Son of a Bigot

The Summer of ’45 It was originally my intention to title this book The Summer of ’45. As time wore on and I prepared to sit down to put pen to pad on my observations about racial relations from the 1940s onward I decided the more appropriate title would be Son of a Bigot. Having grown up in Brooklyn, New York during The Great Depression in what I can only describe as a typically middle or lower-class neighborhood, it became apparent at an early age that my family was not well off. Hell, we lived on the second story of a four-story tenement in South Brooklyn. Our apartment was over a barber shop and a drug store. It was a cold water flat, but my mother often referred to it as a railroad apartment. No doubt because of the long hallway that linked every room. We had a small kitchen, a very large dining room, three bedrooms, and an enormous living room with two huge picture windows. The room was big enough for my two older brothers and I to hold boxing matches. As the youngest of three boys who shared the same bed, I resented my assignment to the middle. I’m convinced it caused my passionate dislike for crowded subways. However, had I dared complain, it would have only amused my brothers. On the flip side, come winter, I had the warmest spot in our unheated apartment. I credit some of my hardships growing up with enabling me to handle difficulties. It always makes me laugh when people complain about losing their air conditioning for an hour. I often wonder how my younger sister survived in our male-dominated family.