Reality vs. Reputation: A Peoples’ Memoir of the Bronx

The deafening roar of the IRT elevated train as it entered the Intervale Avenue Station rested for a brief moment before introducing the quieter sound of the subway doors opening, then quickly closing. On weekdays, these sounds were repeated every half hour.

At the age of six I was accustomed to the rumble of the trains from the proximity of our fourth floor window. I enjoyed watching the riders entering or exiting the cars, always in a rush.

I often wondered, “Why are they running? Where are they going?”
On special occasions, my parents would take me up those steep train station stairs to ride the magnificent iron monster for a ride “downtown.”

Oh, what a treat that was! Going to see the skyscrapers or Radio City Music Hall in Manhattan was an event that made an everlasting impression on me.

Living on Kelly Street in the Bronx during the early 1950s was very convenient for my family. Titi Anita, my aunt, lived on the next block over, on a magically curved street known as “Banana Kelly”.

Tío Pepe lived on Simpson Street and Titi Tona lived on Prospect Avenue, both just a subway stop away. On the corner of Kelly Street and Westchester Avenue, just a few steps from our building, were the local friendly farmacia, bodega, and the family doctor’s office.

On that same avenue was el vivero, the live poultry slaughterhouse I dreaded visiting. The acrid smell of wet feathers and the helpless squawking of the fowl as they were held against the large shaving machines were overwhelming for the animal lover in me. I was never able to witness the actual slaughtering process, since I feigned illness whenever my abuela encouraged me to watch.

She thought my behavior was childish because she slaughtered chickens often as a young girl. The workers at the poultry place recognized my terror and always offered a balloon as consolation. To this day, I associate balloons with the butchering of chickens. However, once the fowl was in a pot with Puerto Rican spices and herbs like adobo, cilantro, and fresh garlic, and stewed to perfection at home, I delighted in savoring my favorite pieces.

My family lived at 971 Kelly Street when I was born in 1951. The beige limestone four-story building had twenty apartments. We lived in 1D, a two-bedroom apartment for my parents, grandmother, two brothers, my baby sister and me.

My parents were close friends with the families that lived in apartments 2D, 3D, 1C, and 4E. All other neighbors in that building were known to us by name. Most of them had extended families living with them or close by. There were few single parent families, and everyone seemed to have a job.

The hallways, front stoops, and back stairs were always immaculate and people never loitered. I cannot remember a time when any of the residents of the other small buildings on Kelly Street “hung out” in the front stoops for extended periods of time. Everyone remained indoors for the most part, even during the sweltering heat of New York summers.

My mother was a beautician and made house calls whenever she wasn’t working at her own salon. One of her favorite clients lived two buildings away from us on the fifth floor. In order to avoid going down four flights of stairs and then climbing another five flights to service her friend, my mother had a special plan.

She would take my sister and I with her when she went up to the roof of our building. She would jump across the adjacent roof edges to the adjoining building, extending her protective arms for us to do the same. There was such tranquility and silence up there.

The tar was always soft and smelled like a brand new doll.

I recall my excitement of being up so high and able to see Kelly Street below, which seemed miles away. I was always excited about these adventures, because to a seven-year-old, it felt like flying.

On Saturday mornings my father washed and waxed the linoleum floors in our apartment. The smell of King Pine gave us a sense of renewal and cleanliness. At the same time the Victrola played Mantovani’s The Soul of Spain at full volume.

I would shadow dance to the toreador’s entrance music to the bullfighter’s arena. By the afternoon hours, my father was dressed to the nines with his suit, tie and fedora hat. Most men wore felt fedoras every day even with casual clothes. In the winter they wore long coats and white silk scarves in the style of Argentinian tango sensation, Carlos Gardel.

For special occasions, women always wore dresses, stockings and high heels. Fancy hairstyles, long necklaces, and dark red lipstick were a must. Every family picture I have from that era is testimony to this fact. No Puerto Rican woman ever dared to wear slacks during those years.

Saturday nights were times of celebration. On special Saturday afternoons, my sister and I were dressed in beautiful “can-can” party dresses and shiny patent leather shoes. The parties were always adult centered, even if it was a child’s birthday, baptism, first communion or graduation.

My father would jokingly say, “We even celebrated the baptism of a doll.”

The kids were usually sent to play in the bedrooms. The coats were piled high on the beds creating a distinct mixture of Chanel #5 and Varon Dandy aftershave floating in the air. It was a wonderful delight as a child to fall asleep under all those coats. I remember feeling so warm and protected brushing against the fake furs.

I can still hear the slow-moving bolero, “Bésame Mucho”, and laughter from what seemed far, far away.

Television family nights were very predictable. On Saturday nights, my parents, abuela, Titi Anita and Tío Hernández would rush through dinner in order to watch The Lawrence Welk Show. I relished being bilingual and bicultural and I was so proud of the fact that my family felt the same way.

In a way, it was like living in two worlds. The elders also enjoyed The Ed Sullivan Showand The Wonderful World of Disney on Sundays. We spoke only Spanish at home but learning English was paramount. The music we listened to on the radio and record player was in Spanish.

My teenaged brothers preferred Frank Sinatra and American Bandstand but they also listened to one of the most popular music of the fifties; the mambo. I first heard Tito Puente, Tito Rodríguez and Machito—the Big Three from the Palladium Ballroom in that Kelly Street living room.

Although the media image of the South Bronx has been portrayed as a dangerous and impoverished, I remember it as a safe and nurturing environment. Our family life was simple and very enjoyable.