Originally from Dorchester: A Memoir

By Gerard Healy

The lessons author Gerard Healy learned growing up in Bostons neighborhood of Dorchester prepared him well for the life that followed. His parents, teachers, kind neighbors, true friends, and the culture of Dorchester provided Healy with a solid base of values. Trial and error would fill in the gaps.

The stories in Originally from Dorchester narrate the good, the bad, and beauty of life there in the mid-60s. A story of place and time, it chronicles a young boys struggle for identity against the competing forces of peer and gang pressure. A predominantly Irish working-class neighborhood, Dorchester held everything including brutal street fighters, true friends, intimidating nuns, and protective neighbors.

Carrying the spirit of adventure with him always, Originally from Dorchester shares the lessons learned from family and friends that Healy has carried with him as hes roamed far beyond the towns borders. It explores the complex relationships of adolescent peers, the struggle to break free of intimidating violence, and the saving value of friendship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: Sep 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781489703118

Gerard Healy

Gerard Healy is a retired Army Lieutenant Colonel who served in combat operations: Urgent Fury, Grenada; Operation Desert Storm, Iraq; and Operation Iraqi Freedom, Iraq. His awards include the Legion of Merit and Bronze Star. He currently resides in Carrollton, VA, with his wife Sujin.

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Copyright © 2014 Gerard Healy.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The illustrations preceding chapters 4 (Lafield Street House) and 12 (Boys on a corner) are by Dennis Auth of Norfolk, VA. All other illustrations are by Luisa Rachbauer of Germany.

LifeRich Publishing is a registered trademark of The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-0310-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-0311-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014916402

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 09/19/2014

CONTENTS

Dedication

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1 The Rat

Chapter 2 Being Schooled

Chapter 3 Ghost Stories

Chapter 4 Lafield

Chapter 5 Nothing For Nothing

Chapter 6 Fishflies

Chapter 7 Myths Of Dorchester

Chapter 8 The Path Of The Righteous

Chapter 9 Sky Pilot

Chapter 10 Trapped

Chapter 11 The Wall

Chapter 12 The Quiet Truth

Chapter 13 Gentle Fall

Epilogue The Reception

DEDICATION

To Sujin

and

The Lafield Boys

INTRODUCTION

T his is a work of creative nonfiction. All events, people, and conversations depicted are real and true, although the precise words in dialogue and actual timing of the events may not be accurate. While I have consulted photographs, web pages, journals, and conducted conversations with others involved, my main source for the accounts that follow is my own memory. In the interest of privacy, however, some names have been changed.

PROLOGUE

T he first time I heard the term, Originally From Dorchester, I was at a meeting of the National Security Agency, or NSA. A retired Army lieutenant colonel and current government service employee, I was part of a team developing a battle plan. It was the type of mission one dreams about, working with an interesting mix of innovative planners from various fields – Infantry, Military Intelligence, Strategic Communications, and others. In the previous month, we received input from Central Command, Strategic Command, and numerous theater area experts.

In a way, I felt I had travelled far from my Dorchester days; but in the most important ways, not so far at all. The lessons I learned in that town had prepared me well for all that followed. My parents, teachers, kind neighbors, true friends, and the culture of Dorchester provided me with a solid base of values. Trial and error would continue fill in the gaps.

The morning had included healthy debates that ranged from what could be done to what shouldn’t be done. Then, during the course of a short break, an Army major approached me. He’d recognized a familiar accent and asked if I was from Boston. Yes, I responded, and from habit, added, from Dorchester. A smile spread wide across his face and his eyes lit up. OFD, he said. I looked back at him quizzically, having no idea what that meant. Originally From Dorchester, he explained.

He told me how folks all around Boston had t-shirts, hats, and bumper stickers boasting OFD. His father was one of them. He’d grown up in the Fields Corner section of Dorchester, and had often told his son and his other children of the almost mythical place he called home.

Mostly with the courtesy of the Army, I’d already lived in eight states and even more cities by then. None of them came close to stirring the pride and passion of my own hometown. As the major spoke, I remembered and felt the same fondness for home his father had conveyed to him.

Years later, while writing this book, I became increasingly aware of how much Dorchester itself had influenced me, how I had absorbed as much of it, as it had me. The stories that follow are of the good, the bad, and beauty of life there in the mid-60s. I’ve never forgotten the town’s lessons, and tried to never lose the spirit of adventure that it encouraged, even demanded. Like many others who’ve roamed far beyond its borders, I carry it with me always.

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CHAPTER I

THE RAT

D ave and I had just left the corner, heading toward the schoolyard when we heard the noises. First, it was the bottles breaking, then curses, and then we saw the three boys outrunning the chasing mob. Both of us, 11-years-old, watched the older Wainwright Park kids chase down the Lucky Strikes (bowling alley) boys. We jumped up on the raised lawn of a corner yard.

Two very long lines of cars bordered Centre Ave. as it approached its collision point with Dorchester Ave. From the high ground, we looked over the cars and saw the three teenagers, all with the look of rats, running toward us. The slowest of them had a large head and a bulky build. The other two kept glancing at him, and he talked to them as he ran. All wore dungarees and white t-shirts. But the thick one in the middle also wore a black leather coat. My first thought was he was a true rat, wearing leather on a warm day like today. I figured the coat was likely what started the chase.

Back in the early 60s, the teenage world of Dorchester was broken into two camps – the colleesh and the rats. It would be many years before I figured out that colleesh was slang for collegiate. I knew what rats were. Outside of Dorchester, they were called greasers. While the standard clothes for the colleesh included corduroy pants and button shirts, the rats wore black leather coats and carried knives, usually switchblades. They were trouble, and the leather told you that they wanted you to know it.

The two skinnier boys had outdistanced the kid in the leather, before slowing down slightly to let him catch up. Then the boy in leather tripped. It was the worst possible thing that could have happened, like blinking with a football just feet from your open hands and face.

If he kept his feet, the rat might have been hit by a few of the flying bottles, and the fastest runners may have gotten close enough to land a whack or two. But the three rats had a tough look, and the other kids weren’t moving as fast as they might. They were bunched up, nobody getting too far from his buddies. But once that boy tripped, his world changed. Decades later, I still see it clearly – the rat going down.

Shit, he said as his right leg went from under him. The three were about 40 feet ahead of the mob. The kid to his right grabbed him under his armpit, to keep him up. The other friend, slightly ahead to the left, glanced back at the crowd, at the kid who was helping, and slowed his pace. It was a brave choice.

Go, said the one in the middle. He had not looked back, but could, no doubt, hear the running and yelling close behind him. I was stunned by the hesitation of his friends. The mob was at full speed: in seconds they would be caught. The rat in leather, being half-dragged now, pushed the boy on his right with his arm while the momentum of his own body brought him down. He yelled something else I couldn’t hear above the shouts of the mob, and the two friends at last picked up their pace, as the one in leather hit the ground hard.

About six kids continued past the fallen rat, chasing his friends. The rat rolled, turned, and swung his arms out toward the first boys to come for him. Dave was already off the lawn. He ran to the space between two parked cars, crouched down, and watched intently.

Four boys were now struggling with the rat. Two were rolling on the tar with him, the others kicking at him. The rat struggled up and dove at the two who were kicking. One of them went down and the rat went through the opening, picking up speed. But the slow runners from the gang now caught up to the action. A boy in full stride hit the rat. He went down, harder this time.

I jumped from the lawn and ran toward a parked car in the direction of the downed kid. More of the slower runners had caught up. One of them pushed me aside and grabbed at a car antenna. He twisted it quickly side-to-side. It wasn’t coming off easy; he’d yank at it and then twist some more. He was breathing heavily and sweating. Then everyone was grabbing antennas, twisting them back and forth. On their faces were wild expressions, each boy’s skin tight with crazed looks that resembled fear. I wondered why they would be scared. The one in the leather coat had good reason: I could understand that. Yet somehow, his body movement relayed less fear than the others. He was contained, still in control.

Then, even some of the boys kicking the downed rat got the idea of the antennas. As they left to twist them off the cars, the rat saw his opening. He jumped into a half crouch and busted between two kids, running and stumbling through the t-intersection out into the middle of Dot Ave. Breaks squealed and drivers hit their horns, but he made it to the other side and headed toward his home turf. It was about a quarter-mile away, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world.

Some of the other boys who’d given up on catching the rat’s friends were jogging back toward the crowd when they spotted the leather coat. They crossed the street, two of them taking him to the ground, and the hounds moved in for the kill. There were swishing sounds as the antennas cut the air and smacked off the leather coat. That must be why he kept it, I thought. I would have ditched it for speed during the run.

I understood now that this must be how murder happens. Like animals smelling blood, the fifteen or so Wainwright boys converged on the one. Some kicked; others tried to whack with antennas. It was the sound of small winds, Whoooo, Whooooo, Whoooooo, Smack, and Smack. I knew their thoughts. They wanted to have something to talk about later, something they did. I’d heard the bragging in the schoolyard before: I could hear what was coming.

Did you see that? I kicked him right in the side. Yes, they would talk of their bravery. It was a time of happenings and they would not be caught on the sidelines.

I could hear his ribs crack … Man!

My antenna caught him right on the cheek, cut him clean.

You know he would of got away if I hadn’t tackled him. On and on and on. Whoooooo. Whooooo. SMACK, SMACK, SMACK.

Watch it, someone yelled; look out, another. Some of the gang started pushing at others as antennas bounced off their arms. As they backed off, the rat, tired and bloody, saw his last chance. Somehow he got to his feet and broke through the crowd again. But he was much slower. There was blood on the side of his face and on the sleeve of his coat. He would be caught. He could hardly keep his feet moving: all his strength had been bled or beaten out of him. I wondered if he knew this would happen when he pushed his friends away.

Still, there was no sign of panic; he kept looking and moving. It was like he’d been through this before. I wondered if that was possible. I watched how he moved and could feel his thoughts. He just had to keep moving, keep busting through. But I could see that his legs were giving out.

The crowd caught him again outside the Centre Lounge. The kicking was furious. All those who missed him before were now in on the action. For those doing the kicking, the danger had past; they fought, desperate for a piece of the bragging rights.

It was then