The Diary of an Ordinary Man

By Tom Barry

About the Book
The Diary of an Ordinary Man is an autobiography of a man who hailed from alcoholic parents in a distressed neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. Tom Barry dropped out of high school and joined the U.S. Army, where he did tours in Korea and Germany. After his military service, he drifted from job to job before joining the New York City Department of Corrections as a new corrections officer. This book introduces the reader to some of the diverse characters employed in the department at that time and reviews some of the many aspects of working in a jail, including Tom’s perspective of the formative 1970 New York City jail riots and their aftermath.
During his twenty years with the agency, Tom worked his way through the ranks to become a warden and in the process he put himself through college (NYIT) and graduate school (St. John’s University in Queens, New York). One of the author’s many successes was preparing and managing the nation’s first municipal direct supervision facility for operation. Under his leadership, the facility became a model for the department and an example for the nation.
The Diary of an Ordinary Man was written from the perspective of a blue-collar worker. Within the book the reader will be entertained with some humorous and human-interest stories. The book covers a particularly volatile period in our nation’s history, wherein major societal changes occurred, which resulted in many challenges and innovative solutions, some of which may be relevant today. Tom’s many difficulties during the course of his career and his methods for overcoming them may inspire the reader in dealing with his or her own challenges, for no life is without its problems. Everyone must climb their own fences on their road to success.

About the Author
Tom Barry lives in San Antonio with his wife, Nancy. Together they enjoy hosting backyard barbeques, traveling, dancing to country music, salsa, oldies, and listening to blues. In his retirement he immerses himself in woodworking, chess, bowling with his wife and friends, and shooting skeet and targets. He is an amateur student of history, having read many texts on a wide variety of historical subjects. His reading tends to be nonfiction and an occasional novel. Additionally, he enjoys Southwestern art and the poetry of Robert Frost.
Prior to his retirement in the early 2000s, Tom was a jail auditor for the National Sheriff’s Association and the American Correctional Association. He served as president for the North American Association of Wardens and Superintendents and the American Jail Association, and finally as a member of the Board of Directors for the International Correctional Arts Network (ICAN). He attends church regularly and is a member of the Knights of Columbus. He also is a life member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars and a member of the American Legion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Sep 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889259350

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The contents of this work, including, but not limited to, the accuracy of events, people, and places depicted; opinions expressed; permission to use previously published materials included; and any advice given or actions advocated are solely the responsibility of the author, who assumes all liability for said work and indemnifies the publisher against any claims stemming from publication of the work.

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2023 by Tom Barry

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Introduction

This book chronicles the life of an ordinary man who had an extraordinary life, an era of change. It is a story of the survival and growth of a man who achieves moderate success in spite of himself and his inherent disadvantages. Most often it is the great politician, inventor, military leader or one of the world’s renowned thinkers, silver-screen or literary celebrities, phenomenal achievers who broke barriers or discovered new territories who are featured in autobiographical histories. But I wonder, what is there about common people that makes their lives seemingly too mundane to be interesting? I disagree with such a notion. A common person’s life is invariably more interesting than one might suspect. After all, it is the common person who makes the extraordinary life possible. I believe that one would be hard pressed to find a life that isn’t extraordinary. We admire and respect our heroes. However, there is no king without his subjects; there is no president or leader without a constituency. No leader can lead without his followers. What is a general without his enemy or his soldiers? No explorer can explore new countries or territories without the financial support that is, more often than not, provided by the political leadership of the citizenry who provide the cash. No rocket to space could be built without financial support and its engineers, technicians, electricians, carpenters, plumbers and mechanics, and without the accountants, bookkeepers and paymasters in the background, furthermore.

Often in my youth I have wondered about my grandparents and their experiences. The parents of my grandparents are completely unknown to me. What were the experiences that formed their personalities? What type of challenges did they face and what type of work did they have to do to survive an often turbulent era? What motivated them to migrate to this country? Did they achieve success or did they fail in employment or social life? A good genealogist might have searched and found their names and perhaps an occupation from an archived tax form or immigration record. They might discover the names of spouses and children but rarely can he or she discover anything personal. Consequently, for me these questions remain unanswered.

It took me quite some time to complete this project. I have never learned to type so I was relegated to the hunt-and-peck method. I began this project many years ago but all I wrote was a general outline. Some of my stories are humorous but most are serious. I started to finalize this project while self-quarantined in my home during the Covid-19 pandemic in 2020, just before my 80th birthday. Since then, I have reviewed and added additional sequences and facts as I remembered them. Everything that follows is factual but I might have made an error or two with my dates. For this I ask the reader’s indulgence. Like any autobiography I had to choose which elements to include and which to ignore. Certainly there was so much more to my life than what is included in these pages. It is my hope that those who read the following pages will be inspired to write their own history in their senior years to create to a body of knowledge about their ancestors for future generations. I believe there is no such thing as a mundane life; share yours it if you are able.

This book will chronicle my beginnings through my Army years and my career in the justice system. I, like most people, had many successes and failures. I found love three times and lost it twice. I fathered a beautiful girl, my only child, who has given me three wonderful grandchildren. I have traveled throughout the United States and to both Asia and Europe, and in the process I have learned a few things, which you may discover as you read. I am proud of my life’s accomplishments. I have achieved remarkable successes and many awards in spite of my humble beginnings. I was sickly as a child, hailed from a very poor family, and I was a high school dropout. Still, I managed to obtain my GED, a Bachelor of Science degree from NYIT and a Master’s degree from St. John’s University.

Last week I ran into an old friend. I told him what I was doing and how difficult it has been for me to write this. He asked me why I went to all this trouble in my old age. I responded with this story I was told:

An elderly man walked into a Catholic church and sat down in the confessional. He told the priest that he cheated on his wife and experienced the most wonderful weekend of his life. He had met a very beautiful 25-year-old woman with whom he had the most amazing sex in his life. The priest responded, saying, For your penance, my son, say…, wherein the elderly man interrupted and said, No, no, no. You don’t understand! I’m not Catholic, I don’t believe in confessing. Then the priest asked, So why are you telling me? The elderly man replied, I’m telling everyone!

Growing Up Tommy

I was born Thomas Richard Barry on August 14, 1940. I was named after my father’s father, Tom, who died long before I was born. I was the third of five children born to Catherine and Raymond Barry. My sister Kathleen and brother Raymond preceded me into this world, and I saw the light of day before my sisters Eleanor and Gail. I don’t really know much about my parents’ childhood or history. Not that they weren’t with us during our childhood, but parents in those days did not talk to children very often, at least mine didn’t. When they addressed their children it was usually just to tell them what to do or not do. The phrase I heard mostly, from adults, during my early childhood was Children should be seen and not heard. To this day I still know little or nothing of my parents’ childhood or how they met each other or why they married. I never knew my grandfathers; both had passed before I was born. I met both of my grandmothers but they too are an enigma; I never had a conversation with either one. They were not the cookie-making kindly grandmas you see on the television. I had four uncles and two aunts on my father’s side: Tom, Earl, Vince, and Uncle Jack, but his real name was Clement. My aunts were Lillian and Peggy. I also had three aunts on my mother’s side of the family: Eleanor, whom I never knew; Barbara; and Agnes. I learned much later that Aunt Agnes was adopted.

Both my parents were alcoholics. My father was a binge drinker. He could be sober for a week and sometimes for weeks but never months. My father was a great fan of baseball and he loved the Brooklyn Dodgers (before they moved to LA in 1957). He would drown his sorrows in alcohol when they lost and celebrate their victories. When they didn’t play, there were other excuses. My mother drank to excess every weekend and sometimes during the week. Still, she was able to hold a regular job. While my mother was working and otherwise engaged my older sister Kathleen, who was older than me by four and a half years, cared for us. She made sure we had a supper and the apartment was cleaned. My brother Raymond, who was a little over one year younger than Kathleen, was rarely around and escaped to the U.S. Navy as soon as he turned seventeen. At least that was the way I remember my family experiences during my early teenage years. I don’t remember much about my earlier years with my family because I spent preschool through the 5th grade with my father’s relatives in Connecticut.

When I was about four or five I became very sick. No one knew the cause of my illness. I was not digesting my food and I was slowly starving. I saw an early photo of me. I was extremely boney and had one of those extended stomachs typical of malnutrition. I have been told that all I could digest at the time were bananas and skim milk. It must have been quite a problem getting bananas for me during World War II, but somehow I survived. My parents must have realized my illness was beyond their resources or abilities to handle. So they shipped me off to New Haven, Connecticut, to the care of my father’s sister, my Aunt Lillian and her husband Uncle Red.

I don’t know why some memories stay with you forever and others are lost in a moment, but I still remember the train ride to Connecticut. I was taken to the train station; a ticket was placed around my neck and I was given to the custody of a conductor who placed me in my seat. I was a quiet boy in those days and probably as cute as any other child. God makes children that way. In any case, the other travelers (all adults) and the conductor fawned over me. They gave me treats, lots of attention, and I remember it as a great adventure and joyful experience. When I arrived I was met by my Aunt Lil, then admitted to a New Haven hospital for about a week. There they discovered that I had celiac disease, for which there is no cure, even to this day, but it is easily controlled via a gluten-free diet. I remember everyone in the hospital as being very nice to me. Later I was erroneously told that it was a childhood disease and that I would outgrow it. I got well and began my new life with my Aunt Lil, Uncle Red and Cousin Maureen in New Haven, CT. I don’t remember much about Uncle Red except that he was rarely home and that he was an over-the-road truck driver. He once told me he kept a rifle in his truck for shooting rats when he made pickups at the docks and I thought that was cool. My cousin Maureen was a few years older than me so we didn’t have much in common.

***As sort of a footnote, I should note that my brother Raymond and subsequently my youngest sister Gail were later sent for a stay to my grandmother’s home in Bristol, Connecticut. They were sent for behavioral problems. My trip, as I stated, was for health reasons. Their trips were only for a summer or two. My guess is that Connecticut was the Barry family’s child rehabilitation location.***

Anyway, time passed and I stayed with my Aunt Lil but during the school years and during summers I was sent to stay with my grandmother (my father’s mother). My Aunt Peggy and Uncle Earl (my father’s sister and brother) lived with my grandmother in a small house in Bristol, Connecticut. From the start I idolized my Uncle Earl. He drank too much on the weekends but he never missed work (as far as I knew). He was a quiet and even-tempered man. He liked me and would talk to me sometimes. Every Friday, payday, he would come home from work with some comic books for me. The comic books were usually about Disney characters or westerns with characters like Hop-a-long Cassidy and the Lone Ranger, or action heroes like the Green Lantern, etc. This was probably the start of my interest in reading, which stayed with me throughout my life.

Uncle Earl had an abundance of talent at many things, which impressed me very much. He could make soap, eat hot cherry peppers like they were grapes, and he smoked a pipe. To a little boy he was everything perfect in a grown man. One day he caught me pretending to smoke one of his pipes in his room. He didn’t say anything. As I noted previously, Uncle Earl had a very calm demeanor and was not a big talker. The next Friday when he got paid, he came home with his weekly gift of comic books for me and, to my surprise, a small pipe. He took one of his pipes from his rack, filled it, sat down next to me and smoked. Then he asked me if I wanted to try it. I responded with an excited Yes!! He then filled my little pipe, lit it and gave it to me. I sat in his big comfortable chair while he sat on his bed and we smoked. Of course, I was just imitating smoking, puffing without inhaling. I didn’t know about inhaling. In any case, as I sat there puffing my pipe with Uncle Earl feeling wonderful my grandmother came into the room and caught us. She took the pipe from me and gave him holy hell. That ended my smoking adventures for years.

When my grandmother castigated Uncle Earl she did not use any bad language. She would never use bad language. In fact, I never heard a single curse word, from anyone, until I returned to my parents’ in Brooklyn, New York, some years later. We were Irish Catholic and my grandmother would never miss Sunday Mass or a holy day of obligation. She would take me and Aunt Peggy to church with her every Sunday. We would walk up a hill for about a quarter of a mile to church. I can’t remember a single time when Uncle Earl came with us. This, of course, added to his stature. He was all powerful. He could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. I wanted to grow up to be just like him. In later years I learned that Uncle Earl suffered from epilepsy and the typical Irish affinity for strong drink. He passed away rather ignobly. I was told he was drunk one evening and passed out, had an epileptic episode wherein he fell into a puddle of water in my grandma’s backyard and drowned. Later as a young adult when I heard of his passing, I was heartbroken. He was my only childhood hero.

I also remember my Aunt Peggy very fondly. She had energy and exuberance and she sometimes took me places with her. Once she took me with her and her fiancée to an outdoor country and western concert. It was wonderful. Perhaps that was the origin of my enjoyment of country music. Aunt Peggy’s fiancé’s name was Tom (popular name in those days). I remember him as a nice guy but very sickly. Aunt Peggy loved him and was always patient with him and his many illnesses. After years of engagement (long engagements were typical of Irish Catholics in those days), they eventually married.

My uncles Vince and Tom and their families also lived in Bristol, where I spent my summers. They had children but I only saw them when they visited my grandmother, which was rarely. And my cousins didn’t live close enough to visit without their parents. Furthermore, there weren’t any children on nearby so I didn’t have anyone to play with.

I don’t remember what my Uncle Tom did for a living but my Uncle Vince was a policeman. Bristol was a small city in those days and my Aunt Peggy knew everyone. I believe she worked in the mayor’s office. Wherever we went, everyone in town greeted her as we passed. I remember one occasion very vividly when she took me with her downtown. We were walking from one place to another (I don’t know why or where). We arrived at an intersection where Uncle Vince was directing traffic. I remember being filled with importance and pride when he stopped the traffic so we could cross the street. I was sure no one else received such royal treatment.

My grandmother, my father’s mother (Mary), was always somewhat distant. She was a little portly as most grandmas are and her house was filled with religious pictures. Among her many religious artifacts was a picture of Jesus attached to the living room wall, and His eyes would follow you as you moved about the room. I used to see if I could catch Him not looking but I never could. My grandmother was somewhat stoic; she would get up at 4 in the morning to take her bath and get ready for work and she would leave her house by 6 A.M. every workday. She worked in Hartford, quite a distance from her home in Bristol. She did not speak to me very often and when she did it was usually a simple command. I remember her as a good cook but I can’t remember a single special dish except blueberries. One day she gave me a pot and told me to go and pick some blueberries. Blueberries grew wild on the minister’s grounds. The minister’s house was only a few houses away and you could get there through the backyards, which were not fenced. I used to love to explore wooded area behind his home and pretend I was Daniel Boone or Davy Crocket exploring the wilderness. I never saw anyone and no one ever chased me away, so I guess it was okay to play there and pick blueberries. Anyway, when I got back with the blueberries my grandmother surprised me with a birthday cake. And later that day she made those blueberries into a delicious dessert. I think that was my 6th birthday. It was nice to be at my grandmother’s during the summers. But as I said previously, I missed having playmates.

When I was with my Aunt Lil I always received the best of care. I was well fed, sent to school, received religious instruction and toys to play with. But for some reason I never felt a part of the family. I always knew Maureen was their child and I was not. After a few years, the memory of my biological family had faded. By the time I entered the fourth or fifth grade we had moved to Brooklyn, NY (without Uncle Red). Obviously there was a split in the marriage but I was not informed of the particulars. I just knew he was no longer with us. We lived in a second-floor apartment on Broadway in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn. I had my own room, which was small but nice. I remember that I liked my room. An elevated subway train ran right past my window but somehow the noise of the train passing intermittently not fifteen feet away never bothered me.  

We were only about a mile from where my parents and siblings lived but I didn’t know that at the time. I remember the first school semester in Brooklyn, I was sent to a Catholic school a few blocks away. However, I had to be removed from that school because they gave two to three hours of homework every day. I was sickly from my celiac and the doctors wanted me to get outdoors as much as possible each day. Aunt Lillian went to the school to talk to the administrator about my health problems but they felt that they couldn’t make an exception for me. So I went to public school nearby. I remember I walked the two blocks to school but I only had to cross one intersection.

During the summer after the fifth grade I went back to live with my parents, in time to be enrolled in the 6th grade at PS #106 on Wilson Avenue in Brooklyn. The school was located just a few blocks from where I lived with my family on Palmetto Street. I remember one afternoon while I was still with my Aunt Lil, my father came to the apartment on Broadway and we sat down at the table, my Aunt Lil, my dad and me. They asked me if I wanted to go back and live with my mother, father, brother and sisters. This was highly unusual, except for Uncle Earl; no one ever talked to me let alone asked me what I wanted. I didn’t know what to say. I really didn’t remember my biological family. My dad was a big, tall stranger. I was nervous and confused. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Did Aunt Lillian want me to leave? I could not remember any mention of my mom and dad or my siblings in all my time with Aunt Lil. So I knew nothing about them. I had no early memory of them and as far as I knew I had never met them. She said it was all up to me. I could stay if I wanted. But the fact is, I never felt like I was totally part of Aunt Lil’s family. She called me Tommy and I called her Aunt Lil. I liked her and my cousin Maureen but, typical of Irish-American families in those days, there were never any displays of affection. So I didn’t know if they wanted me to stay or go and I had to make a decision then and there.

My father at least told me that I was wanted. Consequently, I made a decision which, with the benefit of hindsight, was probably wrong. I thought well, you’re supposed to grow up living with your parents and siblings, right? Otherwise, why had God given them to me? Besides, I thought it might be nice to have a mom, dad, and brother and sisters. My dad moved me back that afternoon and the next stage of my life began.

I don’t remember much about my adjustment to my parents’ household so it must have been relatively uneventful. Children adjust quickly to their environment and I expect I was no exception. Still in comparison to the households of my Aunt Lil and grandmother, it had to be quite unsettling. It certainly was a lot noisier with my parents screaming and shouting at each other and my older sister Kathleen usually trying to calm things down. We lived in a railroad-type apartment (all the rooms in a row) on the first floor in a circa-1890s three-story house on Palmetto Street, Ridgewood, Brooklyn, NY. The house had a concrete stoop (stairs) outside at the entrance with maybe four or five steps on which we could sit on warm summer nights. The apartment had a kitchen, two bedrooms, one bathroom and a living room. My three sisters got one bedroom and my parents slept in the other. My brother and I shared the living room. I slept on a fold-up cot and he slept on the sofa. Things were always somewhat chaotic at home, especially when you had to use the bathroom.

The apartment house was infested with roaches, and rats visited intermittently. When a mouse or a rat found its way into our kitchen, there was a scramble to get the broom and beat it to death. Also, the lady on the top floor was so obese that movement was extremely difficult for her. She must have weighed in excess of 400 pounds. I hated going up there but from time to time I was summoned for an errand. When she answered the door an awful smell wafted out and you could see that roaches were everywhere. I would not go into that apartment; I did my errand as quick as I could and got out of there, most times the errand was simply bringing her mail or picking up something from the grocer or druggist. I know it was not very nice to do so but I avoided her as much as possible.

My parents went out most nights. During the day Mom worked at Abraham & Straus (a large department store) and my dad drank or, on those occasions when he laid off the sauce, he worked as household goods salesman. He would go to the Lower Eastside in Manhattan and purchase merchandise: ironing board covers, tablecloths, brushes, small household gadgets such as can openers, etc. He would fill his suitcase with these items, then go knocking on doors, show his wares and take orders. It seems strange today to think that someone could make a living that way, but in those days there weren’t any malls and few people had cars to go to commercial areas where the stores were. All in all shopping was an inconvenient activity. Therefore, door-to-door salesmen were welcome. In those days it was common to see vegetable and fruit trucks come down the street stop midway to hawk their goods. Ice delivery truck and knife scissor-sharpening service trucks were also common. And the ever-popular ice cream truck made an occasional appearance.

In later years when conversations with my dad were possible, he told me that in spite of his drinking problem he always protected his business reputation. No matter how intense the urge for drink became, he told me he always delivered his orders. Years later I asked him if he ever held a job working for someone. He told me that during WWII he worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard and that was the only time he worked for anyone. In any case, I remember that he would work for two or three weeks, then go on a drinking binge for two or three months.

I guess you could say we were poor because most of my parents’ income went for alcohol and I remember no luxuries. We might have been poor certainly by today’s standards, but when I was growing up I didn’t know it. Public assistance was never discussed. There was too much stigma associated with government assistance. We were proud and would rather go hungry before we would accept any outside assistance from any source. In any case, few people in our neighborhood had more than we did. There was no television so as far as I knew everyone lived like we did (television gave people a whole new perspective about standards of living). In the evenings we would sit in front of the radio and listen to shows like The Shadow. Life didn’t seem so bad because I didn’t know any better.

My mom was constantly shouting at my father for one thing or another and he was frequently angry with her. And every once in a while things turned violent. She’d hit him and, not to be outdone, he would hit her back. During all the shouting, screaming and violence, I would always try to steer clear of it all. I never understood what they argued about. I remember my mom as either angry or maudlin when she was in her cups. When sober her disposition was always serious.

My father was mostly happy and generous when drunk but he often got angry and sometimes violent. Still by and large he was not a mean drunk. My father never struck me (I think probably because I was so small and sickly or maybe because I wasn’t very aggressive at that age) or my sisters. My father did get violent with my brother a time or two over stuff I didn’t understand. But my mom usually was the one to meet out disciple to me and my younger sisters. However, I don’t remember her ever trying to bully my older sister Kathleen or my brother Raymond. Although she was a small woman, only 5'0" and weighed all of 98 pounds, she was not beyond meting out physical punishment with whatever item happened to be handy.

But by the standards of the 1950s we were not abused. That was the way children were raised in those days. I believe she never went beyond what she felt was necessary. Still, regardless of all the hollering and confusion all of us kids were always fed, schooled, clothed, and sent to the dentist every couple of years. And when we were sick the doctor made a house call. I also went to religious instruction every Wednesday afternoon. In elementary school they would let us out early on Wednesdays to attend religious education. This went on until I was confirmed. When it came time for me to be confirmed in the Catholic Church, like everyone else I had to choose an additional name. It had to be a saint’s name and I chose James because he was a no-nonsense guy who insisted that good works have to accompany faith. Thereafter, my name was officially Thomas Richard James Barry but I never used James.

Most Sundays up to the time I entered high school, I went to Sunday Mass with my sisters Eleanor and Gail at Saint Barbara’s Catholic Church, which was only about six blocks away. My mom and dad didn’t go but they made sure my younger sisters and I went every week. My parents even gave us a coin apiece to put into the collection plate. I confess that often my coin didn’t make it into the collection plate but was reallocated for sweets at the local candy store. I don’t remember my brother Raymond or my sister Kathleen ever going to church in those days.

My sister Kathleen, as the oldest, was in charge of us most of the time. She made sure the apartment was cleaned (usually by us three youngest). I don’t remember my brother ever doing any housework. Anyway, Kathleen also made sure we got supper. I was always angry at my younger sisters, Eleanor and Gail. The two of them used to gang up on me and usually blamed me to Mom when anything went wrong. Gail was the baby of the family, being five years my junior. I remember that whenever she wanted something that I had, my mom made me give it to her. I felt a victim of the injustice of it all. I was given a portable Motorola radio one year for Christmas by my grandmother’s husband (on my mother’s side of the family), who lived in the house next to us. It was the only gift he ever gave me. I think he gave it to me because I used to spend a lot of time with my cousin Eddy, who was his favorite. My sister Gail, who was nine or ten at the time, almost immediately wanted to play with my new radio. When I wouldn’t give it to her she appealed to our mom, who ordered me to give it to her. The radio was smashed in about an hour. When I told Mom she just shrugged it off.

My mother was not known for being a great cook. You wouldn’t want to eat her version of Italian food. We ate mostly boiled or roasted food. I think I mentioned that my