Scene from a Life: How I Managed to Avoid Breaks and Bruises (also in present tense, for the most part)

Pastrami a go-go and other wry tales of the city #44

When other kids were leaping for that Willie Mays style catch or crushing linebackers, or wielding a tennis racket like a samurai sword, I somehow avoided bruises, sprains, and breaks through childhood and adult life without these feats of athleticism.

As the last and smallest person picked for ringolevio by the neighborhood kids in the Linden Houses, I formed my own team of those who avoided selection, including the overweight kid, the one with thick glasses, and other smaller opponents. But mostly, I turned to reading the adventures of my fellow redhead Harriet the Spy, Birdie Boyer ‘s life in the Florida backwoods in Lois Lenski’s Strawberry Girl, and of course, Judy Blume’s Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. (Years later, I met Judy Blume at a book party in her Upper West Side apartment. She complimented my book about a boy living with AIDS before I could say a word about my friend Margaret.) Before I hit the sixth grade, my reading scores were at the college. My math scores never caught up.

And my father took us on regular visits to the New Lots branch of the Brooklyn Public Library. Somehow, Iskipped Dr. Seuss and went right to Highlights magazine, U.S. News & World Report, Jet, and Ebony magazine, sitting on wooden chairs and engrossed in stories about Black lives and success. I was more familiar with the name of John H. Johnson, the founder of Ebony, than I was of Winnie the Pooh.

Hidden behind the pots and pans in our Brooklyn apartment, I discovered my father’s hidden copy of The Story of O. To a nine year old, the story of a sadomasochistic love affair was confusing and I put the slim paperback back where I found it. There were many other choices. The Scholastic Book fair and my father’s love of reading left with me a constant supply of (other) paperbacks, newspapers, and magazines.

I read cookbooks, mysteries, biographies, autobiographies, novels, and how-tos, traveling to places where the island of the blue dolphin, medieval castles, farms, into the lives of photographers, baseball players, journalists, gardeners, sailors, abolitionists and advocates, presidents, people on the verge of success and those down and out. I passed on romance novels with Fabio on the cover.

When I wasn’t reading, I excelled at zooming past the neighborhood kids in skillful games of red, light, green, light, one two three in front of our apartment building. Skelly, wiffle ball, field hockey, and playing catch with a Spalding didn’t result in any injuries. Junior high volleyball? Not a scratch. Archery in high school? Not even a sprained finger. I played the clarinet. How dangerous could playing the Beatles Let It Be out of tune possibly be?

Phyllis Whitney who wrote more than 70 mystery novels, had grandchildren who attended Bellport High School. She sponsored a writing contest. Whitney wrote part of a story. Your assignment was to complete the rest. The winner was announced during home room and I remember daydreaming as I usually did until a classmate called out my name. Whitney greeting me warmly in the school library in an informal ceremony of sorts. I wished I remember what she said. My 15 year old self was thrilled. Many years later, I wrote her a letter. She wrote back in spindly handwriting - she was in her nineties at the time - saying how much it meant to hear to hear from a fan. I’ll have to dig out that letter.

Not a single black and blue mark over the years.

A few sprains and a herniated disc, though. My ankle went sideways after stepping into a pothole in midtown Manhattan. I didn’t see it coming. Too many pedestrians walking past me. The herniated disc arrived after lifting up my couch to slide a rug under, after months of toting heavy video camera equipment. Not good.

But then, a few weeks ago, my feet went in one direction, my torso in another, and my head in yet a third direction while standing on a stage. The wooden steps hit my tibia or vice versa. My pale as cream cheese leg turned a startling shade of purple. My leg was painful to the touch, my ankle swollen.

How could this be? I’m not clumsy. I survived this long without falling off of a bicycle or down stairs or pummeled by a boxing opponent. I’ve seen many injuries in the boxing ring (writing about it was much safer).

You mean you were never injured? Most of my friends and acquaintances were incredulous. Some recalled emergency room visits and friends signing their casts.

Then I realized why this was unfamiliar territory to me.

I had always been too busy reading. I’ll keep it this way.