw that I put up a photo including her brother, and I do miss the guy. He was such fun to be with, and he was so different than my other friends, but a friend he was.

So, my friend's cousin, so small when I knew at least of him but now an attorney, took it upon himself to try to help me, and whatever happens, I am just so happy at what this person did for me.

Blood is thicker than water, and yes, I do feel that everybody who grew up in Rochdale Village at that time--male, female, older and younger, black and white and brown and any other color in the spectrum--we are all connected, we all share the same blood, and this act really gave me a boost that I know will last with me forever.

So thanks to that person, I really appreciate it, and with this blog entry, I hope I illustrated to those who don't know Rochdale Village from Middle Village just how special Rochdale was, whether we are talking about 50 years ago or today.

Rochdale Village lives, and will always live in my heart.