“Jack! Jack Urso! Is that that
you? Do you remember me?”
In the early 1990s, I was standing in line at a convenience store
around the corner from where I lived in a tiny, one bedroom apartment. Calling my name was a tall, elegant looking, elderly black man with a
shock of white hair that made him look like a cross between Nelson Mandela and
Morgan Freeman. It was Mr. Bryan, a
family friend from my childhood. He was from Jamaica and had a soft, lyrical accent that matched his gentle demeanor. I recognized his voice before I even turned around to see who it was.
Ashley Bryan’s wife and children
were close friends of ours on Norwood Avenue in Albany, NY. Both he and his
wife, who matched her husband in kindness, worked in education
— he as a math professor at the University at Albany (then SUNY Albany), and
she as a librarian for the local school district. Since my father was also a principal
for the district, this brought our families together. Occasionally, Mrs. Bryan
would bring a film projector from the school library along with a movie to our
house. We would hang a white sheet against the wall and watch the film
together, both black and white families. I, in my youthful ignorance, was completely
oblivious to the racial tensions around us.
Growing up in the 1960s and 1970s, there was only one family on my block who was black, the Bryans. According to
my mother, when Ashley was first offered a job with SUNY-Albany in the early
1960s, the college found them a home on nearby Providence Street whose
residents quickly took up a petition to keep them off the block. Eventually,
they settled on nearby Norwood Avenue where my family lived.
Welcome to Norwood Avenue
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| The Bryan home on Norwood Ave. |
This was a better move. The home
was nicer and there was a park right in the middle of the street that was
ringed by tall maple and pine trees. Still, they had to contend with their crotchety
neighbor, Chief. Chief was a former navy chief petty officer
who worked as a football coach for the school district. Despite seeing Ashley
walk to work every day in a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase, Chief, at first,
assumed he was a janitor because he was black. He was eventually set straight by his religious Irish-Catholic wife Eleanor, who often played Edith to his Archie Bunker.
At the time, I was blissfully
unaware of any racial issues. The Bryans had a young daughter my age, Llori,
who was a constant playmate in my younger days, as well as my first crush.
We were probably no more than five years old when I convinced her to go behind
the garage with me. I think my plan was to give her a kiss, but once there my
age kicked in and I decided that would just be gross and we hunted for
butterflies instead. When my occasionally combative best friend Billy gave
me a black eye in front of her house, Llori took me gently aside, put ice on my
eye, and told me I should go back and kick his ass — which I did a week later, employing
that rare coup de grace of shoving his head in a pile of dog shit, and right in the yard next door to Llori's home. Good times . . . good
times.
By the late 1970s, however, our
families had grown apart. Some of it was that their children went to different
schools and were, frankly, higher achieving than us — or at least me at any
rate. Most of it though was due to my parent’s rather loud arguments leading up
to their divorce. Divorce in our little Catholic neighborhood was not as
widespread as it later became, and was viewed as a step down in life. It made
other families uncomfortable and I can’t say that I blame them. It was a bitter
separation and the police visited on more than one occasion. Once, I had to go
outside and explain to the cops that everything was alright. They made me take
my shirt off and show them I wasn’t being beaten — which I wasn’t, but they
made me do it right there in the street where all the neighbors could see.
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Billy and Johnny
|
It was Ashley Bryan. He spoke
respectfully to my mother about his regret over the recent circumstances in our
lives and told her that if she ever needed anything all she had to do was ask.
It’s one of those promises no one really gets called on, but is appreciated
nonetheless. My mother recalled to her dying day that simple act of kindness — to come to our home, pay his respects, and, in his own small way, share our grief.
Crossing Lines
When Mr. Bryan approached me in
the convenience store that day, I was dumbstruck. For one thing, my appearance had radically changed from the last time he saw me, which was
about 15 years ago at that point. I had long hair and a beard, yet he was still
able to pick me out of a crowd. Also, I was just a kid back then and while growing up I doubt I ever said anything more than hello to him.
It was no coincidence we were at
the same store. I moved to an apartment two blocks away from my old stomping
grounds on Norwood Avenue. Not for the sake of nostalgia, but rather out of
sheer laziness — I worked one block away
at the Junior College of Albany and I could roll out of bed ten minutes before
I had to be at work and still get there on time.
I brought Mr. Bryan up to date
on my family, and he did the same with his, instructing me to please call him
Ashley. He took particular interest in my work at in the college’s inmate
education program where I worked as a program coordinator. He paid for his items
and we went our separate ways. It was a pleasant encounter and I thought that
would be the end of that.
One day, while working at my desk at the
college, the secretary tells me a “Mr. Bryan” is here to see me. Ashley walked
in and we had a long conversation about my work. I tried to get him to open up
about his work at SUNY-Albany. He was a bit reticent to share much, but we both
found common ground on the inanities of college administration and the petty bureaucrats
that plagued our existence.
For about the next year and a half or so, I
would run into Ashley around the neighborhood. He spent the winter in
Jamaica, where he grew up, so I only saw him the rest of the year. He had
this way of laughing at the end of every sentence that was both endearing and
occasionally odd.
“Jack! It is good to see you! Ha,
ha, ha!”
“I hope your mother is doing
well. Ha, ha, ha!”
“I do not speak with Chief
very often. Ha, ha, ha!”
My last encounter with Ashley took
place in the summer of 1994. I dropped some acid and was tripping balls to the
wall so I went out to walk it off. It was one of the most humid days I can ever
remember. Walking around outside felt like being inside some sweaty t-shirt —
an experience intensified by the LSD.
I made a turn down Norwood as a
shortcut to my apartment and was walking by the Bryans’ house when I heard, “Jack!
Jack!”
Ashley stood in the dining room
window and waved to me, indicating that I should stop. He came out at a quick
pace, almost running. I noticed that despite the hot and humid weather he was
wearing long pants over pajama bottoms. We spoke for about 10 or 15 minutes catching
up. His eyes were red, much as mine were after smoking too much weed, and he
laughed at the end of each sentence, as he usually did. I wondered who was
higher — him or me.
It was probably me.
I loved Mr. Bryan — I really did.
His gentle demeanor and studious nature actually were a great influence on me.
During that year and half we were friends he took the time, in a quiet way, to sort of mentor me. Not so
much in our common professional field, higher education, but rather as an older man at
the end of his life to a younger man at the start of his.
I never saw Ashley Bryan again.
The Black Funeral
A month or two after our last
meeting, Ashley Bryan returned to Jamaica and on October 18, 1994, he passed
away. I learned this the following spring while reading the obituaries. The notice
announced that a reception in his memory would be held at their home on Norwood
Avenue. I mentioned it to my father. I told him about my recent
acquaintanceship with Mr. Bryan and that I strongly felt I should attend the
reception. I tried to convince my father to join me, but, although he reformed
his ways in the days since he knew the Bryans, he burned too many bridges and
wasn’t anxious to go back. Besides, if he did go that would be a cheat. Ashley
was my friend. I had to honor his memory myself.
On the day of the reception, I
put on the black suit and tie and drove over. Although their
home was only two blocks away from mine and I could walk there, I wanted a quick
getaway. I was nervous. I didn’t know what to expect. I am shy by nature and I
hadn’t seen any of the family since I was a kid, but I remembered his visit to
our house after my parents' nasty break up. I wasn’t sure if I was going in his
memory or just for my own inbred Sicilian sense of honor. Whatever the case, I
stopped over-thinking it. It was simply the right thing to do and I got on with
it.
I pulled my little blue sports
car in front of their home. Dozens of people were already there — at least 50,
probably more. They were in the front yard. They were in the back yard. They
were in every room of the house it seemed . . . and everyone, everyone, was black.
White people in America have no
idea how African Americans feel living in our society until the shoe is on the
other foot. Despite my liberal attitudes, I felt a distinct unsettledness, as
though I was on unfamiliar ground, even though I had been to this home many
times as a child. I walked through the yard and into the open house. Every eye
was on me and I could sense all were asking themselves the same question, “Who is this
long-haired white boy and why is he here?” I knew I was intruding, but the
obituary said the reception was open to the “friends and family of Ashley
Bryan.” I had to go. I had to be there.
I made my way to Mrs. Bryan, who
was arranging food at the dining room table. I walked over to her, standing in
about the same spot her husband did when I last saw him run out his house to
greet me. I told her who I was. Mrs. Bryan’s head went back and cocked to one
side as her memories kicked in and she recognized me.
“Oh, Jackie! How nice of you to
be here!” She exclaimed as she greeted me with a hug.
Although Mr. Bryan and I had become reacquainted, I hadn't seen Mrs. Bryan since I was a kid, and as we spoke it became clear that
her husband never mentioned me. She had no idea that we had recently
become reacquainted. I explained to her why I felt I had to come and I think it
overwhelmed her a bit. I asked about Llori, but she hadn’t arrived yet. I was
invited to stay and eat, but it was awkward. I felt awkward and the others felt
awkward. I wasn’t a member of the family or circle of friends. I was intruding.
I was disappointed not to see Llori, but paid my respects and left.
As I walked out of the house and
across the street to my car, I looked over to the spot on the lawn where Ashley
and I last spoke that sweltering summer day. Over two decades later, I can’t recall more
than just a few words that passed between us in that year and a half — they have become shadows that grow longer and dissipate into darkness as our last conversation becomes more distant. Yet, like the Earth retains the Sun's warmth long after it sets, somewhere deep inside, they still linger.
Dr. Ashley M. Bryan: Born April 29,
1917 — Died October 18, 1994.
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