Massachusetts College of Art and Design - Palette and Pen Yearbook (Boston, MA)

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PiCfeOHA. Pu JiXUinii CuKxH PoAi or I TEACH IN THE NORTH END [WINIFRED HEAiy] The North End begins in the Union Street subways where the flower vendor enters to carry six-foot funeral decorations uptown; where damp sawdust trails up the stairs to Hay- market Square to bleach and dry in the morning sun. Each week my pedagogical journey takes me through the subway turnstile, up the iron ribbed stairs onto the open square. The old square is a gigantic, gravel-covered pinwheel around which stream-lined cars, their metal bodies gleaming in the light, endlessly spin to bring to it a modern fleetness. But, now and then, a rumble of wheels over the pavement sounds the approach of a horse-drawn rickety wagon from Blackstone Street and sets the true tempo of the North End. The revolv- ing traffic thins out on the innumerable lanes from the pinwheel which lead into the narrow streets bounded by half-demolished, plaster-smeared buildings, the stark survivors of the wrecking crews. I enjoy the fantastic shapes of these severed buildings. Their windowless walls stand defiant against the taller modern structures. Some mornings send a mist from the waterfront, a haze of smoke and steam from the molasses and macaroni factories. Then the mist-draped buildings lend an opalescent backdrop to the garish panorama spilled into the streets below. Often as I stand at the curb waiting to bisect the traffic lane, I catch a glimpse of a nine o ' clock funeral turning into the square, a chauffered capitalist passes on his way uptown, a truck driver slows down to wave a greeting. I hear a shrill whistle, the screeching of brakes, the clash of bumpers,- traffic pauses long enough to allow a throng of office-workers to cross to the subway entrance, long enough to let me begin my journey down Cross Street into the heart of Little Italy. On days when the sun shines, I look for the picturesque scene peopled by catnip vendors, crab sellers and pigeons. But on cold gray mornings when the frigid dampness

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settles in the narrow alleys these olive-shinn ed sun-loving people retire to their back tenements. The streets are strangely silent except for a few men at the fruit stands who pry open their crates of red onions, polish their pomegranates, and argue with their competitors. On warm mornings young Italia emerges from brick tenements to play a game of cards fur- tively in the doorways before sauntering through the fluttering pigeons to the old school on Moon Street. In the yards of the public gymnasium, I meet a few of my pupils playing hop- scotch on webs of colored chalk, while their older sisters, carrying paper bags bulging with Turkish towels and soap, hurry inside to take a shower, it is Thursday, ladies ' day at the baths. Black-robed Italian women, hair dripping, skin shining, hustle back to the tenements to fry their peppers and egg-plants; to send their children to school, their husbands off into fishing smacks. The North End sleeps late. It is noon before she lifts her languid head and adorns her- self with fruit, fish and pastry. At mid-day, the mist from the waterfront rises and weird shadows stretch across the rambling streets, slowly creeping up the brick walls,- chimneys gut forth smoke; clothes air and dry on fire-escapes,- pushcarts, hidden during the night in the dark cellars, now emerge to be heaped high with tangarines, lemons, grape-fruit and green vegetables; filtered sunlight strikes beneath the ells of the old buildings to stir the last sleep- ing pigeons from their shadowed haunts. Silver sea gulls soar overhead. These silhouetted scavengers look down upon the low flying pigeons that venture to descend now and then to feast upon the gleanings from the shops. The sickening fragrance of almond, with a slight scent of rum, overwhelms me as I pass the open doors of the pastry shops. Their windows are piled high wi th the morning ' s baking: a six-storied wedding cake that cracks and crumbles in the afternoon sun, pyramids of almond cakes, mounds of pseudo-fruits made of pastry shells, frosted with colored sugar and filled with yellow cream. A little boy scurries out of a bakery shop on Salem Street carrying with him a long roll of salami and a gust of air reeking wi th th e smell of cheeses, olive oil, pickled fish and garlic. Dried fish, suspended from the door lintel, dangle beside strings of shriveled hot peppers