George Harrison & Bob Dylan.
Tuesday, 2 March 2021
Tuesday, 23 February 2021
Three Brazilian lads sharing a flat on Wilson Avenue
Wilson Avenue starts off Ferry Street.
Wilson Avenue Public School's grounds on the left. 
Saint Stephen's Church is an Ironbound landmark. Built in 1874, for a German-speaking congregation, which it remained until the 1930s. The church is still Lutheran but uses Spanish and Portuguese in its services. The architect was George Staehlin and the interior has some of the most ornate woodwork in Newark. The church is shown as the first alien spawning point in Steven Spielberg's 2005 'War of the Worlds'. Locals call this site "As Cinco Esquinas / Five Corners." See the scenes here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlBJsD8tBco
Wilson Avenue
Walking up Ferry Street and Wilson Avenue was a particular pleasure to me when I was newly arrived in the U.S.A. After paying a costumary visit to Tia Eugênia's newsagency on 112 Ferry Street, I would hang around the area chatting with Brazilian fellows mostly my age or older who were bound to turn up at any given minute. There was a coffee shop owned by a Brazilian man between Adams Street & Jackson Street which had a juke-box from which I first heard John Lennon's 'Imagine' and 'Happy Christmas' (War is over) plus 'The night they drove Old Dixie down', with Joan Baez. This coffee shop was a favourite haunt with Brazucas who lingered there talking about their jobs and how they missed Brazil. Unfortunately, one fine day, this coffee shop was destroyed by a fire before 1971 was over. Brazilians lost their only meeting place apart from Tia Eugênia's newsagency which was not a proper place to hang around although most people did exactly that.
At the corner of Ferry & Wilson there was a Greek restaurant called Andros which kept its door open 24 hours a day; I remember I listened to the Carpenters' 'Superstar' for the first time coming from their juke-box. Sometimes one never forgets where one heard a particular song for the first time.
On Wilson Avenue's first block there was Wilson Avenue Public School which could be noisy with children running around the grounds and shouting during class recesses. On the right-hand side a little further up there was a 2-story house in which 3 Brazilian young men from Franco da Rocha, lived. Luiz aka Dentinho worked with me at the record factory on Francis Street - he was a 'paste man' who wore heavy leather gloves and delivered hot vynil paste to us, machine-operators, who cut it in smaller pieces then inserted it between 2 pre-heated metal master plates that would be levered against each other and smashed it into two 45 rpm singles at a go.
Dentinho was fond of wearing a particular denium blue overalls which was quite popular among young Brazilian males in the early 1970s. He shared this flat on the 2nd floor with Alfredo and a tall fellow I can't recall the name. This particular fellow sported long straight hair and owned a red Mustang he usually parked in front of the house. Owning a 2nd-hand Mustang was a 'must' among young Brazilian studs.
I remember visiting them one evening on my way back from Two Guys, a department store on Broad Street, still bearing the 'West Side Story' sound-track album I had just bought. When I walked past their house on that Saturday evening I decided to stop, knock on their door and see if Dentinho was in. The three of them were in as it was only Saturday evening. I already knew Alfredo by sight for he worked at the record factory in the afternoon shift.
They had a record player in the living room, so they were eager to listen to the records I had. They probably thought it was a rock'n'roll album and didn't know anything about a 1961 musical flick or had ever listened to Marnie Nixon's soprano voice. As soon as they listened to Tony & Maria sing the first strains of 'Tonight', they looked at each other, sniggered and burst out laughing. They probably thought I was queer or old-fashioned. I swiftly changed the record on the turntable to Donovan's heavy Scottish-accented folk songs in 'For little ones'. They couldn't make heads or tails about my particular taste in music but they didn't mean to hurt my feelings.
This must have been late-November, probably during the 1971 Thanksgiving holiday or the following weekend. As they lived near Saint Stephen's, the 3 lads often heard the bells from the Lutheran Church. Dentinho once told me they usually became really sad near Christmas time when they heard the bells tolling for they remembered their families back in Brazil so they felt very lonely. They must have been in the USA for at least 2 years to have this feeling of despondency.
The lad who owned the Mustang must have been in the US longer for he seemed to be more knowing and outgoing. Actually he offered me a lift home but I told him I lived only 4 blocks away. He insisted he was going out anyway so I let him give me a ride home. He had long legs and a pleasant smile. I wish it would have taken longer for I wanted to know more about him. He seemed to be a caring person and had a special charm. That was the first and last time I saw him.
There was a travel agency on the same side of Dentinho's flat. As one got nearer Lafayette Street there was a Pathmark, the largest supermarket in the area. I was impressed with almost everything they had, especially one-gallon milk cartons which were huge and heavy to handle.
A little further up nearer the go-go bar where I lived upstairs, there was a place with coin-operated washing machines where I used to do my laundry.
There was a musical instrument store on the left-handed side of Wilson Avenue a few houses up from the Pathmark. It was usually empty of customers but if you looked really hard you saw a lady who was the owner or the shop assistant. I went in a few times and once I bought me a guitar-capo made by Dunlop.
I arrived in the Ironbound section of Newark, N.J. on a Saturday morning, 2nd October 1971. On the same day I met quite a few Brazucas 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 São Paulo, 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 (relative). 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 Wanderley - 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 he 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 American supervisor whose name was Gus, 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 ever in my life I felt male-solidarity existed. That was a good moment I had never known before since my elementry school days. 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 Paterson, 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 shop on the corner of Main Street & Komorn St. It probably belonged to the family that occupied the house in the back of the shop. There was a lady who asked our orders and gave us hot coffee on white paper cups. I usually got myself pre-wrapped piece of industrialized apple pie to munch with the coffee with sugar and cream. She wore a red apron and seemed content she had customers from the record foactory so early in the morning. She probably knew the different times of shift changes. This was the morning shift in and the night shift out. She must have made some business from 7:30 to 8:30 am.
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 walking on Komorn Stree until we reached Wilson Avenue which point, 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, bananas Chiquita 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 in late November, after having bought a few albums at Two Guys, on Broad Street, I was walking back home when I passed by their house on Wilson Avenue and decided to ring the bell. To my surprise the three boys were in and I was invited to come in. When they saw I had bought some records they wanted to listen to them thinking maybe they were rock record. Little did they know one was the sound track from the movie 'West Side Story', where soprano Marnie Nixon belts out 'Tonight' in an operatic style with a heavy Puerto Rican accent. After hearing the first few bars of 'Tonight' they burst out laughing. They could not understand how a 22-year old fellow would like such a 'monstrosity'. Foolishly, I thought if I showed them Donovan's heavy Scott accented delivery of folk songs written for children in 'For little ones', they would have a better opinion of myself, but after listening to it they gave up and thought I was definetely old-fashioned. 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.
Perhaps 2 weeks later, probably on 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 go on a drive 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.
On the Sunday afternoon “Dentinho” was arrested on the Pulaski Skyway, he had stopped by my place, a room I shared with Rodrigo, a Portuguese man and 3 Brazucas above the aforementioned go-go bar and we went out for a “ride” in his car. After we drove around aimlessly for a while, he dropped me off at home. It was an autumn afternoon, just when we immigrants missed Brazil the most. Before going up to my room, I spent a little time with Dentinho, who inserted a quarter on the juke-box in the semi-deserted bar and listened to “Long ago tomorrow”, by B.J. Thomas. It was his favorite song then. It was the last time I saw him. Minutes later Dentinho drove back to the Pulaski Skyway where he was stopped by the cops for speeding; the “cops” wanted to see his documents; he took the police to his house; There they saw his passport with an expired visa. That was his undoing, the cops took him plus Alfredo and G. immediatly to prison. The whole thing was really sad because they were all nice fellows who wouldn't hurt a fly despite being technically “illegal immigrants”. It was the biggest buzz On Monday, at the record factory Synthetic Plastics Co. everyone talked about their sad plight. Dentinho wouldn't come back to work any longer... and neither Alfredo who worked there in the afternoon. They were deported to Brazil in December 1971.
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 most 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... and we were in the Yule Tide... 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 not much else 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 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.
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Dentinho's favourite song in the juke-box.
Dentinho delivered vinyl paste at the factory and was a friendly little guy; he had a beard and mustache but very young; he must have been 18 or 19. Dentinho shared an apartment on the 2nd floor of a house on Wilson Avenue, next to Saint Stephen's church with Alfredo and G. (I'm not sure of his name), a tall, good-looking fellow with blue (or green) eyes, who had an old Mustang and seemed to be the leader of the pack. The three were from Franco da Rocha. By the way, Saint Stephen's church has now become all but “Brazilian”, as the Sunday services are held in Portuguese by a Brazilian Pastor.
Na carta que enviei ao “Brazilian Voice” eu cito o Dentinho, apelido de um rapaz que ele se chamava Luiz, meu xará. Eu era conhecido como Carlos na fábrica. Carlitos para os Hispanos. Acho que v. não chegou a conhecê-lo,
pois Dentinho fazia o “night shift” também; ele entregava pasta e era um carinha muito divertido; tinha uma barbinha e bigode e era bem novinho; aliás, como a maioria de nós, não teria mais de 21 anos. Ele dividia o 1o andar de uma casa com o Alfredo e o G. (não tenho certeza desse nome), um rapaz bem aparentado de olhos verdes, que tinha um Mustang e parecia ser o líder da ‘household’. Os três eram de Franco da Rocha e moravam nesse 'flat' de casa alugada na Wilson Avenue, perto da igreja Saint Stephen (que atualmente se tornou praticamente “brasileira”, pois os cultos de domingos são com uma Pastora Brasileira.
Certo começo de noite de um sábado, em novembro, enquanto eu voltava da Penn Station pela Ferry Street, eu batí porta deles e fiquei lá com eles conversando...Eu tinha comprado 2 ou 3 LPs na ‘Two Guys’, loja de departamentos lá na Broad Street. Um dos discos era a ‘sound-track’ do filme ‘West Side Story’, e os rapazes acharam ‘estranho’ eu gostar daquele tipo de musica, principalmente depois de ouvirem ‘Tonight’ com a Marnie Nixon cantando com sotáque de porto-riquenha. Deram risadas, e eu não gostei muito da reação. O outro LP era 'For little ones', do Donovan onde ele canta só musicas folclóricas de Scotland... com aquele sotáque carregado deles.
No domingo à tarde que o “Dentinho” foi preso na Pulaski Skyway, ele tinha passado em casa (eu morava em cima do go-go bar já mencionado) e saímos para dar um “rolê” no carro dele. Depois de girarmos meio sem destino por algum tempo, ele me deixou em casa. Era uma tarde fria de Outono, justamente quando nós imigrantes mais sentíamos falta do Brasil. Antes de subir para meu quarto eu ainda fiquei um pouco com o Dentinho, que colocou uma ‘quarter’ no juke-box do bar semi-deserto e escutou “Long ago tomorrow”, do B.J. Thomas. Era sua música favorita então. Foi a ultima vez que eu o vi. Minutos depois, ele voltou a dirigir na Pulaski, foi parado por estar em alta velocidade; os “cops” quiseram ver seus documentos; ele levou os policiais até sua casa; lá viram o passaporte com visto vencido, e alem do Dentinho, os outros dois amigos também “dançaram”. Foi muito triste pois todos eles eram caras “legais”, apesar de serem juridicamente “ilegais”. Foi o maior buchicho na Synthetic Plastics Co. na segunda-feira, pois além do Dentinho, o Alfredo também trabalhava lá, no período da tarde. Eles foram deportados para o Brasil no final do ano de 1971. Pelo que eu me lembro você chegou aos U.S. no último trimestre de 1971, certo?
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Gary Carroll wrote: I remember that cobblestone ramp going on to 1 & 9 South. I was 18 then, I’m 69 now;
Jule Spohn wrote; I remember it well. One winter I was driving up that ramp and at the top it was covered in black ice. My car turned around and I hit the railing on the left and then bounced back and hit the railing on the right.
Antoinne Jennings wrote: I remember my brother driving on the Pulaski at 90 to 100 mph and when I asked him why, he said 'where can the cops hide!'
Joe Cap wrote: That's the South Street ramp to get up on 1 & 9 South... you can get to the Turnpike that way but it's not a TP ramp.
Patrick Mueller wrote: That's the South Street ramp; went up that ramp many times when I lived Down Neck. I’m from Barbara Street.
Sunday, 13 December 2020
Ironbound January - February 1972
Myself on the left and Kuwenderson Walk on the right.
Since I arrived in Newark, N.J. on 2nd October 1971, and established myself in the Ironbound, more precisely on Wilson Avenue corner with Barbara Street I had different sets of Brazilian friends. Rodrigo who was actually a Portuguese man who first migrated to Brazil probably in the late 1950s and arrived in the USA a week before myself, was my very first friend and turned out to be my room-mate as well. Soon after I moved in with Rodrigo, I made acquaintances with three Mineiros - young men from Minas Gerais - who shared the room next to ours.
I met a myriad of young Brazucas at Tia Eugênia's news-agency, or at a Brazilian coffee shop-cum-restaurant on the same side as Tia's on Ferry St. where there was a juke-box and I heard both Joan Baez's 'The night the drove Old Dixie down' and John Lennon's 'Imagine' for the first time ever. I found it funny how easily one made friends with Brazilians in Newark. People one wouldn't even bother to have a second look at in Brazil became instant friends in an American city. The simple fact of being from the same country made us all potential friends. I thought that was positive in a way.
After living in Newark for some weeks I realized there were 4 different groups of Brazilians: Mineiros, Paulistas, Paraenses and 'others'. Among Paulistas there were 2 sub-groups: young men from Guarulhos and another lot from Franco da Rocha, a town near Jundiaí-SP.
Kuwenderson was a Brazuca from Bahia who was utterly different from everyone else. He had been a college student in Salvador and was highly politicized. He was into left-wing politics and I could not understand how on earth he was living in the USA, the Mecca of capitalism. Actually he was in the US because he had two brothers already established in the New York area who had helped him travel to the US and find jobs and accomodation. Kuwenderson was partially deaf so he had an extra burden in understanding the English language. He could read English all right but he hardly understood the spoken language which made him irritable most of the time.
I learned to appreciate Richard Wagner's music with Kuwenderson. He would play the 'Thannhäuser' overture and go into an ecstasy! It ended up becoming one of my favourite classical pieces.
Kuwenderson was a nice fellow but very judgemental, always emphasizing what I had done wrong. I didn't need anyone to tell me so. I knew I didn't do the right thing when I left the record factory, bought a one-way ticket to San Francisco where I couldn't find employment and had to come back to Newark penniless. Kuwenderson irked me exceedingly but I kept my cool for I could not antagonize the very few friends I still had left. He would buy me a meal or two until the money my Dad would send me arrived.
It was through Kuwenderson that I heard of Violeta Parra for the first time. Actually, he was living in Santigado, Chile when President Allende was overthrown and murdered on 11 September 1973. Nine-Eleven didn't start in 2001 in NYC but 28 years before in South America.
Kuwenderson would play this vinyl album constantly.
Kuwenderson lived at the Prudential Apartments aka Sing Sing too, on Fleming Avenue. So I started hanging around that tenement in the early summer of 1972. As I was out of work I had a lot of free time on my hands so I met a lot of Brazilian fellows who lived in the neighbourhood.
As soon as I got my work back I started sharing an apartment at the same Sing Sing with Nagib Luiz, a Brazilian fellow of Arab extraction I met at the record factory I went back to. Nagib and Guto shared the living room of an apartment rented by Nagib's cousin Leila, her husband and a baby. So, I finally was living at the infamous Sing Sing after all.
Coming back to Newark, from San Francisco
Late May 1972, when Carey & Paul left me off on Ferry Street near St Stephen's, in Newark, I took my step towards Tia Eugênia, in the early summer of 1972 without a penny in my pocket - not a penny to my name - you, Damazio Nazaré, were the first person I turned to for help.
You helped me a lot back then. I'd like to seize the chance to finally thank you after 30 years. I remember I was dying to work “anywhere possible”, but I arrived just at the time factories were going on collective vacation, so I had to hang around for four weeks until the factories started working again. I had no place to sleep and no money for meals. My Father (God rest his soul) even sent me US$300 dollars to “bail me over”. But before the money arrived, I had a really hard time. I slept at a different place every night.
I remember several of those “Sing Sing” young men, even though I don't remember their names. There was a fellow that went by the alias of “Cri-cri”(meaning 'tiresome') whose real name I forget. He was from Franco da Rocha, worked as a truck driver and saved every penny he earned. He had a dream of being the owner of a fleet of truck when he came back to Brazil.
There was another fellow from Franco da Rocha who was already in his thirties and had grey hair. A 30 year old man was was considered “old” by us, who were 22 or 23 years old. He also worked as a truck driver and was a little plump. He was well articulated, could lead a long conversation and hold the attention of the small crowd that lingered near the gate that led to Lexington Street, at early summer evenings. Brazucas tried to live up the summer evenings the most they could and only went into their flats in the Prudential Apartments when the dark finally descended. While I stood up in a circle of about 10 young Brazucas, this fellow kept on talking about his dreams of becoming rich. He said his Italian grandmother had taught him a recipe of marinated egg-plant she had brought from Italy when she migrated to Brazil. He intended to open a business to sell those delicacies and hit the good times. I wonder whatever happened to him...Whether he became rich no one knows.
In September 1972 (it’s late September and I really should be back at school...) I finally went back to work at the record factory on Francis Street. Hallelluya! It was so good to feel “safe & sound” again. This time I worked on the 2nd shift which started at 3:45 pm and ended at 11:45 pm. At the factory I felt I belonged, whereas in San Francisco, due to my poor knowledge of English, I felt devastated. Now I had a whole bunch of new fellow workers like a somewhat fat Cuban lady called Elena who was really easy going. We used to talk the whole time for we worked side-by-side most ot the times. As we talked mostly in Spanish I made large strides in the knowledge of Cervantes language.
The hot PVC paste was delivered by 2 Haitian Black guys. I became friends with one of them. The other one which seemed to be younger and was taller was somewhat wild. I was told he had the clap, slang for gonorrhea. There was a young Puertorican man who sported a pompadour hair was also deliverd PVC paste. He was Mike's younger brother who had a dark past. He had murdered a man in San Juan and had to be shipped out to the USA in order to evade the local police.
I also met new Brazucas working there: Divino and Nagib Luiz, both guys I ended up sharing a bedroom with.
I settled down in my job and decided I was going to work hard and save as much money I could to go back to Brazil and see my parents and siblings.
Why did “Cuíca” have that nickname? Have you ever played this instrument? His Amazonian wife was called Antonieta, but she liked being called “Toni”. She was brought to the USA when she was still quite young, probably before she was a teenager and must have gone to primary school in Newark. I hardly ever heard her speaking English but I knew she was almost like a native speaker. Her car radio was always on WABC and she hummed or sang along to almost all the Top 40s of the time. Lobo's “Don’t expect me to be your friend”, the follow-up to “I want you to want me” reminds me of Toni. I lived with them in a house they rented on East Ferry Street near the Ballentine beer factory. Cuica's brother Divino shared a bedroom with myself and the couple had the other one.
Divino was the oldest of three brothers: Cuíca and Tarciso, who worked at Kutscher's in Monticello, N.Y. He was tall, strong and bald. He was always complaining about life; he obviously had a chip on his shoulder I never knew why. Maybe he felt unlucky for not having achieved what both younger brothers had. They were both married with pregnant wives. Tarcíso worked as a bus-boy at Kutscher's in Monticello, N.Y., in the Catskills mountains, but I only met him and his crazy wife Geralda 2 years later, in July 1975, when I returned to the USA and eventually got a ride with them to the Catskills.
Divino delivered hot PVC paste at the record factory on Francis Street. When I was expelled from Sing Sing where I shared a living room with Guto & Nagibe who worked with me at the record factory, Divino said his brother had rented a house on East Ferry Street and was looking for an additional person to share the rent. I was glad to have a place of my own again after having been threatened by Nagibe's crazy aunt. One fine morning she stormed into the apartment shouting insults at me and threating to go to the Immigration Department to denounce me as an Illegal Alien and a drug fiend who had procured LSD for her dearest nephew. It was early Sunday morning and we were all still in bed. So I feigned I was sleeping and let the hurricane go by. But as soon as I got up, I knew I had to move away from such a dangerous bitch.
So I was more than glad when I moved in with Cuíca, Toni & Divino at that house on East Ferry Street. That would turn out to be my last abode in the USA for a while. It was close to work. I remember there was no proper bed in our room so I slept on some sleeping bag but I was content for having left that Nagibe's place at Sing Sing.
Antonieta’s mother had a couple of twins, a boy and a girl called Sonja, of pre-elementary school age, who spoke perfect English. I was enchanted by the children's ability to speak English, and how smart they were for their age. I think children of immigrant parents realize early on they have a sort of power over adults who don't speak the national language properly. Toni’s mother was weird to me. They all belonged to the Jehovah's Witnesses sect. Apparently, the old woman's husband was in the USA illegally. He was a sailor who worked in a Brazilian ship which often went back and forth to Manaus or Belém. I heard someone say her husband had “jumped ship” in New York harbour.
Speaking of “jumping ship”, I don’t know if you met a man from Pernambuco who was a cook in a Brazilian merchant navy ship that sank off the coast of Africa and ended up being taken to the US by an American ship. He arrived in New York without documents or money and was taken to the Brazilian Consulate, where he made friends with Brazucas who took him to live in Newark. That's how I met him. When I met him he was trying to get a Brazilian passport for months without success. Officials at the Brazilian Consulate at the Rockefeller Centre apparently didn't care for him. Once, frustrated with the bureaucratic delay, he went up to the 95th floor and threatened to throw himself off if the employees did not hand him his passport. He was always in trouble. He himself told me he had been arrested in New Jersey for the Police caught him pissing on a street corner which is illegal in the US. I don't remember his name, but we had an impromptu intimacy which was pleasant. He tried to get some action going but I wasn't willing.
Now, coming back to the record factory on Francis Street, on the night shift (we started at 11:45 pm and knocked off next day at 7:45 am) I remember Gus, who was our white American supervisor. Gus must have been in his late 30s and had blue eyes. He was known to us as 'foreman' (boss). I felt he was affable but was a man of few words. He knew most of us didn't speak any English so why bother with words? There was also an older white man with white hair who always wore a beanie; he was a kind of mechanic that was called when there was a problem with the machines.
I'd like to explain how a vinyl record is made. First, engineers cut the sound into a lacquer-coated disc using a specialized lathe, often applying a specific EQ curve (equalization) that cuts bass and boosts highs. The lacquer is coated in silver & nickel to create a "stamper"—a metal, reverse-image mold. All this process was done previously somewhere else.
The actual pressing is what we, machine operators, did. The stampers (side A & side B) are placed in a hydraulic press, which heats and compresses a piece of pre-heated PVC ( Polyvinyl chloride, a synthetic plastic polymer) into the final 7-inch record shape in about 45 seconds.
Synthetic Plastic Co. was the name of the company we worked for. The factory took a whole block on Francis Street in the Ironbound of Newark. It was an old factory. I was told by a fellow employee that during the World War II the factory was re-adapted to making guns and bullets for the US government. It must have been built early in the 20th century or maybe even late 19th century. The factory looked old and the machines looked even older. The machines we operated must have been bought 2nd hand from big corporations like RCA Victor or Columbia. We had to do all manually.
I think you met a Brazilian at the factory, who wanted to “pass as Portuguese”. I think he was originally from Guarulhos. It seems to me that he was from a Portuguese family, as he was light and 'well-built' but decidedly Brazilian... and as he was “coveting” a job in the construction industry, which was the “fiefdom” of the Portuguese, he lived “pulling the bag” of the 'Portugas' and was even “speaking with an accent from there” already. He was a good-looking boy, with a bit of blond hair. I remember he knew you. Do you know his name? This man must have “moved up in life” I think everyone seeks their own good, in whatever way they see fit. I don't judge anyone! On the other hand, there were many Brazilians who stumbled in life...many began to associate themselves with “evil elements” and got into drugs alone and from there, to rock bottom, it was just one step.
Continuing in our record factory, I don't know if you ever met a Brazilian who worked “morning shift”, like you. He was very blond, with blue eyes, he could easily pass for an American; But the boy spoke almost no English; I don’t remember his name, but it could very well be José-something, as it seems to me that he was called “Joe”. He lived in Paterson, NJ and I remember he said he had an American girlfriend who was going to find him a better job. His girlfriend must have fixed it, because one day he disappeared. Despite that, he was a really nice guy; he always talked to me upstairs in that locker room, where we all had our “lockers”; Sometimes they had to break into my locker because I had forgotten the padlock combination; the “shifts” ended up meeting in the “locker-room”; while I went home to sleep, the “morning people” began their 8-hour journey. Later I switched to the morning shift, ended up making a mistake by stopping work, and when I came back, in September 72, I went straight to the afternoon shift (it started at 3pm?) I stayed until early Spring 1973.
I was in Paterson a few times with a short Brazilian (the ladies’ man, mentioned above). Did you get to know there? It was north of Newark, in Passaic County and there was a bit of a Brazilian community there. In 1976, Bob Dylan released a song called “Hurricane” that talked about a black boxer named Hurricane falsely accused of a murder that took place in Paterson. So Paterson went from a simple “extra” to a “leading role” in pop music. This was the main track from the LP “Desire”, which was Dylan's best-selling album of his entire career. They said that Paterson was better than Newark, but currently, talking to Carlos, who is also a taxi driver in New Jersey, he told me that Paterson is “the dumps” and much worse than Newark. Go and understand! And I thought that there was ‘paradise’.
Damasio, if you have Internet access, go to mapquest.com and type in Newark, NJ and you will have a photo map of the city! This way you can have an exact idea of the places you are looking for. I also always go to the “WABC music radio” website, which is cheap. It seems like we go back to the 60s and 70s in a second. If v. If you have a chance, come in and tell me later. Well, dear friend, I'll stay here, waiting for your response in the near future. Don't feel obligated to write about the past. Only write if you feel like it. But regardless, please say “hello” so I know all is well with you, and that you received my missive. My e-address is: mcarlus@hotmail.com
Pieces out of chronological order in this text:
I noticed Newark has now completely de-industrialized. There are no more factories in that region. Brazilian men work in construction, women are cleaners etc. Industry no longer exists.
Tarciso was married to a woman who spoke very loudly called Geralda... I was even afraid of her. Tarciso had a “sleepy” face and his wife was a true “devil”...she was always pregnant and worked as a “chamber maid” at Kutchers. I ended up getting to know them better when I also went to work in the “mountains” in 1975, and Cuíca or Toni gave me a ride in their car. I went with a suitcase and gourd because I knew I was going to work as a dishwasher at Kutcher's too. Geralda went from Newark to Monticello, in Sullivan County...it seems to me that she had a child too.
At that time I barely spoke English, but I was always interested in learning. I remember that when I went from “night shift” to “morning shift” and met YOU I was positively impressed, because you knew more English than any Brazilian I had met up until that moment. I remember you told me that you had studied at Fisk Schools, which by an incredible coincidence of fate would be the first school I would teach at two years later (late 1973). I remember you talking about the Present Perfect, which I couldn't fully understand. In fact, between us, my English improved a lot after I started teaching, as I had to “work out” before going into class, for fear of making a mistake. I practically memorized those Present Perfect rules (12th lesson), since I couldn't “feel” it. It took me a while to “swallow” (or would it be assimilate?) the Present Perfect.
Badfinger's “No matter what” is the song that reminds me the most of you then, besides (logically) “If loving you is wrong I don't want to be right”, “Everything I own” and “Baby I'm a-want you” from Bread, and “I am woman”, which you said your teacher mentioned in the English course you saw. I did at that High School on Laffayette Street.
Speaking of music and records, do you remember that most Brazilians sent Columbia House coupons, which appeared in music magazines like 'Hit Parade', 'Song Hits' etc. receiving in the mail like 12 long-playings? People committed to buying another portion for a much higher price. The Brazilian woman only received the first shipment, which was very “fat” and never bought what she had committed to at the price of gold.
I got two of these shipments. I bought everything I wanted. That wonderful double “Chicago” (“Colour my world” & “Make me smile”), “CSN&Y”, Don McLean's 'American Pie' (the tender “Vincent” about Van Gogh), Carole King's “Tapestry”, which even at that time it had been the best-selling album in the world; an LP by Barbra Streisend where she sang & rocked “Mother” by John Lennon; a double by Joan Baez, where she sang “The night they drove Old Dixie down”; ‘Deja vu’ by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; ‘Harvest’ by the wonderful Neil Young; lots of Bob Dylan; ‘Concert for Bangla Desh’ etc.
Remember that couple from Puertoriqueños who made “long-playing”? I only made 45 rpm singles! Did those who made LPs earn more? I think so, because we, who made singles, were “discriminated against”. The Puertoriqueña woman had long braids. Do you remember her? Do you remember those two Peruvian girls; one called Maria and the other looked like a little boy. They said they were lovers!
Speaking of Peruvians, I remember that there was one of them who was Japanese and was very nice person... I don't recall his name now, but I remember he used to hum George Harrison's “Something” and then sang the only bit he knew: “I don't know, I don't know”. He also sang along to “Where do I begin?” (“Love story Theme” with Andy Williams) and I liked Italian singer Nicola di Bari. Actually, he looked a bit like Nicola for he wore a pair of dark glasses too. He used to tell me Sergio Murilo (remember “Marcianita”?) was a big hit in Peru.
In the letter I sent to Brazilian Voice's letter section I mentioned Dentinho. Now I remember Dentinho's name was Luiz something. I was known as Carlos at the factory. Carlitos for the Hispanics. I think you didn’t get to know Dentinho, as he also worked the night shift whereas you worked the morning shift. Dentinho delivered vynil paste and was a funny little guy; he had a beard and mustache but very young; he must have been 18 or 19. Dentinho shared an apartment on the 2nd floor of a house on Wilson Avenue, next to Saint Stephen's church with Alfredo and G. (I'm not sure of his name), a tall, good-looking fellow with blue (or green) eyes, who had an old Mustang and seemed to be the leader of the pack. The three were from Franco da Rocha. By the way, Saint Stephen's church has now become all but “Brazilian”, as the Sunday services are held in Portuguese by a Brazilian Pastor.
One night I went by their house and they asked me to listen to some albums aka LPs I had bought at ‘Two Guys’, a department store on Broad Street. One of the albums was the sound track from the movie 'West Side Story', and the boys thought it was 'strange' that I liked that type of music, especially after hearing 'Tonight' with Marnie Nixon singing with a Puerto Rican accent. They laughed, and thought I was bizarre for having that taste. There was also a Donovan LP and a few others I can't remember at the moment.
On the Sunday afternoon “Dentinho” was arrested on the Pulaski Skyway, he had stopped by my place, a room I shared with a Portuguese man and 3 Brazucas above the aforementioned go-go bar and we went out for a “ride” in his car. After we drove around aimlessly for a while, he dropped me off at home. It was an autumn afternoon, just when we immigrants missed Brazil the most. Before going up to my room, I spent a little time with Dentinho, who inserted a quarter on the juke-box in the semi-deserted bar and listened to “Long ago tomorrow”, by B.J. Thomas. It was his favorite song then. It was the last time I saw him. Minutes later Dentinho drove back to the Pulaski Skyway where he was stopped by the cops for speeding; the “cops” wanted to see his documents; he took the police to his house; There they saw his passport with an expired visa. That was his undoing, the cops took him plus Alfredo and G. immediatly to prison. The whole thing was really sad because they were all nice fellows who wouldn't hurt a fly despite being technically “illegal immigrants”. It was the biggest buzz On Monday, at the record factory Synthetic Plastics Co. everyone talked about their sad plight. Dentinho wouldn't come back to work any longer... and neither Alfredo who worked there in the afternoon. They were deported to Brazil in December 1971.
Sometimes I think, had not Dentinho been detained by the police, my life would have taken a different path entirely. They were 3 young men I could have associated with instead of going on living on top of the go-go bar which was not exactly the best place to live and meet new people.
Tuesday, 1 December 2020
Guto
Guto was a different kind of immigrant. He was a rock guitar player. More than this, Guto was highly cultured compared to the rest of us. He'd left Brazil for he was extremely angry with the Brazilian bureaucratic educational system. He had a dream of becoming an architec. He tried hard to get into University of São Paulo's FAU (Faculdade de Arquitetura e Urbanismo), the best school in the country. Even though he had been an excellent student and had scored high marks at the college-entrance-examination he would flunk the 'artistic examination'. He seemed to have been a victim of the University's internal politics. After taking two exams on two consecutive years and not being accepted he got bitter about the whole business and decided to go into voluntary exile. Guto was very good in dealing with numbers and got a better-than-average job working on a lathe at a scissor's factory in Newark's north side away from the Ironbound where most of us were confined.
Damazio had seen Guto playing his guitar at someone's flat earlier in 1972, and introduced me to him circa June when I was hanging around Sing Sing with nothing to do. Guto was a big fan of British rock bands especially the Who. As I was familiar with The Who's 'Tommy' opera-rock album I had something to talk about. Guto used to idolize Yes - progressive rock's ultimate heroes. I didn't know much about progressive rock but I sure knew Yes' 'Roundabout' that played a lot on San Francisco's FM radio-stations when I stayed in the West Coast recently. Guto was a fan of Led Zeppelin too. Every time we would go down for a bite at the Down Neck diner at the corner of Market St. & Fleming Ave. Guto would spend a quarter to play Led Zeppelin's 'Black dog'. He was the first person who told me about David Bowie's 'Ziggy Stardust & the Spiders from Mars' when Bowie was hardly known in the US.
Guto had plans to share an apartment with Luiz Alberto, an old friend of his from Brazil who was visiting him with the intention to stay. Alberto being a somewhat pampered young man would not blend in or put up with the Newark-crowd let alone dare go out and find a job in a factory. So Alberto ended up returning to Brazil before Fall would set in. Once I made the mistake of trying to play some Bob Dylan or Neil Young song with Alberto's guitar. He didn't say a word. After I finished my inglorious task he took the guitar back and played the Beatles' 'Blackbird' with all its splendor and complicated chords as if to say: 'Look, mate, you're no damn good!' I might be wrong there, of course, but that's the impression I had. Guto was not like that. Guto was an impressive guitar player but he was unassuming and a pleasant fellow. (Read more at https://newark-path-manhattan.blogspot.com/2020/10/66-columbia-street-newark-summer-1972.html
Guto on a very cold Saturday on Market Street, Newark, N.J. 9 December 1972.
Guto in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Guto & Myself on our way to Philadelphia P.A.; at this time I would not shave or cut my hair anymore.
Myself freezing up on the streets of Philadelphia... 9 December 1972.
Guto, Nagib and I went to see Grand Funk Railroad playing at the Madison Square Garden on Saturday, 23rd December 1972.
Nagib fakes playing Guto's guitar; he wears his beloved Lee overall.
Wiss scissors' factory in 2013, a few weeks before being demolished.
Wiss & Sons in 1969.
1930s.
This street photo was published in the "Newark Sunday News" on 6 March 1952 on page 6. On the back there is also the date 25 January 1930, which looks like when it was taken.
Before 1925 aerial view. Another story has been added to the main buildings. The roof line is changed and the cupolas are gone. The sign on the front was changed and razors has been dropped. The manufacture of straight razors was discontinued in the latter part of 1923. This image from the 1934 catalog. The identical picture was also in the 1925 catalog. The main buildings from the image were used as letterhead in the late 1920s.
A circa 1906 postcard of the factory. The factory has already been expanded on both sides. Note the building starts with three stories at the near end and is four at the far end. A version of this also exists with a two line caption, the second line being "Main Building where WISS "Stielweld" Shears are made." Those postcards were sent out to their customers. This postcard (with single line caption) was reproduced on page 14 of Newark, The Golden Age, by Jean-Rae Turner, Richard T. Koles and Charles F. Cummings, 2003. The book's caption is riddled with errors. This factory did not begin in the 1840s, but was opened in 1887. J Wiss never made jewelry or silverware. The jewelry store branch of the company simply retailed these items. The Short Hills Mall branch was opened 1961, when the mall opened. It was not moved. The book is available at Amazon, and page 14 is in the preview.
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