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The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots. Nancy A. Collins
Читать онлайн.Название The Archbishop Wore Combat Boots
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781612781174
Автор произведения Nancy A. Collins
Жанр Религиоведение
Издательство Ingram
He, did, however, have a soft spot which could backfire on him. At one point, he let a black youth, claiming his parents never cared for him, eat and sleep in the stable. As a result, several months later, Francis was hauled into court on a charge of “involuntary slavery,” the first such case since the Civil War. Being an equal-opportunity pin cushion, he was also once charged — by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals — with mistreating his goat. The animal, it seems, had a daily habit of ambling to nearby Heurich’s Brewery where he’d be given mash to nibble. Following a six-pack lunch, he’d lurch, happily, back home to the stable — until, that is, the day he got nabbed by a zealous SPCA officer who charged Francis with cruelty to animals. Francis’ final foray into misunderstood good will took place in a more public forum: a Washington Redskins football game in Griffith Stadium. Always up for the theatrical, Francis and a parachutist, dressed as Santa Claus, cooked up a surprise entrance onto the field during the game’s halftime. Just as Paratrooper Claus was about to hit the ground, Francis, driving a Santa sleigh, would speed onto the field in time to scoop up Kris Kringle and drive off. Alas, the best laid plans of mice and merriment often go awry — and did here. Instead of gracefully landing on the grass, as planned, a sudden gust of wind blew Santa into the nearby parking lot, where, landing unceremoniously, he sprained an ankle, leaving getaway-driver Francis racing, inexplicably, toward mid-field in front of hundreds of fans. Needless to say, the family dined out on that one for years.
Immaculate Conception School
All the Hannan boys, and most cousins, attended the Immaculate Conception Parish School, at 8th and N Streets. In 1920 carpooling fashion, Dad trundled us to school in the family’s horse-drawn carriage, clip-clopping along the asphalt, picking up any kids, regardless of race or nationality, along our route. In those days, Catholic boys were taught by male teachers, in this case the Brothers of Mary, advocates of those tried-and-true basics: education and discipline, the latter dispensed, if necessary, by a determined principal wielding a stout ruler. Complaining at home about a paddling simply guaranteed getting another from the Boss. Contrary to horror stories of parochial school punishment, nobody I knew ever complained. Most of us, after all, were the offspring of immigrants, seasoned believers that when it came to seizing opportunities afforded by this wonderful country, you did whatever it took — and took whatever resulted — without complaining. It was action that mattered. When it came to bullying, for instance, that hot button issue generating hours of discussion among today’s school administrators, the Brothers of Mary suggested, shall we say, a more hands-on approach. “The next time an older kid beats up on a younger one,” they instructed, “defend the little guy and beat the devil out of the big.”
I liked school — sports and studies which my mother monitored tenaciously. Every evening, sitting around the dinner table, our kitchen turned into a one-room school house overseen by Mother making sure that we did our homework. If anyone got stumped, we simply shouted across the table to our sister, Mary who knew everything. When it came to sports, meanwhile, baseball — played during recess and lunchtime — was my game (I was an outfielder). Growing up, my hero was Walter “The Big Train” Johnson, who, pitching for the Washington Senators from 1907 to 1927, wound up with 417 victories, second only to Cy Young in major league history. Sportswriter Ogden Nash wrote that he was called “The Big Train” because, fast and overpowering, “he could throw three strikes at a time.” I don’t know about that, but he certainly was my hero. When I was eleven, I wrote Johnson a letter, praising his pitching and sportsmanship. When he sent back a quick response, I couldn’t believe it: “Dear Philip, I am very grateful for your kind letter and appreciate your support of me.” In the seventh game of the 1924 World Series, Johnson, coming in as a reliever, pitched four scoreless innings, ensuring the Senators’ victory over the New York Giants. For me, it was one of the greatest nights of my young life, sitting in the stands, listening as my dad, literally, did play by play in the dark (in those days baseball parks weren’t lit at night). He explained that batters, hampered by nightfall and seeing only his release, not delivery, knew they struck out only after hearing the ball pop into the catcher’s mitt. Strike three!
Unfortunately, my grammar school years weren’t all World Series and hero worship. In fact, in the summer of 1919, Washington’s Seventh Street race riots resulted in the worst memory of my young years. After World War I, the African-American veterans who had to fight for the right to serve in actual combat roles in the Army returned home hoping that their proud military service would promote fair treatment as full-fledged U.S. citizens. It did not. Indeed, the civil rights situation worsened, causing clashes to break out between white and black veterans. It got so bad, in fact, that President Woodrow Wilson, in order to stop the riot, mobilized 2,000 troops who patrolled Seventh Street in armored cars. Even now, eighty years later, that scene — we small boys being protectively convoyed home by larger ones — remains vivid in my mind.
Blacks may have been persecuted in other parts of the city, but not where we lived. As an underdog growing up, my father favored the downtrodden. Unlike the prejudice of most whites toward blacks, Irish immigrants of that era retained a sense of kinship with Negroes, as they were then called, as fellow sufferers under tyranny. (Never did I hear the “N” word used in our home, church, or school.) In fact, my maternal grandfather, John Keefe, financially helped St. Cyprian’s Parish, a black Catholic parish; my own folks considered it a duty to contribute money to St. Augustine’s, a 15th Street parish for African-Americans, continuing a tradition started in the 1860s by President Lincoln who allowed St. Augustine to use the White House lawn for a fund-raising fair to build a new school. (Politically, my parents, though conservative, were, like most Catholic immigrants, Democrats. Though I never officially joined the Democratic Party, I always felt it was my party.)
In our family, meanwhile, any black workers or maids whom my father hired for business or home were always treated like family, in fact, were respected, mythic figures to my siblings and me: Old Joe, carrying a piano on his shoulders into our home, and Charlie Tatum from North Carolina, who could shovel dirt with one hand. (For the record, the Boss always used an African-American notary public.) One Thanksgiving — then the auxiliary bishop of Washington — I showed up at the family dinner to scant fanfare; while my parents’ maid garnered a near-standing ovation. “I’ve married into a strange family,” remarked my newlywed sister-in-law. “When the son, a bishop, arrives, nobody pays any attention; but the maid shows up and everybody cheers.”
An International Neighborhood
It helped, of course, that we lived in such a truly international neighborhood, starting with the public school where both black and white students were enrolled (among them the future General Douglas MacArthur). Adjacent to our house was my father’s plumbing shop, whose backyard was cluttered with discarded sinks, stoves, and pipes, the perfect place, as it turned out, for my first — and only — encounter with tobacco. Egged on by older cousins, I confidently stuck a cigar, undoubtedly purloined from Uncle Will’s store, into my mouth. Seconds later, I spit it out. It didn’t take a surgeon general to tell me that tobacco was a lousy idea! The next-door laundry shop, meanwhile, was owned by a Chinese man who was also proprietor of a nearby restaurant where each year he hosted an elaborate dinner attended by my parents and their friends. It was not his only custom. Every night at six, sitting in a chair in front of his shop, the Chinaman calmly filled his pipe with opium and smoked it — a ritual paid no heed by the neighbors nor police. Further down the block, a white man lived with his Japanese wife, while the black Protestant church belted out Christmas carols all year long, including August. Across the street, a Filipino houseboy ran the home of a retired brigadier general; while his neighbors, a sun-worshipping Scandinavian couple, determining their offspring benefit