After surviving the trauma of the tie, the rest of Moses Brown was smooth sailing. That is, of course, both a cliche and an exaggeration, but not by much. There was some social stratification. One of the conditions of my scholarship was that I was expected to perform some light work. Over the years this entailed cleaning the wood shop, bussing tables in the dining hall, and later running the school book shop, but I never minded, nor did I feel that it marked me as less than an equal with any of my classmates.
Of greater significance was the intellectual stratification that took place within the class. Starting in 7th grade there was always a group that was deemed “advance,” or “accelerated,” or ‘honors,” and I was part of it. These were the classmates I spent the most time with and the ones who became my closest friends.
They were all Jewish.
Organized religion has not played a major role in my life, happily so. My father grew up in a strongly Catholic family. One brother is a priest, a sister is a nun. He was ex-communicated, however, for marrying a Protestant. His brothers and sisters lived mostly in the greater Boston area, but he had virtually no contact with them, a fact that struck me as the height of absurdity. I had cousins living within a few miles whom I’ve never met!
My mother compensated for the fact that we were not raised as good Catholics by being zealously non-denominational in our religious training. She dragged us to a baffling succession of churches–Congregational, Episcopalian, Lutheran, Unitarian, Catholic–until we were completely confused. None of it stuck.
Meanwhile, as I was being exposed to my mother’s mishmash of organized religions, the consistencies in my spiritual life were left to the quiet stoicism of the Quakers at Moses Brown and the community of Providence’s Jews. This came into focus when I gave Alan Hassenfeld a fishing net for Christmas.
Grotto Avenue in Providence is a short street that spans a wide range of cultural and socio-economic statuses. The Morris family lived in a wood frame duplex at #81, perfectly comfortable and respectable, but utterly bereft of pretension or ostentation. Less than half a mile away, the Hassenfelds lived in a low-slung, contemporary tucked away in a little cul-de-sac called Woodlawn Terrace.
In between were the Gilbanes of local construction fame.
For someone whose living standards were defined by the cottage that my grandfather built on Post Island, the Hassenfeld’s house was magnificent. They had a full-time maid and a full-time chauffeur, George. Alan’s mother was suitably elegant, a jewel within a setting of modern art. His father, Merrill, seemed a little remote, but that was understandable, since he had a big job, being one of the brothers in charge of the family business, Hasbro Toys (HASsenfeld BROthers). Hasbro, makers of Mr. Potato Head, and Sunset Pencils, was a big deal in Rhode Island.
Luckily, none of the differences between our circumstances mattered much to Alan or me. We were kids, much more concerned about common ground and turf boundaries than status, power, or religion. (Although I do admit to being envious of the Hassenfeld’s color TV, the first I had ever seen.)
Alan was a polite, kind, and gentle without even a whiff of privilege or arrogance. One of our common interests was fishing, a sport we approached from slightly different vantages. I shared my fishing magazines with him and told him of my exploits in Quincy Bay, catching trophies of flounder and mackerel. He, in turn shared his fishing stories, including the one of the five foot, stuffed and mounted marlin that hung over the bed in his bedroom. He caught it while on vacation in the Florida Keys, all by himself, he assured me.
That any person, let alone a kid my age, could catch such a fish struck me as wondrous, but there was the proof on his bedroom wall.
Alan’s friends became my friends. Before too long I was playing basketball at the Jewish Community Center and wondering why my family did find it necessary to send me to weekly Hebrew lessons. I wanted a Bar Mitzvah, too!
On the day before Christmas, Alan was at my house for the afternoon. We were just horsing around, doing whatever we used to do. The doorbell rang, and it was George the chauffeur, coming to pick up Alan. Just before he left, I pulled a package that I had placed with the others under the tree. “This is for you,” I said. “Merry Christmas.” I had picked it out, paid for it out of my own money, and wrapped it myself, but you couldn’t camouflage that it was a fishing net. Still, it was a gift that I was proud of.
I caught him by surprise, but that was ok. This was the essence of Christmas. I wasn’t expecting him to have a present for me. It just was something I wanted to give him. He thanked me politely and went home. This was a rare selfless moment in a life that has experienced more than its fair share of privilege.
This should be the end of the story, but it’s not. That evening, after dinner, the doorbell rang. It was George. Light snow was falling, just as it should on Christmas Eve. George, a uniformed, black man, looked very much like Santa Claus as he handed an armload of wrapped boxes of what turned out to be Hasbros’s finest. “Merry Christmas,” he said heartily. Now it was my turn to be surprised as he hopped back into the sleigh and disappeared into the night, back to Santa’s workshop on Woodlawn Terrace.
