1940s in Brooklyn
In the Brooklyn of the 1940s, when the air was crisp and carried the scent of snow, the coming of Christmas was all around us.
It came with the changes in the prayers at daily Mass, with the observation of Advent at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School. We wore red bows in our hair, collected money and gifts for the less fortunate, prayed for the sick and the homebound, sang Christmas Carols, and read the gospels of Matthew and Luke about the birth of Christ. We painted scenes from those Gospels on the windows of the school. Oh how I can remember the sheer delight I had mixing the food coloring with Bon Ami to make the window paint and being allowed to paint the star over the manger. Heady, heady joy. Nativity scenes were everywhere as the school prepared for its tour de force, it’s Advent Christmas pageant.
Each year, our school would mount an elaborate production of Nativity, beginning with the Angel Gabriel’s appearance to Mary. Our teachers, the Sisters of St. Joseph, lead by the greatly feared and legendary Principal Sister Audrey, held auditions for the actors. And, every year it was a girl from the public school that won the prestigious part of Mary. Did a nine year old know the word scandalous? If so, that’s what I thought.
Even at that tender age, I recognized that people spoke English differently. There were other ways of pronouncing words and, in my child’s mind, I didn’t think that the Virgin Mary spoke with a Brooklyn accent. In fact, I was sure of this and, I was also sure that it was my destiny to play that part with an almost Shakespearian elan or at least my now 10 year old version thereof. (You had to be 10 to try out for parts in the play. No more “Moy sowl doth magnify the Lawd…” no, my words would sing and circle the air with the perfect enunciation. I wanted that part. It would be mine. I was sure of it.
Applicants for the part were told to prepare to recite a prayer known as the Magnificat, “My soul doth magnify the lord and my spirit doth rejoice…”
I still can remember. A picture of me, standing outside the church on 59th Street, thinking, as I clutched the paper on which the words of the Magnificat were written, that it would snow. There were ice crystals around the sun. It was a sign. I really wanted that part.
I practiced and practiced in my bedroom, downstairs in front of the big mirror in the hall, on my way to and from school. I had it down. So down that I still can recite it. At 10, I was at the lower end of the age range for the part of Mary and I had to compete against the much older 12 and 13 year old girls. It wasn’t only the words, but how I would put them together, where I would emphasize and where I would not. How I decided these things is a mystery, but I thought and practiced.
The day came, all of the hopefuls were lined up across the back of the big stage in the auditorium. One by one, each girl came forward and recited the prayer. Some were good, some were awful and all had that local accent that I thought was so flawed. Then it was my turn. Over a month of constant practice was about to prove its worth. I stepped forward and…forgot my name. Sister Audrey, who was not what one would call patient, asked one of the other sisters what was wrong with “that girl.” Finally getting my name out, I raced through the prayer so fast that I stumbled over the words.
I knew that I had failed. It was as if I was watching myself sabotage all of the hours of practice.
I do remember Sister Audrey commenting on my performance, “She would be good if we were auditioning for an express subway train.”
I knew I had failed in my attempt to remedy the failings of Brooklyn enunciation. My debut in scholastic show business would not happen. Our Lady would speak with the tongues of Brooklyn.
It was a lesson that we all learn at some time, a lesson about disappointment and resilience.
And, Christmas continued.
At our house, Santa was the one who put up the tree and decorated it. My Dad still brought out his dog eared page that he had torn out of the magazine section of the Journal American Sunday magazine some years before to read “The Night Before Christmas.” We still put out cookies and milk in the kitchen window because we decided that Santa must come in the kitchen door since we didn’t have a chimney. We went to mass on Christmas day to celebrate the meaning of the day before we opened our gifts. It was all as it should have been.
And the other lesson? With a Brooklyn or any other accent, other language, other place, the story of Christmas and its elemental meaning of peace on Earth would still resonate even if Ann Smithwick missed her chance to make it shine.
