1935 Andy, mom holding Mary and Dottie
I’m not sure if it
snowed the day of my birth. I know that it held the typical cold of a February
night in Brooklyn, the kind that pulls tears from the eyes and chaps cheeks
into red flags. My mother, Anna, labored for three days to bring me, her third
and last child, into the world. The labor took so long because of my birth
weight of nine pounds, or so I’ve been told. I wonder about the truthfulness of
this, since my older siblings weighed twelve and ten pounds at birth. How could
a mere nine pounds give Mom such a hard time?
My siblings’ births took place at home without benefit of
accurate scales so I doubt the veracity of their weights. I have to believe my
birth weight because I see it recorded on the very official looking birth
certificate from Park Slope’s biggest and best hospital, Methodist Hospital, on
the corner of 7th Ave. and 6th St. This momentous event
in my life occurred without fanfare on February 9, 1935 at 3:45 AM.
The matter of naming the new baby girl created another
conflict for my parents. My grandmother had been called Mary Ann. When my
sister arrived nine years before me, Mama wanted to name her Mary Ann after her
mother. But Daddy like the actress Dorothy Gish, hence my sisters
name...Dorothy.
A year after Dorothy’s birth and eight years before mine,
my brother entered the world. They named him Andrew Jr. after my father. I
wonder why they didn’t call him Douglas or Gilbert after the hottest male stars
of 1927.
When I came along, Mama again wanted to name her daughter
Mary Ann. By this time Daddy liked Loretta Young. Mama insisted on Mary Ann and
Daddy insisted on Loretta. They finally reached a compromise. I became Mary
Loretta. Mama didn’t really give in that easily. It didn’t matter what name my
birth certificate said, she called me Mary Ann throughout my childhood, and so
did the rest of the family. I attended school before I knew my correct name.
The great depression had crushed my
family’s standard of living and depleted their finances. Franklin Roosevelt, in
the white house, put his “New Deal” into operation. He promised a turnaround in
the economy with a glut of alphabet letters, NRA, WPA, CCC, TVA. My father,
Andrew, had been out of work for months and the family received
“relief”...welfare in those days. When the WPA (I believe the letters stand for
Works Progress Administration) came to New York, my father, an iron worker,
finally got work building bridges, parks and offices in the City of New York.
The work, although sporadic, at least brought some money into the household.
During
her pregnancy, Mama received medical care from the hospital clinic. The cost
for pre natal care and delivery totaled $60, but even this amount, Daddy
couldn’t pay. He ignored the hospital bill in favor of the grocer, landlord,
and I must confess, for Daddy, the local bar & grill. For years, when my
parents got into an argument, Mama flung an accusation at Daddy.
“You never paid for Mary Ann. You spent it at the bar
instead.”
Hearing this, reinforced my belief that parents bought
babies at the hospital like candy in the corner store. I thought they went to
the nursery and chose a baby like I chose licorice or chocolate. Since I wasn’t
paid for, was I stolen? Or bought on the installment plan and Daddy didn’t make
payments? Would the hospital come and repossess me? I never voiced these fears
to my parents, and in time came to understand what “not being paid for” really
meant. It had nothing to do with me. Parents seldom realize how much what they
say affects a listening child. I often wonder if I’ve committed the same
insensitive sin. Probably.
