Enter the Anti: A Memoir of Revelation and Resistance

By Mike Enrico

"Enter the Anti" is the true story of an American soldier on leave from West Germany who makes a detour to New York City and decides to stay. His new mission is not merely to survive, or seek fame and fortune, but to combat hypocrisy and confront the sacred cows.

Mike Enrico's journey began in the seedy Stapleton section of Staten Island, surrounded by bigots and heroin addicts. It's a lonely existence commuting by ferry back and forth, day after day, to a dead-end job, and stumbling out of bars at 3 am. Determined to change course, he gravitates towards the creative arts and falls in love for the first time in his life.

While working at Chthonian University, Mike discovers the revolutionary speeches of Malcolm X, and his life is forever changed. The battle cry for freedom, justice, and equality erupts after the 1999 police shooting of unarmed African immigrant Amadou Diallo. Mike's activist seeds are sown, and there's no turning back.

Read "Enter the Anti" if you dare, but don't expect a humble bootlicking tale from another son of sharecroppers. In this provocative sequel to "Face It, You're Black," author Mike Enrico recalls his NYC struggles, political awakening, and clashes with ideological opponents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098339319

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Mike Enrico

ISBN: 9781098339319

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Mike Enrico/Book Baby

New York, NY

www.twodroprule.com

Author Note: I have tried to recreate events, locales, and conversations based on my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity, in some instances, I have changed the names of individuals and places. I may have changed identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations, and places of residence.

Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

Enter the Anti/ Mike Enrico. — 1st ed.

Dedication to K.A.M.

CHAPTERS

STATEN ISLAND

VOYEURDOM POST

BANDICOOT COLLEGE

CHTHONIAN UNIVERSITY

MICHAEL 19X

THE BIFFERS

IS THE BLACK RACE DOOMED?

ALMA GEMELA

WHATEVER YOU ARE, I’M AN ANTI!

ROCKABILLY MICK RENO

OBAMAMANIA AND THE GREAT RECESSION

HOMECOMING

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

STATEN ISLAND

20 April 1986.

Welcome to the Bay Street Diner, said the gum- smacking folksy girl behind the counter. Sit anywhere you want. I’ll bring over a menu in a minute.

Thanks, and could I get change for the tabletop jukebox? I glance at the machine, trying to decide: three plays for a quarter, or five for a buck. Decisions, decisions.

I’ve overstayed my military leave by six days. Should I return to West Germany and face the consequences, or remain in New York? Nobody knows I’m here except for my Coast Guard bud Artie, with whom I’ve been staying. He’s aware of the situation and wants to help, but he’ll be shipping out soon to Virginia.

The next day, I walked into the local Army recruitment office on Victory Boulevard and turned myself in. The sergeant on duty took down my statement, made a few phone calls, and two MPs escorted me to a nondescript van parked across the street. I rode 73 miles in silence to Joint Base McGuire-Dix-Lakehurst, AKA, Fort Dix, New Jersey. When we arrived, I, along with 20 other soldiers, was segregated in temporary barracks. Two hours later, a young lieutenant called me into his office. He said, Private Enrico, the 1st Armored Division in Baumholder doesn’t want you back, but do you still wish to remain in the Army?

No sir, I do not.

He reminded me of my medical condition and suggested the Army might consider a general administrative discharge. While we waited for our final papers, the lieutenant made us pick weeds in the hot sun, dressed in ill-fitting fatigues with armbands to indicate our inferior status. On the last day, I received my last military haircut - a botched feather duster disaster resembling Stork, from Animal House.

During the ride back to NYC, I realized my decision to leave the Army might not have been the smartest career move. Still, I didn’t want to risk a permanent back injury. At least I made an effort to serve our country. I went through boot camp, Advanced Individual Training (AIT), and did my duty in West Germany. I’d say it’s more honorable than any of the flag-waivers and hypocrites who never wore the uniform yet sit on their fat asses and lecture everyone to Support the Troops.

I needed a job and a place to live. Lady Luck smiled on me when I took the subway to the Upper West Side of Manhattan and noticed an art gallery across the street from the famous Dakota apartments. They had a Help Wanted sign in the window for a picture framer. I walked in, and to my surprise, the music sounded familiar. I recognized songs from The Stranglers, R.E.M., and Steve Earle. The owner, Bernard Trammel, asked me if I had any experience. I told him I worked at a gallery in the Chicago area for five years. He said, Well, let’s see what you can do, and arranged a workspace in front of me with a print, frame, and all the necessary tools. It took less than five minutes to complete the task, and Bernard asked if I could start on Monday. Yes! He smiled, shook my hand, and said he’d see me at 11. I hit the town and celebrated.

I answered an ad in the paper for an apartment a couple of blocks from the diner on Clinton Street. When I arrived, three guys were busy tearing up the kitchen floor. It was a fixer-upper and I had zero carpentry skills. Outside, I met the landlords, Harold and Ruth Ballins. They asked if I’d be interested in renting a studio from them on St. Pauls Avenue over in Stapleton. (Stapleton housed the majority of Staten Island’s blacks, along with a few pockets of working-class whites.) The semi-furnished apartment occupied the third floor of their home and had a separate street entrance.

Harold worked in advertising. I noticed key chains, coin purses, and other novelties with printed contact info scattered on the staircase between floors. Ruth managed a temporary employment agency in Midtown Manhattan. When the warmer temperatures arrived in May, Harold asked if I’d help out with a few chores in the backyard on weekends. He didn’t offer any money but said I’d be doing him a favor in exchange for the low rent I paid each month. I agreed. But after a few weeks, my lower back spasms returned. How would I break the news to Harold? I looked out the window and saw him dressed in his scarecrow straw hat, knee-high white socks and sandals, alongside an assortment of gardening tools propped against the shed. With regret, I told him the bad news. He didn’t say a word, but his expression changed as if he’d stepped into a pile of dog shit. It reminded me of my old Jewish neighbor back in Hobart, Mrs. Sullivan, who also frowned at me when I refused to pick weeds in her flower beds.

I wondered, could Harold be Jewish? I decided to investigate. Early Saturday morning I crept downstairs outside their door, listened for voices or movement, and knocked. No answer. I walked in. Holocaust and Nazi-related books dominated their shelves. I noticed a framed photo of Harold, as a young man, wearing a yarmulke. My instincts were correct. Harold was Jewish, and soon I would learn how to fight back against others like him.

Besides my studio, the third floor also had another bathroom, and two small adjacent rooms. Ruth used one as an office, the other, for storage. At the end of July, without any notice, she rented out the spare to an ex-Marine named Dave Banaszewski. A week later, he stopped by and introduced himself. Short and bull-necked, he resembled actor Jeff Fahey and insisted I call him Alphabet. I invited him in for a beer, and over the next hour, he told me his life story. He still lived with his wife and young son over on Hylan Boulevard but decided to get a room because his extracurricular activities had taken a toll on their marriage. I didn’t ask about his situation, but in a few weeks, I found out, firsthand, the terrible truth.

I heard a knock and noticed a slip of paper under the door. From Alphabet: I have to head over to the Bronx, wanna go? I’ll meet you outside in 20 minutes, A. He drove a pale blue Ford truck with a column-mounted manual shifter and a cracked sideview mirror.

"So, we’re heading to