New York! New York!

I LOVE NEW YORK! Despite everything that goes on here, I still love it.

Where should I begin?

I have been a native New Yorker since the day I was born. As far back as I can remember, it was just the three of us: Mom, Dad, and little young me. For starters, we lived in an apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It was close in proximity to Columbia University. Right away, attending a university later on in life was ingrained very early on. I remember looking out of the window at night and barely seeing images in the darkness. I was able to make out some sort of park. It looked like some sort of park that I saw on a jazz record cover. I saw the lights just barely above the trees. They looked like steady neon flames. It was so nice when balanced against the nighttime sky. How much did it make an impression on me? I was almost two years old at the time.

At some time just before 1958, my maternal grandmother had passed away. I barely remembered her, but I remember her sister, my Grandaunt Van, much better because she lived longer. I was barely unaware of my grandmother and, thus, had no idea of the fact that she had passed on. I do remember my Dad putting Mom and me into his 1955 Oldsmobile 88, a rolling battleship due to its very thick skin of Detroit iron. We then headed to Queens.

We pulled up to my present residence that year in 1958 and, unbeknownst to me, I was about to begin the longest tenure in the same residence. At the time, I met many neighbors over those decades. Houses changed, others were razed and newer one replaced the missing ones. So many businesses came and left. Trees grew and grew while others either blew over in storms while others had to be chopped down. I watched the gradual change in the cars as they passed through the block.

The biggest change for me was the atmosphere in the neighborhood. When I was almost three and for a short period of time, you could have left your bicycle outside by accident on the front lawn and then go out in the AM to retrieve it from the same spot. Neighbors were friendly and trusting. The African proverb that said "It takes a village to raise a child" was clearly evident. I can think of a few times when I was a hellraiser in one part of the neighborhood and having the news of my misadventure reach home before I could. It was that kind of place. A young lady could go from Point A to Point B without some goon trying to sexually attack her. It was the definition of safe. Everybody looked after everybody. Everybody knew everybody. My Dad usually sent me to the corner grocery store to pick up his Camel cigarettes. The store owner knew us and gave me the pack knowing that I was going to take them to my Dad which I did. It was about as close to a utopia that one could get.

Things started to change in 1968. Drugs started to become a new factor. Undesirable individuals started pouring into the mix. Before you knew it, we had to be taught about something called drugs and I don't mean the hospital drugs. These were the things being pedaled on the utopian streets we once enjoyed. Instead of being able to hang outside until 11 PM catching fireflies with our friends, we nurtured a curfew that was expressed as "Get inside before the lights come on." We did have exceptions to the light rule. That was when our parents came out to chat with neighbors on each others' stoops. We still made the best of the situation. There were enough of us kids to organize a block punch ball game at times. The secret was to really get some power into your swing and knock that handball clearly over second base to get a home run. You didn't care if your punching hand got crushed in a door. If you played the game, you wanted that home run because you became the sports hero that day. Yours truly got a few of those. At one point, I decided that I was ready to move up to an organized CYO team in my Catholic school parish.

But that year, we saw the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King in April and Senator Robert Kennedy shortly after in early June. Racial issues became the norm and drug dealers took advantage of the uprising throughout the country. Our parents, God bless them, did all they could to shield us from all the problems that sprang up all around us. I simply involved myself in three activities: serving Mass as an altar boy, playing baseball, riding my bike, and just going to school. It was just a normal childhood to me.

Two years later, it was time to start high school. I feared attending a public school. I used to hear many stories about fights and such. Were they true? I guess I had to accept it as truth from the source because I was not about to go and investigate. If they said there were fights, there were fights. Case closed. Looking back, I guess that it would have been easier on my parents financially, but I secretly wanted to go to a nice Catholic school. I would go to school and make my decision. My teacher would give me Catholic school and public school papers. Strange enough, only the Catholic school papers made it home to my parents. For some reason, the public school applications never made it to my house. I guess they may have been thrown out... oooops... er... I mean fell out of my book bag on the way home from school. Accidents happen. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I was accepted to a prestigious high school named Christ the King in Middle Village. Originally, it was my second choice and I was on a waiting list. When my childhood best friend Ronald was accepted to his first choice, he was taken off the CK list and I was moved up. I accepted the offer to attend CK and never regretted it since. I only wish that I put it down as my first choice when I put my high school wish list together. I never entered a high school before. This place was massive. There was a public high school in my neighborhood, but for reasons I stated earlier, I wasn't interested in going inside one. CK, on the other hand, was a pleasant sight to behold. From a bird's eye view, its most notable feature is that it resembled either a giant M or a giant W. Either way, you could not miss it if you were on an incoming or departing flight at one of the two Queens airports. The other external feature which was not the building itself was its location. It was adjoining an even more massive cemetery both next door and across the street, The only thing that separated the two grounds was Metropolitan Avenue. To the other side of CK were a city train station and a huge building which eventually housed a Toys-R-Us in its later years.

Attending CK meant that you had better develop a sick cemetery humor rather fast. No question about it. I remember wondering if there was a lunch bell. I just happened to look out of the window one day during my Math class and saw a funeral cortege arrive to bury someone. I nudged my classmate next to me and said,

"It must be lunchtime. The 12 o'clock funeral has arrived."

On another occasion, my gym teacher took our class out for a softball during the spring during our junior year. My best friend Bob and I were on opposing teams. He had first base and I was up to at. After swinging at the air on the first pitch and then watching a perfectly pitched ball get by me on the second pitch, I went for it all on the third pitch. I got lucky and hit a line drive clearly over the bush-covered cemetery wall. Bob, a very good-natured individual, playfully kept telling me to go back. I ran right by him knowing that I got my first and probably last home run that I would ever hit on the high school level. When I returned to home plate after hitting my two run homer, somebody told me,

"Maurice, you gotta go into the cemetery to get the ball."

To which I responded, "I don't think so. I follow the 'Maurice' rule here."

He asked, "What's that?"

I told him, "Whatever enters that cemetery stays in that cemetery-ball, birds, coffins. I'm a not going in there. If the ball is gone, then it's game over, dude. I am not going to go in there and disappear with that ball"

I never retrieved the ball. I don't think anyone including the gym teacher did either.

Yes, although there was work in order to get into college, my high school years were always a fun time in my life. I met lifelong friends that now go back almost 50 years at the time of this writing. We entered that building in 1970 and graduated four years later.

For me, the next step was college. I attended the ivory halls of St. John's University in Jamaica, Queens. Although I met other nice people, it was not CK. I missed my CK friends already. I don't know the exact number, but I will say about 20 to 25 of us went on to SJU. One was the classmate who I wish I married. Unfortunately, God called her home in 2008. Aside from that SJU was work, work and if you had some time to yourself, more work. Unfortunately, I found time to play and my grades suffered. I had no one to blame but myself. I did graduate and became a teacher.

I only worked in Queens, Brooklyn and the Bronx during my career. Never Manhattan or Staten Island, the other two boroughs of NYC. It allowed me to see other areas of my city, my home. I am sure that other people have similar nice memories of their areas as I do of mine. I watched different areas and even different cultures. Some places are still feeling the sting of 1968 and I do my best to avoid those areas.

Now, at 61, I like to visit my old hangouts and reminisce about the old times. I miss those good times and the people in my memory even more than the buildings themselves. My best friends in life will ALWAYS be my high school friends. They are a huge part of my New York memories. I watched the town, no, the city, I grew up in change over a period of time. Even after the travesty known as 9/11/01, it is still a vibrant and great place to live. Are there trying times? Yes. Do we deal with tribulations? Yes? Are we a strong city? YES! It helped me become the person I am today.

I think that Frank Sinatra sang it well about New York. "If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere."

I made it! Thank you, New York, New York!!!