On arriving home from the Beth-El hospital to our luxurious apartment on Bristol Street in Brownsville (Brooklyn), I must have found it quite fortunate that it was the decade of the 50's. It was very racially mixed at the time. I couldn't hang around that 'hood now, being a honkey and all.
While in East New York, I attended kindergarden. My dad achieved some measure of success, working at Yardney Electronic (making batteries for stuff such as torpedos for the gov't) and the family moved up in the world.
We rented an apartment in a 2-family house at 524 East 95th Street in Canarsie, in Brooklyn. This neighborhood was also integrated, although with a somewhat different mix. Everyone was either Jewish or Italian Catholic.
I attended first grade and second grade at P.S. 233 in Brooklyn, which was within walking distance. I skipped third grade because I was so damned smart. I believe this had a lot to do with my having learned how to read prior to the "system" getting their hands on me, even though I was indeed a High I.Q. baby.
The family, with by now another kidlet (Adam), move to Queens, NY, to a neighborhood called Lindenwood, in Howard Beach (where they chased a black guy to his death onto a freeway for frequenting the wrong pizza parlor. My uncle Leo's brother actually defended one of the perpetrators - I never heard what happened, but I hope he lost.)
Lindenwood is a geographic island of serenity in NYC, made up of six-story high-rises, private homes, and what's called "Garden Apartments", two story connected rowhouses containing four apartments each, around a central courtyard with parking in the rear.
This place, like Canarsie, was inhabited by Jews and Italians, natural partners.
We were in one of these, with three bedrooms, two baths. We moved to a different apartment with one bathroom when they went co-op, 'cause my parents didn't think the extra bathroom was worth the price. That was before Adam learned to read. Then they discovered their mistake. Adam began the family tradition of reading on the john. (We'd only do a chapter at a time, though, Adam tried to do a whole novel, at least until the banging on the bathroom door so disturbed him, he couldn't concentrate anymore.)
I went to fifth grade right across the street in Lindenwood (PS 232), but was bussed out to another school (PS 63) for sixth grade due to overcrowding. My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Zafran (or something like that) was easygoing, but piss her off, and she'd judo flip you over a desk. Complaints to the authorities were rare, as usually the corporal punishment was well deserved, and no real injuries were caused. This was at the end of the time when teachers were respected (or at least obeyed).)
My sixth grade teacher was the schoolmath guru. I remember other teachers coming in to ask her math questions all the time. The first cracks in my opinion of teachers were forming. It was only sixth grade, and these teachers were having problems with fractions?
I guess after sixth grade, it's time for junior high (Robert H. Goddard JHS 202 in Ozone Park) and adolescence (although I remember a few girls who grew their adolescences quite early in sixth grade). (click here to keep going)