Don't Call Me Clarence: A Lifelong Struggle for a Winning Hand in Life

By C. Joseph Socha

Dont Call Me Clarence! begins with an introduction describing what life was like during the authors childhood, the Depression years, a bit of colorful history of that era. Then the chapters take us from the authors early years how his inferiority complex came to be, a lot to do with character-forming, the pressures and influences and how important it is to be aware of both harmful and positive experiences, and even more importantly, how often people who denigrate us may actually benefit us by making us try harder to prove them wrong,

The author had at least three strikes against him as a youth: that name, Clarence, in his tough neighborhood humiliated him; he was short and thin which made him an easy mark for neighborhood bullies. Bad enough, there was the Fat Man, Fathers nephew who came to live with the family during the Depression until he could get on his feet financially, but he never left. The Fat Man was a cynical, faultfinding person who seemed to target Clarence with criticism mostly because Clarence tended to argue and fight back. But thanks to his father and mother, good old-fashioned, Old Country Christians, Clarence acquired what he called a beacon to distinguish right from wrong that influenced him to lead a straight life. His behavior was affected by a combination of positive and negative responses, but mostly his determination to fight back, to try harder to prove himself, helped him succeed in the difficult life that he led.

Outside the home, there were two very positive influences that gave Clarence a goal in life. There was Mrs. Lowe, the grade school librarian who persisted in getting Clarence to read. It wasnt easy for her, but she put a book in his hand, and he opened it, and suddenly that fantastic world of books took hold. Clarence couldnt get enough books to read. The more he read, the more he wanted to improve his knowledge and education. Book stories fueled his imagination and opened the door to a fantasy world where heroes always won, and good triumphed. It influenced his personality. It also energized his creative mind. His own stories came to mind. And it was a second dedicated teacher, Mrs. Gabrielle, who took him in hand and encouraged Clarence to write. He then knew that what he wanted most out of life was to become a writer, and he had a goal, which he pursued.

There were the Depression years that toughened people to hardships, and Clarence tried early in life to get work, any kind of work to help provide income for the family. He had that work ethic that employers recognized so he always had someone wanting his services. In those years before self-service markets, Clarence clerked for a grocery store, learned how to deal with people, and he learned an important lesson. When employers see you working is when other job offers come up. Work produces work.

Then came World War II. Clarence enlisted in the Navy. He served on four ships that took him to different lands to see different people. His third ship was sunk off of Ansio, Italy, and he barely survived. His fourth ship he saw being built in Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin. His ship, the PGM-30, a gunboat, was in Okinawa where the Japanese were determined to fight to the death, inflecting heavy wounds to our Navy. The PGM-30 was part of an invasion fleet awaiting action in the invasion of Japan, that American planes dropped the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and suddenly the war was over.

After the war, there was a quandary in Clarence: what to do for a living? His goal of becoming a writer was stalled, at age twenty-six. Here another helpful person persuaded Clarence to go back to school. Back to college among young teenagers fresh out of high school was embarrassing, but Clarence persisted, earned hi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 7, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462829019

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INTRODUCTION

The purpose of this book, at first, was to tell the story of my life for the family, to help them know the old man better. But as I moved along, it occurred to me that there are a lot of people going through the same doubts and low self-esteem that I struggled with all my life. Maybe this book could help them realize that there is a commonality to such feelings. YOU ARE NOT ALONE: Further, as I discovered the reasons I felt so down on myself, it helped me recover self-respect; perhaps the reader could benefit from my experience.

I believe we all have some feelings of inadequacy, a weakness that we try to hide but think that everyone is aware of. Even the most successful, outgoing people suffer some of these unproductive feelings. I remember seeing famous actors interviewed who, on stage, appeared poised and super-suave but admitted they suffered severe stage fright. Anthony Quinn, one of my favorite actors, claimed he was terrified in front of an audience. But once an actor is given a script, telling him who he was to be in a play and the words to say, he was transformed. Being somebody else hid his personal discomfort. But we are not in a play. We are always on, at work, among friends, every moment of our daily grind.

Now, in my seventy-ninth year, I have the luxury of going back over the years, watching me perform, trying to figure me out and discovering what formed my attitude for good or not so good. I am aware of blips in my growth here and there that diminished me and some that helped me fight and change. As you read on, you may likely say, «Yea. That’s what happened to me.»

What a full life mine has been. I was among the fortunate who lived through the Great Depression. Fortunate to have experienced hardships that toughened my hide and made me realize that you have to tough it out on your own, not expect getting bailed out by someone else.

We are now in a new millennium. What does the future hold for me? Not much, considering life expectancy for a person my age. I’m waiting for my ticket out of here to wherever. If there is truth to this idea of reincarnation, I may turn up on Earth again. Before I go I want to thank God for giving me an opportunity to live through my country’s most exciting and historic period. It’s all in the history books now, but the colorful, personal experiences locked in my memory are worth revisiting.

I was a child of that Great Depression, the worst economic crisis our country faced. It was a time when, not just a person here and there was out of work, nearly the entire community was unemployed. People stayed at home, sitting on their front porches, trying desperately to control boredom and pain. They gave up electricity, relying on kerosene lanterns. They swallowed pride and applied for government food baskets when available. Then, slowly, came the WPA, FHA mortgages and Social Security. I was among the first to get a Social Security card and carry my original card in my wallet today.

We had no refrigerators. Food was preserved in an ice box with ice delivered in twenty-five-pound or fifty-pound blocks we ordered by putting a sign in the front window for the ice man to see. Melting ice dripped water to a pan beneath the ice box which we sometimes forgot to empty, and the spillover wet the kitchen floor. Meat was purchased daily from the butcher market, fresh, not frozen stiff as it is today. No doubt that’s why it tasted so much better in the old days.

A peddler went through our neighborhood with his horse-drawn wagon selling fresh produce, the horse patiently waiting, swishing his tail to keep off the flies. The kids followed the peddler waiting for «it» to happen. «It» was when the horse relieved himself, embarrassing the housewives standing on the curb, waiting to make their purchases.

During tomato harvest season, farmers drove through our neighborhood with bushels and half-bushels of huge, ripe tomatoes. A bushel cost fifty cents. We ate the tomato like an apple, along with fresh-buttered bread (Oleo spread most of the time because it was cheaper). We ran through the streets eating the delicious tomato, juice squirting on our face and hands.

We bought bread, freshly-baked from the local bakery, daily after six o’clock. Just one loaf. Pumpernickel, Mother said. I ran swift as a deer, and the nearer I approached the bakery, the stronger and more tantalizing the aroma of fresh-baked goods. The loaf, almost too hot to the touch, I cradled in my arms against my chest. The bread was unsliced. Kept fresh longer.

It seemed that summer was warmer, sunnier, longer than today’s, that food tasted better and our leisure hours were more comfortable and enjoyable. There was law and order, respect for authority, more togetherness among the people because we all shared the same urgencies of existence.

Our utensils had to be scoured with abrasive powder after each meal or they rusted. Today utensils are stainless steel. No dishwashers then; we washed and wiped the dishes and put them away, taking turns as washer or wiper.

We walked to school, regardless the weather; no busses to take us as is done today. We walked to the grocery stores. There were small neighborhood stores, much like present-day party stores. Remnants of these stores are now converted to residences in the old neighborhoods. Our entertainment was provided by the local movie theatre and radio. We sat around the radio and let our minds provide the pictures imagined from the commentator’s words.

There was more serious church attendance from families who were mostly first-generation Americans, who brought their religious beliefs with them from the old country. Most interesting was the reverence shown to public libraries. We removed our hats when we went in, and our behavior was hushed inside. Respect. Much more respect.

And then came the miracles of technology. Television! Imagine, live scenes of happenings all over the world brought to us on the screen in our living room. We take it for granted today. As kids, we looked up at the moon with awe, but TV shot us right up there with our astronauts, taking man’s first step on the surface of the moon.

Then the miracle of miracles—the computer, with its fantastic memory, its obtrusive knowledge of our personal life. You enter your name and Social Security number and the computer lists your medical and educational history even your very personal dollars-and cents information.

There were no self-service supermarkets when I was a grocery clerk. The customer read off his list of groceries desired, I brought the merchandise from the shelves to the counter. It was talk, walk, talk walk—a lot of steps and time. When the customer paid I had to calculate the correct change. Today, the check-out clerk moves the merchandise across a sensitive recorder and a computer lists the items’ prices, the total cost, the cash tendered and change due. The computer also deducts from the store’s inventory the merchandise sold. Not much time to visit as customers in line impatiently wait to pay and go.

Back then the typewriter was our main instrument to write copy. You made duplicate copies with carbon paper and errors had to be erased on the original and each carbon. Today, you write on a word processor and can revise copy at any time without retyping an entire document. Extra copies from the original can be made at Kinkos for mere pennies per sheet.

Progress. Lots of progress. But sometimes you yearn for the simpler old days. I have the luxury of revisiting them by just flipping the pages of this book. I can laugh about them, or cringe and kick myself. It has been a long, looooong lifetime. By and large I believe I did a pretty good job of it.

1 OFF TO A TOUGH START

Notice that the name of the author of this book is C. Joseph Socha. Right away there is that question: What’s the C stand for? The reason I try to hide that name is what this book is about.

Life is tough enough without having a name that makes you uncomfortable. Think about it. Your name is with you every moment of the day, and if you hate it, then each time you hear it you are so embarrassed that you want to hide; and you go out of your way to avoid being introduced to anyone. I strongly advise parents to think seriously, take a lot of time, and get advice from friends you can trust before you name that helpless, innocent infant you hold in your arms. Believe me, it is serious business and I hope that reading this book will convince you.

I know that my sainted mother chose Clarence for me because, as she explained, it sounded different, and classy, and not many people had it. Very likely, it could be that the poor dear had just pointed a weary finger to a list of names, and that was it. Dear Mom was pretty whacked-out by the time I arrived. I did not come easy. I entered this world feet first, and weighed thirteen-and-a-half pounds! To make matters even tougher, I was born the day after Christmas when most people were celebrating the holidays. The doctor was not too happy having to brave a cold snowstorm early in the morning to do his job.

People asked me what’s the big deal about not liking that name? Well, they didn’t have to live with it in the tough neighborhood where I grew up, where the name, said aloud, in front of the local kids, was like waving a red cape in front of a bull. It just brought out the mischief and meanness in them.

Sure, I have met people named Clarence who were big, tough guys, and some were famous authors and statesmen, but they didn’t live where I did. And they were not a half-pint like I was as a child. And they were not taking violin lessons like I was. No matter how you say the name, it sounds wrong—like you are being sarcastic and putting me down, especially if your name is a lot nicer, like Bill, Butch, Jake, Slugger—something sounding tough and even menacing.

In my neighborhood the kids did more fighting than getting along. Most families were first generation Americans, living together in the same community yet separate in themselves: Polish, Italian, Russian, Ukrainian, Jewish . . . and across the tracks, blacks.

So, enter into this environment a kid named Clarence, STRIKE oNE. I tell the kids my name and they make my life miserable. «Your name is, snicker, snicker, Clarence? Claaaarence? Snicker, snicker.»

Showing anger was not smart. They only teased more. Even today, when I tell my name I clench my teeth, like before taking bitter medicine or getting a needle from the dentist. That is why friends and people I work with know me as Joe, my middle name, unless it is absolutely necessary for me to use my legal name for my driver’s license or Social Security card.

I’m asked, «If that name bothers you so much, why don’t you change it legally?» Well, it goes back to my respect for Mother who always believed Clarence was a nice name. And considering all the hassle involved in legally changing my name on everything on which it appears, it would be just too much trouble to do anything now.

STRIKE TWO: I played a violin. That is, I was taking lessons. My parents hoped that their kids could become musicians, be famous and earn a good income. My brother, Leonard, chose piano. I picked violin. My brother was honest. After a few lessons, he quit. I felt that if I kept going, some miracle would happen and I could master that hated, squeaky thing and not disappoint Mother and Father.

My poor folks spent a lot of unnecessary money before I finally gave up. I did get something out of all the lessons, however. I acquired a keen sense of rhythm which, I believe, helped me to become outstanding in copying radio transmissions during my service in the Navy.

STRIKE THREE: My hair was naturally wavy, like Father’s. What a combination! A name like mine, playing a violin, a definite sissy instrument in my community, and there was that wavy hair.

Better add, STRIKE FOUR: I was short for my age (until about age fifteen). Hah! An easy predator target. Although I was short, I was fast and could outrun a lot of longer-legged kids. This came in handy when I was cornered by bullies. I learned to hit the closest or most aggressive bully on the nose when possible, and then run like hell. A bloody nose shocked aggressors long enough to