Wilson Avenue starts off Ferry Street.
I arrived in the Ironbound section of Newark, N.J. on a Saturday, 2nd October 1971. On the same day I met quite a few Brazilian fellows who showed up at Tia Eugênia's newsagency at 112 Ferry Street. Before the day was through I was sharing a bedroom up on Wilson Avenue with Rodrigo, a Portuguese man who had arrived from Brazil a few days before my arrival.
After working at a cabinet making workshop on a side street off Sprinfield Avenue for a few days, I was laid off by my Italian boss due to my utter inability to saw boards properly. Presently, I found work at a vynil record factory on Saint Francis Street - much closer to home - it took me a 10-minute walk to get there - where I worked the night shift.
I started working at Synthetic Plastic Co. on 28 October 1971. I enjoyed making in excess of a thousand 45 rpms per night. The nightly routine of operating that vynil record machine suited my needs to a T for I would let my thoughts run wild while reminiscing about my latest escapades. At the factory we had a 'lunch break' at around 4 o'clock in the morning and knocked off at a quarter to eight (7:45 am) when another crew would take over the same machines and continue the production up to 3:45 pm when the 2nd shift started.
Rodrigo, my flat-mate was already in his mid-30s and had been previously the owner of a bar-restaurant on Rua Brigadeiro Tobias in partnership with another man since he arrived in São Paulo, Brazil in the early 1960s. He told me he opted out of the partnership (for some undisclosed reason) and decided to migrate yet again, this time to the USA - leaving his wife back in São Paulo. Our bed-room was on the 2nd floor of a 3-story-house on the corner of Wilson Avenue and Barbara Street, just on top of a go-go bar owned by Alberto (nicknamed 'Alberto Deus-me-livre' by Tia Eugênia's crowd) a Brazilian tall, bald man who'd been living in 'America' for a number of years and worked at Newark's International Airport.
Next to our bed-room there was another room with a kitchen containing a stove and refrigerator in which three Mineiro lads lived: Giovani Fiuza was dark, tall and handsome; he was called by his nickname Parente. He had been a pilot in the Brazilian Air Force and was proud to tell everyone he had taken part in the putsch that overthrew President João Goulart's elected government in April 1964. If what he said was true, he must have been at least 30 years old in 1971. The other two fellows looked younger.
Mauricio (that may not me his name, for I must confess I don't quite remember it) was shorter and sported a fairly big moustache. He had a car and was always jingling his car keys as to say: 'Look, I live in these closed quarters but I have a car that takes me as far and wide as I want to'. I remember he had a few 45 rpms records he had got as a gift from an American girl friend he had some time not long ago: Ditty Gritty Dirt Band's 'Mr Bojangles' (#9 on 2nd January 1971) was one of them; the other was Bee Gee's 'Lonely days' (#3 on 26 December 1970).
The third lad was W. - pardon me but I can't recall his name. He had been in the US for less than a year and after hearing I was unemployed suggested I'd look for a position as a machine operator at the plastic factory he worked as an ash-tray maker.
I remember the first night I worked at the record factory. A Peruvian Indian fellow was told by the general boss to teach me how to operate the 45 rpm vynil disc-making machine. He showed me I had to use my two hands. I would first cut a hot vynil mass shaped like a snake - which had been delivered by a man who fetched it at a special dispensing place and wearing thick leather gloves would lay the hot vynil snake on a pre-heated metal table - where it would be cut in small pieces and shared by the occupants of 2 disc-making-machines.
After watching this Peruvian fellow make a dozen records I asked him to be given a chance to do it too and by the time we had our 'lunch break' at 4 am I could operate the record-making machine pretty well. I could also detach the two newly-made 45 rpm-singles from the metal plates and cut the rebarbs off the two discs, insert them both in two paper sleeves and stick them on top of each other into 2 cardboard boxes placed under the machine that would fill out after an hour or so. One would have to fill up a number of card-board boxes with 45 rpm discs until one reached 1,000 units. After the first thousand records one would make 1 penny per extra disc. That's why everyone worked their arses off to get to the thousandth mark and then earn an extra penny for each additional disc.
I told my co-workers my name was Carlos. I was sick of using Luiz as a name and I thought I'd give it a try with my second Christian name. This Peruvian fellow who had taught me the ropes on the first night started calling me Carlitos and soon would behave in a fresh way toward me. He would treat me as if I were a poofter. One day he made a pass at me. That is, he passed his hand on my buttocks which in male-parlance means he could or would fuck me at the drop of a hat. I was really alarmed when that happened for I was afraid I would have to go through sexual harrassment I had known when I was 11, 12 years old at night school at Ginasio Estadual Vila Madalena at Rua Morás, São Paulo in 1961 and 1962.
At 7:30 in the morning guys who worked the 1st shift at the disc-making-machines started arriving to replace the crew who would leave off at a quarter-to-eight (7:45 am). Sometimes the morning-shift fellows would linger around and talk to us while we were still operating the machines. At a quarter-to-eight we would stop and go straight upstairs to the locker-room. I remember there was a blond Brazilian young man who used to talk to me in the locker-room while he changed into working clothes. He seemed to like me. He was heterosexual but he was really friendly to me. When he realized I had been harassed by this Peruvian Indian brute he told me I should react and tell him to 'fuck off'. I was really afraid my life would become a nightmare on that factory floor if I didn't do something outrageous so I followed his advice. Next time, Pablo (I think that was the Peruvian guy's name) was disrespectful to me I told him: 'Fuck you!'
Instantly, on hearing what I proffered Pablo glared at me and wanted to hit me. I never knew until that very moment the power some words have: 'Fuck you!' was just like a magic incantation! It was just like throwing a bomb at someone. He never abused me again. He never even looked at me again. I was saved for the moment! I was really thankful to Junior - I think that was his name. That was the first time I ever in my life I felt male-solidarity existed. Not actually 'male' solidarity but 'national solidarity'. Junior had sided with me against a Peruvian male.
Not long after - Junior left the factory to work in a better place in Patterson, N.J. This is one person I always felt thankful for. He was really helpful to me when he realized the (bad) situation I was in and helped me get out of it. Actually, he did something I had never experienced before: a heterosexual man was on my side for once. That was the first time I ever felt solidarity coming from a male fellow. I had suffered quite a bit of discrimination from males in my High School years. It's funny I had to move to the Northern Hemisphere and live in an Anglo-Saxon society to experience Brazilian male-bonding for the first time in my life.
Dentinho, a vynil paste deliverer
In the next few weeks I made friends with Luis, a young Paulista male from Franco da Rocha-SP who roamed the floor handing out vynil paste to us operators, setting it on heated metal stands stationed between the pressing machines. Luis had projecting front teeth and was known by other Brazilians as 'Dentinho' (Little tooth). He wore long hair - as it was common in the early 1970s - and had a nonchalant attitude about things which resonated well with me. Soon we became real friends so at quitting time he would wait for me at the factory entrance and we would walk together towards Wilson Avenue where both of us lived.
Oftentimes we entered a corner shop on the corner of Main Street & Komorn St. It probably belonged to the family that occupied the house. There was a lady who asked our orders and gave us hot coffee on white paper cups. I usually got myself an factory apple pie to munch with the coffee with sugar and cream. She wore a red apron and seemed content that she had customers from the record foactory so early in the morning. She probably knew the different times of shift change. This was the morning shift in and the night shift out. She must have made some business starting 7:30 and endingk 8:30.
Dentinho and I didn't spend too long in the coffee-shop. Just the time to eat a pie, drink hot coffee, talk a little about Brazil and then out we went on Komorn Street turning right and walking until we reached Wilson Avenue where I veered left and Dentinho turned right.
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See this quaint 2-floor house on the corner of Main & Kormon Streets? It used to have a larger glass window and it used to be a small business-cum-coffee shop. There was a friendly lady who took orders for coffe, tea, pies and cakes from customers like myself and Dentinho. We knocked off the night-shift work at a quarter-to-eight in the morning and stopped at the shop on our way home.
Sometimes we sat down at the table next to the window, looked out at the freezing weather and longed to be in our beds after a long night's work. At the end of Komorn Street I veered left for I lived on the 1st floor of a go-go bar just at the corner of Barbara Street and Dentinho turned right for he lived opposite the Wilson Avenue School not too far from Saint Stephen's Church.
Dentinho shared a flat with another two Brazilian young men from Franco da Rocha, his home town. Alfredo was a white youth who was a favourite with Arthur, the same Portuguese speaking young American who worked at the factory office and befriended the 3 fellows who shared the room next to ours on top of the go-go bar. It seemed like everyone knew everyone else around the Ironbound. The third young man who shared Dentinho's flat was a fairly good looking fellow with green eyes and straight long hair who had a 2nd-hand Mustang sports car.
One Saturday evening I was just back in the Ironbound from my weekly jaunt to Manhattan. I got off the bus near Penn Station, walked up Ferry Street to Wilson Avenue. When I got near Dentinho's flat I decided to knock on his door and the three of them were in. They wanted to know what sort of records I had bought and I showed them Donovan's 'For little ones' and the 'West Side Story' sound-track album. They played 'Tonight' from 'West Side Story' and started laughing when they heard its operatic nature. They thought I was 'old fashioned' and I didn't like it. They made fun of me but in some light way so I didn't mind it. On my way out, the tall fellow who I will call G. offered me a lift home (I lived 4 blocks away) on his Mustang. He probably wanted to show off his prided possession. I felt attracted to him but I didn't let on.
Maybe 2 weeks later, probably 5 December 1971, the first Sunday of the last month of the year, I chose to stay home for I had some letters to write home. Dentinho showed up at my place and invited me to drive around with him. He had his own car and as I didn't have much to do, I accepted his invitation and away we went driving through the Pulaski Skyway. I had never been to that highway yet for the Newark-Manhattan bus took the New Jersey Turnpike instead.
I think Dentinho was bored with himself and was looking for some thrill. Sunday afternoon was the worst possible time for migrants far away from their families and countries, for they ran out of things to do to entertain themselves. On Saturdays they could go out and play football - those who were sports inclined - go out to a Spanish dance or drink at some go-go bar. But Sundays were empty with nothing to do. That was the time they started longing to be back home in Brazil.
I think Dentinho was in this sort of mood that Sunday avo. I remember his mentioning he felt really lonely and depressed when the bells of Saint Stephen's tolled near Christmas time. I guess he must have felt really lonely at Christmas 1970 away from his family. He lived a block away from that Lutheran church and Christmas 1971 was approaching fast. After half an hour of driving aimlessly, Dentinho drove back to Wilson Avenue and we went into the go-go bar. He got some quarters and played B.J.Thomas' 'Long ago tomorrow' (#61 on 20 November 1971) at the juke-box. There was nothing more to do after that so Dentinho said he'd go home and I went up the stairs to my room where there was always something for me to do. That was the last time I saw Dentinho.
What happened next was really sad. Dentinho, not content on having driven through Pulaski Skyway once, went back there for no reason at all and was stopped by a Police car for having exceeded the speed limit. The policemen wanted to see his documents and escorted him to his flat where Alfredo and G. were spending the Sunday afternoon. Soon the policemen realized the three guys were illegal immigrants. They were detained right there and sent to some detention place in Manhattan. After a week or two they were finally deported (or expelled) from the USA.
It took us some time to find out what had really happened to Dentinho and his room-mates. All gossip started at Tia Eugênia's news agency at 112 Ferry Street. We were told they had been taken prisoners and were waiting to be repatriated to Brazil. I was really sad for I really liked Luis aka Dentinho. At the same time I was alarmed to realize how dangerous the whole thing was; I had been with him just a few minutes before he 'fell'. One thing I was sure: Dentinho would not feel lonely and depressed on Christmas 1971 for he would be back in Franco da Rocha amongst with his family.
Wilson Avenue block opposite Wilson Avenue School.
Same block looking down Wilson Avenue toward Penn Station & financial centre.
#1: corner of Wilson Ave. & Barbara St., the first place I resided in the Ironbound; #2: Saint Francis Street, a vynil record factory where I started working in mid-October 1971 and met Dentinho; #5: house on corner of Komorn St. and Main St. where Dentinho & I had coffee and cakes in the morning after knocking off shift work; # 3: house on Wilson Ave which Dentinho shared with 2 other Brazilian fellows; #4: corner of Ferry St. and Wilson Ave.
Wilson Avenue tram in the 1930s.
