I spent many of my formative years in a tiny row home at 550 Royden Street just off Broadway in Camden, NJ.
My sister and I lived there with my parents. Three bedrooms (none of them very large) one bath, a living room, dining area, kitchen and unfinished cellar where a coal bin stored coal that fired the old coal furnace that heated the house. We had a small refrigerator and what could not be stored there was placed in a lean-to, unheated shed off the back of the house during the cold weather months. The photo you see on the right is from the 500 block of Royden Street but it's not the house I grew up in. Though my house at 550 looked just like the one on the right in the photo, my childhood home is no longer there. It fell into disrepair, was acquired by the Camden Redevelopment Authority and torn down. In the end it was worth little more than $6,500 -- not much more than my parents sold it for we we moved out in 1957.
We left that little row house (in a mostly Italian-American neighborhood) when I was in the middle of fifth grade and moved to a much larger home in suburban East Camden. My life changed forever. I went into a brand new school in an nicer neighborhood and, while it involved a transition at first, it opened so many doors for me that I shudder to think what might have happened if my parents had not moved onward and upward -- and, make no mistake about it, they struggled to do it. But they were pursuing the American Dream and they did it even more for my sister and I as for themselves. OK, they did it for all of us in the interest of a better quality of life. We were bursting at the seams in the old house, there was little room to expand and the old neighborhood not longer suited our needs.
We moved into a modern, modified rancher on a corner lot measuring 60 X 100 feet. The house was spacious and up-to-date in every sense of the word with an all-electric kitchen, baseboard heat, aluminum windows and sturdy construction. And though we still had some Italian-American neighbors, we weren't technically in that kind of neighborhood anymore.
No, we'd moved to the predominantly Jewish section of town. At the same time, I switched from Catholic school back to public school. In the fifth grade, my new teacher was Mrs. Friedman and the last names of the students in my class sounded more like her name than my name.
No doubt about it, this all happened to me at a very impressionable age. I was in transition -- what they call today a "tweenager" or a "preteen" although those words were not in use at that time. You might be thinking that it was a culture shock. But, here's the real shock -- it wasn't. My new classmates were welcoming, curious and very accepting.They were talkative and funny. They liked to read, work on group projects, write stories, give book reports and visit the library. They made a big deal out of putting on shows and even at a relatively young age they had some sense of the emerging popular culture. And suddenly, I found that I fit right in. My new friends liked all the things I liked. They were interested in all the things I was interested in.
What's more, they accepted me into their homes -- homes filled with books, copies of classic works of art and even some original art works. Their parents welcomed me and encouraged me. In fact, in many ways they inspired me as they were informed, aware and involved in the community. They nourished my interest in politics, art, culture and the theater.
What would have happened if we had not moved on -- if my parents had not taken a chance? What if . . . .
Quite frankly, I doubt I would be the person I am today. I might not have done so well academically. I might not have been the first in my extended family to go to college. I might not have fulfilled my dad's dream that I would have a "desk job". I might have fallen in with the wrong crowd or gotten into trouble.
It seems so apparent now but we don't always realize the importance of moving on -- of moving out and up. I remember when my dad signed the mortgage papers for our new house. His hand was shaking so much he could barely sign his name. My parents were not book educated and this was a giant step for them. But they knew what they had to do. And thank God they did it because they taught me an important lesson about getting out of your comfort zone and bettering yourself. Or, as we say in Italian: AVANTI!
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