Housing Projects House Future Famous Children

My mother might not like this LiamLicks. Why? She does not admit to anyone that we lived in a NYC Housing Project. She believes that all the widows in the senior residence where she lives are rich with inherited money, grew up in mansions and think of projects as drug infested, dirty, urban horrors.
I found this out one night at dinner with her Tampa friends: I mentioned that I grew up in a city housing project. I thought this to be so exotic and so different from their backgrounds that they would view me with awe. How Leo of me! I was kicked so hard under the table that my wine spurted out of its glass. I do not know which made me sadder, being kicked by my mother, or losing my Shiraz. My mother admonished me later that "it was not good for folks to know of her background, because they looked down on middle class widows." I tried to compromise by offering in the future to say that only I grew up in public housing, and that she just lived there. A slight bit of blarney. She was fully grown when we moved to Pomonok in 1952. She just resided there for 22 years, did not grow up there, she was already formed.
However, now maybe she will change her mind about this blight on her life. Seems folks are rushing to admit that they grew up in "the projects" and others who have been outed as childhood residents of public housing projects are not racing to file a lawsuit.
And why I am thinking of this now?
We have Supreme Court Judge Nominee, Sonia Sotomayor from the Bronxdale houses on Bruckner Blvd in the Bronx, one of New York City's many housing projects.

The esteemed NY Times carried an article in its Sunday edition about famous children of the projects who have made it in the world in different ways. See "Up and Out of New York's Projects" NY Times 005/31/09 edition and "The Projects Were a Launching Pad for Many Successful New Yorkers" NY Times.com.

I grew up in Pomonok Houses in Flushing, Queens, NY. The NY Times article displays a picture of Congressman Gary Ackerman as a child growing up in Pomonok Houses Today at 66, Mr. Ackerman is easily identified by wearing a white carnation boutonniere on his jacket Very classy-all male Pomonok residents must have been required to wear them. I must have missed that.

There were rules to living in the Pomonok houses; there were several thousand residents, some sort of order had to be established.

One rule: we were not permitted to play or walk on the grass. I might have been there as early as the summer of 1952, (it opened in June 1952) since one photo shows me walking and pushing a carriage and there is no grass yet

Some information about Pomonok Houses-
Pomonok is a large New York City Housing Authority Project in south Flushing in the NYC borough of Queens. The construction of Pomonok began in 1949 and was finished in June 1952.
The name Pomonok comes from a Native American word for eastern Long Island and either means "land of tribute" or "land where there is travelling by water."
Pomonok was built on a golf course; its boundaries are 65th and 71st Avenue and Parsons and Kissena Boulevards. There are 35 buildings; 3, 7, 8 stories high, on 51.98 acres with 2071 apartments and about 4ooo plus people.
we lived on 71st here on 71st is 4 year old Carol and Grandpa Mickey Coughlin, circa 1954)

More rules from my childhood in Pomonok: No dogs, no cats; only small birds, fish and turtles. Liam would not have been allowed

Pomonok and those projects like Judge Sonia Sotomayor's were not the housing projects that evoke fear today. "In the 1940's, 50's and 60's when most of the city's public housing was built, a sense of pride and community permeated well-kept corridors, apartments and grounds. Far from dangerous, the projects were viewed as nurturing." (from NY Times) Lois and Carol McNiff circa 1955 in Pomonok ( on the grass, breaking the rules)

More rules: only certain color paints were permitted for the walls of the apartments. The sanctioned colors were grey or white. This changed years later. You could use other colors if you paid a penalty when moving out.

No air conditioning.

No screens to keep out bugs.

The Times article lists many people who were launched successfully from NYC Housing projects. I have added a few more notable people whose names I have bolded.

Pomonok Houses, Queens
Gary Ackerman U.S. Congressman
Carol McNiff writer, LiamLicks blog
Joan Leichter-Dominick, known for moving into Carol's 1st apartment
Lynne Nardoza Geiman, survived a childhood of living beneath the giant Pomonok water tank
Lana Kahn, daughter of renowned Pomonok grievance counselor, Ida Zuckerman.

Elliott-Chelsea Houses, Manhattan
Caryn Johnson AKA Whoopie Goldberg
Lynne Nardoza Geiman's grandparents

Marlboro Houses, Brooklyn
John Franco, baseball player
Lana Kahn's first residence, before she went west to Pomonok.

and hundreds more.

I always dreamed of having a dog. I have Liam now I waited a long time. I did not move into a house until I was 39. At times I still miss apartment living I liked being stacked on top of others and sandwiched among four families on a floor. However, we could not have dogs. So what about this pic of the little boy Gary Ackerman with a dog? Guess that was a borrowed or visiting dog.

When I talk to my mother this week, I will ask if she has revised her thinking on NYCH projects now that a woman from the projects has been nominated for the Supreme Court.
I will also ask what year we moved to Pomonok.

And the question most bothering me after viewing Congressman Ackerman and his dog
"Was there really a rule of "no dogs?" Maybe some were hiding

On second thought (or third) -the dog thing doesn't really matter-Liam was worth the wait-maybe the answer is not worth knowing now.
My parents both worked and my sister and I were in school all day.
Who would have cared for a McNiff dog during the day? A 1950's Liam would have been lonely
not like the 2009 much cared for Liam

Woof, woof

Puppy Picking on Pepper

Liam has a favorite toy, Mr. Pepper. He has an inner squeaker and because of this, falls into the toy category frowned upon by animal trainers. The fear is that the pet will eventually break through the outside casing, seize the squeaker, chew, swallow and choke on it. The squeaker is usually a tube sealed inside the toy. It makes noises appropriate for its species. If the toy is a duck, it will quack, a goose will honk, a bird will chirp, a cat meow, and so on. What noise would one expect a toy pepper to make? I guess noises evocative of real peppers: when chopped, a crunch, when fried, a sizzle, when inhaled by a novice eater, a howl. Liam's Mr. Pepper had a deep, almost chuckling sound when rolling down the stairs. Liam's Mr. Pepper made loud grunts when tossed in the air. No sizzles, no crunches, no howls. We all loved to hear him talk. He was the toy of choice when Liam went to day care or on vacation.. Mr. Pepper journeyed through every room, he was a traveling toy Most often escorted against his will by Liam. We thought of his noises as not emanating from his voice box but more from his heart. What intrigued Liam most, resulting in hours of intense play,was his desire to win Mr. Pepper's heart. Liam has thrown, poked, prodded, chewed licked (of course) his beloved toy. Mr. Pepper has responded with loud grunts and incredible durability. Mr. Pepper, earned the title of Mr. because he arrived from an elite East Side Manhattan pet shop, not just any chain pet store (not that there is anything wrong with them). All other toys are called "duck," "kitty""goose" etc., but Pepper is always Mr. Pepper, not Pep, Peppy or Pepper.

Early this week Liam seemed to focus on his pet with an intensity and concentration that has been reserved for peanut butter and lime tortilla chips. He went after Mr. Pepper. The following pictorial illustrates the scenes as they unfolded. I had the crisis of conscience that all photojournalists have. Do I become involved by stopping the story as it unfolds; do I drop my camera and intervene? Or do I allow this event to go forward? I choose to record it and observe. I think Bloggers are in a different group-our standards not yet defined.

Liam looking for Mr. Pepper Liam thinking: aah, here is Mr. Pepper, he is hiding behind the love seat

I'll get him out and we'll play got him, now for some fun let's make Mr. Pepper talk, shake him up

ooh, what is that? cotton balls? I think I found a way to his heart; is that his heart to the right?



oh no! It is over, those are not cotton balls, those are his stuffing's-aroooooooooooo :(



What have I done?

silence

Liam's hiding spot after or during mischief-behind the couch-has a piece of Mr. Pepper's heart

Take another piece of my heart now, baby
Break another little bit of my heart now, darling,
Hey! Have another little piece of my heart, now, baby, yeah
You know you got it if it makes you feel good.
Janis J-a long time ago

woof, woof

My night away with 5 middle-aged men

Many of you have offered ideas, shared your sleepless stories and asked questions about the LiamLicks blog "Sleepless in Rhinebeck" dated May 7, 2009. I now know there are many sleep deprived folks out there, like me. One suggestion was a sleep center. I did take part in a sleep study a few years ago and would like to relate the story of my stay. There were two stays but I will combine the highlights into one story. Why did I go? Recommendation of a wonderful doctor. He figured it would be beneficial to know what might be going on when I was not sleeping. If I in fact did fall asleep, someone would be there watching, observing and recording what kind of sleep I was having: restless, twitchy, REM non-REM. sleep apnea, snoring and all that.
The sleep clinic is sort of a college dorm with single rooms and a master control center out of sight of the dorm. I arrived with my pillow, PJ's, eyeglasses, (I usually wear contacts). I drove Sassy (Saturn) to the Center Paul followed me there in his car, Sam Adams Saturn, Sammy. I was not sure why. Did he want to make sure that I got there and was strapped in place? As the other guests arrived, I noticed that I was the only woman, all my other dorm mates were men; all were being delivered by their wives or woman friends. None seemed to have been followed in an unmarked spouse's car as I had been. Paul left after he dispatched me, as did the other women delivery persons. We were processed. I was then led to my sleep room Quite nice. Better than a mid level hotel room; except no mini bar. One cannot eat or drink while this sleep study is going on. The attaching of electrodes begins. Quite an involved process-head, body, legs If you are interested in a complete description try this site-www.talkaboutsleep.com or you know, just Google-sleep, lack of, help...
I peeked out to see my dorm mates. Five middle-aged men in pajamas. I have not slept with a group of strange men since the Hampton's beach houses in the late 60's and early 70's. Chaste sleep, just sleeping off a wild night out. During those nights I learned to sleep on top of a bureau, never moving. Paul has always marveled that, back in the day, when I slept, I was like a stone, once in place, no movement. I always explained that in the Hampton's houses, all shared a house and I tried not to fall off the bureaus onto those beneath. Being small I got the lusted bureau top consistently. At least I was successful at sleeping then. But that was then, this was now. This time we all had electrodes, masks lots of equipment and were being watched by technicians. I liked the idea of being watched. My sleepless nights at home usually involve me watching Paul, Liam and the parakeets sleep-this time someone would be watching me.

In each room, there is a wide screen TV, bolted way up on the wall that you can keep on all night. You can read. You cannot drink lattes, sip wine, devour middle of the night snacks-so no comforting bread and butter eaten in the dark, no sleep meds and no Gabriel Byrne's "In Treatment" -which had not yet begun its run on on HBO This was scary. All these items are part of my sleep ritual. I was strapped, taped, and settled in with my five guy mates. I asked the tech if anyone ever goes crazy, rips off their electrodes and runs out. "Oh, people do go crazy. Only men, so far, they run out, call a cab and vow never to return. Most often their wives have forced them to come to the study." Interesting. I asked to be here.

I had placed my eyeglasses on the table. Now that I was strapped in they were not reachable as they were on the opposite side of the bed. So I could not see the TV very well. I am very farsighted and all the images were too big. I needed to back up 20 feet and that was not possible. I tried to inch towards my glasses but felt my attached wires moving. So there I was . No eyeglasses to read or watch TV. What was I to do, listen to the TV? I started thinking about the bathroom. I had not drunk anything for hours prior to my admission in order to avoid having to go to the bathroom. The technician had shown me how to detach my wiring with minimum disruption and then suit myself back up. My obsession with the bathroom grew and I had to go. I got up, unplugged myself, passed another dorm mate on the way "Sweet Dreams," he said: we both smiled knowing neither of us had a chance of that. Had he been one of those strangers sleeping beneath me, in one of those Hampton houses 40 years ago? Maybe. This made me smile.
I arrive at the bathroom; false alarm. I return to bed. I try to make sense of the wires, but need my eyeglasses. Before I can get them, the sleep technician comes in the room and announces "You got up." "Yes, I did. How do you know?" "We know everything. We are watching. Suddenly you went off radar." Oooh, my Leo self loves this. I am being watched all the time. They like me. My reattachment is not right. Something is now wrong with my wiring (my fault for getting up) and I have to move to another room. This new room is like a Manhattan studio, a closet. I am so sad. I had a suite, now I am being punished; I have to sleep in a closet. The tech insists this is not a punishment. There are no more available rooms-full house tonight (Just like the Hampton's). I say nothing; next offering might be the top of a bureau. I settle in and start the countdown. It is now 12:30 AM, I watch the clock 'till 3:30 AM. I cannot move, I am trapped in wires, face beneath a mask. I do not sleep.

Wait, a light is on, A new tech arrives, "Good morning, test over." Did I sleep?" No answer

The official test results show that I had 50 leg movements an hour-(restless leg syndrome confirmed), 150 body movements (insomnia confirmed) Gasping, snoring, pauses in breathing (Sleep apnea confirmed ) and top that off with no REM stage sleep, not once. REM is that deep sleep so necessary to feel rested. The tech says I can get dressed in my day clothes. I do. I see my dorm mates getting their stuff. Their wives/ female friends coming to get them. No patients ran away. This group stayed in place all night. Me and my five middle-aged men. Sassy Saturn is waiting in the parking lot.

I passed all tests. I am a sleep-deprived mess. I have earned the right to the much-coveted CPAP machine I will be given an in-home lesson. After that I will begin using it immediately. My life will change. I will sleep soundly forever more. My eyes will open up like my baby eyes no longer at half-mast like my grownup middle-aged eyes Yay! My future looks bright. The study was worth it.

I get in Sassy Saturn, drive home. It is 6:30 AM, daylight already. It is late summer. I pull into our driveway, go to the side door. I ring the bell, knowing Paul is getting ready for work. Paul- Who is it? Me-Whom do you think would be at the side door, at 6:30 AM with a pillow. Let me in. He does.

I shower. I change into my work costume ( that would be one of my power suits, which I have since given away to more powerful women) and we go to work; we work in the same place. Beyond cute, that.

I never used the CPAP

I am now retired from work, but not from life.

I have not worn a suit in 17 months.

I have not had a good night's sleep in 72 months.

I have a dog for 17 months; he sleeps. See below.

After a good night's sleep, Liam plays in the sun


Woof, woof, and Sweet Dreams to those who sleep.

Followed , Flagged and Flogged

I was on my way to my monthly hair appointment, 4 minutes away by car. I usually "nuse" it, meaning do the hypotenuse, angling through instead of doing the right angle turn at New Hyde Park Road and Hillside Avenue. The hypotenuse is the side opposite the right angle. It is a shorter distance.-so it should really be a shortcut. Add in the traffic light at Hillside Avenue and NHP road, "nusing it" is almost always quicker.

However, not this time.

When the green left turn arrow invited me to do so; I made my left turn from New Hyde Park Road onto Hillside Avenue. Light traffic. It was Friday, May 8, at 9:55 AM so the school and work traffic were done. I proceeded down Hillside and made every light, not on yellow either; legit green. As I neared my hair salon, I noticed a black car behind me, lights flashing. I thought, Wow, some of these cars whizzing by me are in for a speeding ticket today. I continued to the corner, made a left and pulled to the side to park This black car with flashing lights followed, pulling up behind me. What! This car is following me! At this exact moment my friend, the hair salon owner, pulls in opposite me and waves. I motion with my head to the car behind me. She nods, sizing up the situation immediately. A police officer emerges from the flashing black car and strides up to my car's left side. I attempt to roll down the window, but Sassy (my Saturn's name) is not cooperating, the window is stuck. I open the door, Police Officer (seems to be real, not a impostor, we have had impostors in Nassau) says, "Do not get out."No, I am not. Just cannot get the window down."P.O.-"Did you know I was following you since you turned at New Hyde Park Road? Me-"No. I never noticed." Why would I? I did nothing to merit being followed. I am thinking I am on the TV show "Lost" as this guy looks like Richard from the Dharma initiative. Perhaps I have traveled back in time just like the characters on the show as this cannot be happening in this current enlightened time. P.O.- "License and registration please." You have to be kidding! Police officer-"You went over markings on NHP Park Road." Markings? What is he talking about? I mention that I have a hair appointment right now. I add "and that is why I am waving to the person on the other side of the street." P.O.-I will get you in there soon "My appt. is at 10 AM. I hate to be late. The police officer from "Lost" takes my info. My friend goes to him to see why I am being detained and what, if anything, can be done. She gets nowhere.
Obviously, he is indeed from the Dharma initiative and I am now starring in "Lost." My crime is a mystery to me. I have a ticket for something not even listed on the ticket form and the range is $180-230. His parting admonition of "Drive safely the rest of the day" just seems cruel.

I enter the salon to much sympathy and anger as well as confusion over my offense.

After I am done , I drive to the NHP Road and the Hillside intersection to take some shots of the "markings" I have violated. As I am shooting, a tow truck ( not pictured) comes by and its driver lets loose a bunch of curses. " F_ _ _ Y_ _ B_ _ _ _ Stop taking my picture. You have no right." Great. Now I am abused by a driver, full of road rage who thinks I am photographing him. He must be guilty of something and I bet he knows what it is. I envy his knowledge of his crime. Where is my unmarked police car when someone is really misbehaving?

I do not understand my offense recorded as "drove over markings at NHP Road and Oak Drive. When Paul comes home we drive down to the street, to revisit the "scene of the crime." Paul decides the crime is that I went into the left turn lane too early for my turn and drove over the grid markings. Hmm.

Of course, I intend to go to court to plead innocent. No court in session that day. The following Monday I am booked all day. My first free time is Tuesday afternoon, May 12th. I set out for the Hempstead Court House that afternoon. I am very lost for a while. This always happens to me in Hempstead, as so many streets intersect and end up in different places after they cross each other. I finally arrive. The court officers are very nice. I am informed that I am too early. I am told that my ticket has not yet arrived, maybe by the end of May. For some reason, one of the officers asks my age, and for an even stranger reason, I tell him. "I am 58." No reaction. I say, "Your mouth is supposed to drop. You then say. You look so young." He says, "I am 61, do I look young?" Oh, yes," I reply obsequiously. Another question from this court officer-"Are you married? Me-"Yes." Officer-"Too bad, I am looking."
They suggest I call in a few weeks to see if my ticket has arrived. One of the group jokes, "Of course by the time we answer the phone, you will be 59." I reply "By then maybe I will be single." Only kidding.

No resolution.

Liam waits at home patiently

By the way, I arrived in the salon at 10:07 AM. Late. However, the ticket was written at 10:00 AM on the dot. I was there timely. Whew! I am NOT GUILTY.

NOT GUILTY of being late for my hair appointment, that is.

Woof, woof