ask if we could still be blood sisters.
4
BLYTHEDALE
The big cast had to stay on for another six months after my spine was fused. Since my mother worked and couldn’t take care of me at home, in July 1963, I moved from the Hospital for Special Surgery to Blythedale, a convalescent home in White Plains, about an hour and a half away. A few other girls, including Susie, went there also, as did the only boy, Edwin. I went gladly. I wouldn’t have wanted to be at home, unable to move.
Blythedale was like the hospital, young children on one side and older kids on the other. Except no one had surgery there, and there were no doctors making rounds. You saw a doctor only when you got the flu.
Since I had no choice, I got used to being dependent and being handled by nurses and aides. In the big casts, we were not allowed to get up on stretchers, but our beds were pushed around by porters. We all lay on our stomachs, with sandbags under our chests, which lifted our torsos so that we could freely use our arms. Our beds got pushed to the recreation room, and to the schoolroom, where the one teacher, Miss Fox, treated us all equally, whether we were in first grade or twelfth.
“No talking or laughing!”
Our beds were also pushed outside, on the extensive Blythedale grounds. It felt strange but wonderful to be in bed under a tree. I hadn’t seen so many trees since I’d left Sicily. During the last two years, I’d been indoors, either in our Brooklyn apartment or in the hospital.
I loved watching the squirrels chase each other and listening to the sparrows chirp. It was summer, so we stayed outside most of the day and sometimes into the evening. If Seth and Sarah, the two recreation counselors, could work late, we might have a campfire. Some in beds, others on stretchers and in wheelchairs, we formed a wide circle around the fire. Seth roasted marshmallows and Sarah played her guitar and sang. We all sang along.
I knew Audrey wouldn’t be able to come see me in Blythedale. I had hoped to talk to her on the phone. But that wasn’t easy. There was a pay phone in the recreation room, but I had to get someone to push me there, put the coins in, and dial the number for me. It took a lot of coins to call Audrey on Long Island. When I managed to call her, and told her about Blythedale, she said it sounded like the summer camp for handicapped kids she went to.
To talk to my parents, I had someone put in the coins, dial the number, let the phone ring once, and then hang up so I’d get my coins back. My parents knew it was my signal and called me.
Since Blythedale was so far, my parents could come only on weekends. That’s also when Susie’s parents came. Often my parents and Susie’s met at the station and arrived together, carrying shopping bags full of good food: fresh mozzarella, prosciutto, dried sausage, crusty bread. We all sat together under a tree and had a picnic. Speaking the Sicilian dialect, our parents reminisced about their beloved island and its legendary beauty. They also talked about the poverty, the lack of education, the unemployment that forced many to emigrate. Sometimes my father recited Sicilian poetry. His favorite poet was Ignazio Buttitta. My father sounded angry and sad as he spoke of Sicilians being scorned for their dark complexion, their alleged uncleanliness and laziness. His voice got loud. Other kids’ parents looked at us. “Semu chiamati pi mjuria terroni; ca l’omini da Sicilia non semu genti boni. To insult us they call us ‘made of dirt’; Sicilians, they say, are not good people.”
During the week, I spent the mornings studying. Miss Fox was not much help, but the college students who came and tutored us were great. They came from different schools—from nearby Westchester Community College as well as from faraway New York University. I loved to hear about their courses. To me, even midterms and finals sounded like fun.
I studied American history, read about the colonies and the Revolutionary War, tried to memorize the names of the presidents, was fascinated by Abraham Lincoln, was horrified to learn about slavery. I read about Franklin Delano Roosevelt, known as FDR, the president who had polio. My book said he “conquered polio” to become one of our greatest presidents. I asked my tutors if he was really cured, as my father had told me. “No” was the answer, “but he couldn’t have been president if he had been seen as handicapped.”
In the afternoon, we had recreation. We didn’t glue tiles on metal ashtrays like we did in the hospital. Seth and Sarah had us write poetry, act in plays, and work on art projects. I adored them.
Sarah had very long, dark hair, wore sandals, and always carried her guitar. She taught us folk songs. Folk songs were different from the songs I listened to with Audrey. They were quieter and more serious. I didn’t like them at first, but when I listened carefully, I realized how much meaning was in the words. The songs reminded me of my father’s poetry. They were about freedom, equality, solidarity, peace, not about boyfriends and girlfriends. We listened to Pete Seeger and Peter, Paul and Mary on the stereo in the recreation room. I tried to sing along: “If I had a hammer…” Sarah’s favorite folksinger was Joan Baez. The first time I heard a Joan Baez record, I was spellbound. I had my mother pack all of Audrey’s 45s and take them away.
Seth also wore sandals and had lots of curly brown hair. He talked about Dr. Martin Luther King. Dr. King was not a medical doctor, but a doctor of theology and a Baptist minister. Seth and Sara were both Jewish, like Audrey. I knew kids of various Protestant denominations and a girl who was Hindu. Since in Riposto everyone was Catholic, I loved the idea of people having different religions, or no religion at all.
Dr. King, Seth told us, was a leader in the civil rights movement. I wanted to know all about the civil rights movement. I was outraged at the thought of racial segregation and discrimination. I was mesmerized by the story of Rosa Parks, who refused to sit in the back of the bus. I wished I could be a freedom rider. I pictured myself on a bus heading south, sitting next to Marcus, my favorite tutor, a very handsome black student from NYU. I wouldn’t be afraid to get arrested, I told myself. I would be proud to go to jail with Dr. King. Nor would I be afraid of the Ku Klux Klan. I pictured myself holding Marcus’s hand and confronting a man in a white hood.
Seth, Sarah, and Marcus had gone to the March on Washington on August 28. Hundreds of thousands of people from all over the country were there, they told me. How I wished I could have gone with them!
“Did Joan Baez sing?”
Of course, they told me. But the most exciting part of the rally had been Dr. King’s speech.
“What did he say? Tell me everything.”
They couldn’t tell me without getting all choked up. Even Seth’s eyes got misty as he recalled Dr. King’s words: “I have a dream…” Sarah started strumming her guitar and humming softly. We all sang “We Shall Overcome.”
The months passed quickly in Blythedale. In my bed in the big cast, I watched the leaves on the trees turn yellow and red, and dreamed of the time when my hair would be long like Sarah’s. I would be a college student, go to folk concerts, and go to demonstrations in Washington and hear Dr. King speak.
One day in November, I was in the schoolroom, working with Marcus, when Sarah tiptoed in and whispered in my ear that there was a phone call from a friend of mine who seemed anxious to speak to me. I asked Miss Fox to excuse me and asked Marcus to push my bed to the phone.
It was Audrey. She started crying the moment she heard my voice. The boy she had a crush on had a girlfriend, a normal girlfriend, of course. I couldn’t make out the
