Outsiders wonder why Dorchester thrives despite being one of Boston's most disrespected and seemingly neglected neighborhoods. It is true that Dorchester looks a bit down on its luck at first inspection. Yet people continue to move in, businesses make profits and no one who lives here has an unkind word to say about their situation. It's very different from other parts of Boston. Despite seeming to have cause for a litany of complaints, Dorchester is complacent. What unseen benefits do Dorchesterites enjoy?
Boston has a mayor and Dorchester is represented on the City Council. I believe we have Marty Walsh as our elected representative, though I may be mistaken. That's how relevant the chartered government is: a paper tiger. Boston's official, municipal government cleans the streets and staffs the fire stations, but whatever policies get set at City Hall have few tangible effects in Dorchester. There is a shadow government afoot in the Dot, one that spreads Dorchester's wealth and polices the mores and morals of its citizens more effectively than the Health Department or the BPD. Dorchestester's gears are greased, but no elected official has much to do with how things are run.
A cabal of unelected leaders meets fortnightly at a secret headquarters rumored to be at the summit of Mount Bowdoin. They sometimes gather in quorums at other locales according to a rotating schedule set by tradition to ensure they experience all of Dorchester in the round, keeping in touch with their surroundings, leaving no sidewalk untravelled.
No one knows for sure who the Illumadotti are, though anyone who spends time in Dorchester comes under their influence and experiences their effects. It isn't only Dorchester's street plan that is a tangled web, it is its social relationships and its commercial interactions. Some Illuminadotti are prominent businessmen, some are the American Legion adjutants. One heads a branch of the PTA, one is the vice chairman of a neighborhood crime watch, one is a pimp managing a bevy of employees. One hawks newspapers at a traffic intersection in the morning, one approves mortgages, another maps sewers and monitors their maintenance schedules. One is a local historian. One is a midget who has never graduated second grade, year after year, despite attending night classes and earning an associate's degree at Roxbury Community College.
Dorchester is woven through with invisible filaments and no one knows for sure who pulls the strings. The strings get pulled though and Dorchester dances. Good things happen in Dorchester for a reason. The Illuminadotti make sure of it.
I can't say that I know anything about this secret society. I am not a member and even if I were privy to all of its secrets, I wouldn't be the one to blow the lid off this benevolent conspiracy. Let me go on record: I know nothing. Good things happen in Dorchester without official explanation. They happen seamlessly to everyone's benefit. Few homes go without a Thanksgiving turkey and few households are destitute for long. How this happens is a mystery under the radar. Only the Illuminadotti know why what happens as it does.
There are few complaints, if any, in Dorchester, Mass.
Balaenius Rex!
Showing posts with label patriotism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label patriotism. Show all posts
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
#%@$@*** yuppies!
Percy Chareinczekski stubbed his boot toe into a cigarette butt on the sidewalk when a UMASS student of Asian descent walked past his front porch while he was talking on his pay-as-you-go cell phone. He made an ugly face once she had trundled past with her backpack full of books. "Fricken' yuppies!" he shouted into the phone, "They make me so mad. This is our neighborhood and its going the way of the DNA Lofts!"
He was standing in front of his front porch on Buttonwood Street when this outburst occurred. His neighbor, Mrs. Fair, got out her chair on her front porch next to Mr. Chareinczekski's and grabbed the phone out of his hand. "You don't know what you're talking about," she said.
"Damned if I don't," he replied, a vein in his forehead pulsing as he stared down his neighbor who was fifty years his senior. "Damned if I don't," he repeated.
The old woman looked the younger man straight in the eye. "I remember when your parents moved in," she said. "Nobody here liked your folk very much. Most people on Buttonwood thought you Slavs should have stayed in the Polish Triangle up the road. That didn't stop your parents. They settled in right here amongst the Irish and while they took their lumps they eventually became part of the neighborhood. These students will do the same thing if they stay. We need people to stay."
"I've stayed," young Mr. Chareinczekski said. "I still live with my parents, where I was born and raised."
"Yeah, so what good do you do anyone?" Mrs. Fair asked. "You lounge on the stoop and insult the newcomers. You're half drunk three quarters of the time you aren't sleeping. You hate any change like a big, crying, baby boy who never grew up. When did you ever work an honest day in your life? The students, at least, are trying to better themselves. What are you doing but antagonizing them? You're still a foreigner though you're part of the Dot. I don't hate you for that, I love you as one of my own, but the students are part of the Dot too. We should make them feel welcome. They're welcome to stay if it suits them, the way it suited your parents. That's why you're here and don't forget it."
Mrs. Fair handed the phone back even though now it was only tied to a dead signal. "We need everyone in the Dot that can be comfortable. Remember that. Don't turn away guests. My house will be empty someday and you, as sure as Hell is hot, won't be able to afford the mortgage with what little you earn being ornery."
He was standing in front of his front porch on Buttonwood Street when this outburst occurred. His neighbor, Mrs. Fair, got out her chair on her front porch next to Mr. Chareinczekski's and grabbed the phone out of his hand. "You don't know what you're talking about," she said.
"Damned if I don't," he replied, a vein in his forehead pulsing as he stared down his neighbor who was fifty years his senior. "Damned if I don't," he repeated.
The old woman looked the younger man straight in the eye. "I remember when your parents moved in," she said. "Nobody here liked your folk very much. Most people on Buttonwood thought you Slavs should have stayed in the Polish Triangle up the road. That didn't stop your parents. They settled in right here amongst the Irish and while they took their lumps they eventually became part of the neighborhood. These students will do the same thing if they stay. We need people to stay."
"I've stayed," young Mr. Chareinczekski said. "I still live with my parents, where I was born and raised."
"Yeah, so what good do you do anyone?" Mrs. Fair asked. "You lounge on the stoop and insult the newcomers. You're half drunk three quarters of the time you aren't sleeping. You hate any change like a big, crying, baby boy who never grew up. When did you ever work an honest day in your life? The students, at least, are trying to better themselves. What are you doing but antagonizing them? You're still a foreigner though you're part of the Dot. I don't hate you for that, I love you as one of my own, but the students are part of the Dot too. We should make them feel welcome. They're welcome to stay if it suits them, the way it suited your parents. That's why you're here and don't forget it."
Mrs. Fair handed the phone back even though now it was only tied to a dead signal. "We need everyone in the Dot that can be comfortable. Remember that. Don't turn away guests. My house will be empty someday and you, as sure as Hell is hot, won't be able to afford the mortgage with what little you earn being ornery."
Thursday, April 23, 2009
A cure for what ails
My friend had a fever and a nasty, nagging cough. "I've had enough of Dorchester!" she hacked, "I'm moving to JP!" If you are going to stay in Boston, why trade the Dot for Jamaica Plain?
Dorchester, at six square miles and almost 100,000 citizens offers more opportunities than the vaguely demarcated JP with quantified inhabitants unknown. Dorchester is an expanse of one neighborhood sub-divided into sub-neighborhoods and parishes, where one street needn't necessarily be like the next. It is a nest of mansions and warehouses, of factories and cottages, of machine shops and tea parlors, of saloons with spittoons next to chic martini bars, of machine shops next to salons, of green grocers alongside bloody-aproned meat cutters. Anyone can find what they want in Dorchester. Who would trade a spacious third-floor Dorchester apartment, convenient to a Red Line T station for a cold water walk-up a block from a bus stop on Centre Street in JP? Someone was suffering from the vapors.
My friend said, "I feel hot. I need to eat something to cool down. The best ice cream I've ever tasted was at J.P. Licks. The best coffee too. I like the Peruvian blend." I agreed that's a nice cup of coffee but getting to J.P. Licks wasn't an easy proposition.
"What's better," I asked, "Sitting in a crowded bus stuck in traffic or rocking along in a car on the Mattapan High-Speed Trolley?" She answered without hesitation: "The High-Speed." I said to her, "Let's see if we can find a cure for your fever along the Red Line extension."
We did. We went to the Ice Cream Smith in Lower Mills and we each had a pistachio cone which we savored walking up to Dorchester Park, strolling around, and then walking back to the Milton Station. My friend said, "You're right. I don't feel so heated now. There were real pistachios in that cone and I feel much better now. After the ice cream and the walk, my stomach, my fever and my spirits are more settled. I think I'll stay in Dorchester a while longer. Who needs JP?"
Dorchester, at six square miles and almost 100,000 citizens offers more opportunities than the vaguely demarcated JP with quantified inhabitants unknown. Dorchester is an expanse of one neighborhood sub-divided into sub-neighborhoods and parishes, where one street needn't necessarily be like the next. It is a nest of mansions and warehouses, of factories and cottages, of machine shops and tea parlors, of saloons with spittoons next to chic martini bars, of machine shops next to salons, of green grocers alongside bloody-aproned meat cutters. Anyone can find what they want in Dorchester. Who would trade a spacious third-floor Dorchester apartment, convenient to a Red Line T station for a cold water walk-up a block from a bus stop on Centre Street in JP? Someone was suffering from the vapors.
My friend said, "I feel hot. I need to eat something to cool down. The best ice cream I've ever tasted was at J.P. Licks. The best coffee too. I like the Peruvian blend." I agreed that's a nice cup of coffee but getting to J.P. Licks wasn't an easy proposition.
"What's better," I asked, "Sitting in a crowded bus stuck in traffic or rocking along in a car on the Mattapan High-Speed Trolley?" She answered without hesitation: "The High-Speed." I said to her, "Let's see if we can find a cure for your fever along the Red Line extension."
We did. We went to the Ice Cream Smith in Lower Mills and we each had a pistachio cone which we savored walking up to Dorchester Park, strolling around, and then walking back to the Milton Station. My friend said, "You're right. I don't feel so heated now. There were real pistachios in that cone and I feel much better now. After the ice cream and the walk, my stomach, my fever and my spirits are more settled. I think I'll stay in Dorchester a while longer. Who needs JP?"
Monday, April 13, 2009
What's in a name?
I ran into an old acquaintance the other day. She was married when I first met her and her name hasn't changed so I assumed she was still bound by the ties of matrimony. She set me straight in short order.
"You're last name is King, you'll never see any need to change it,"she said. I admitted the idea has never entered my mind. She continued, "Imagine going through the first half of your life as Jennifer Tukus? When I got married I clung to my new last name like a life raft. The best thing my ex-husband gave me, the only good thing he ever gave me aside from our daughter, is my new name. Until something better comes along, I'm going to keep calling myself Jennifer Winner." She had a winning point.
Why is Dorchester called Dorchester, besides the usual accidents of history? What does Dorchester, Mass., a part of Boston, have to do with Dorchester, England? Very little if anything at all anymore. Savin Hill, Neponset, Lower Mills, Codman Square...all these neighborhoods have an organic reason for their designations, but Dorchester? Why? Because Englishmen from British Dorchester settled here four centuries ago? I can walk down every street in the Dot swinging a broom and I won't hit one limey.
I'm not in favor of changing Dorchester's nom-de-guerre for marketing reasons. I'm not in favor of Shadyvale or Pleasantville. Quite the contrary. If Dorchester elects a new name, I think it should reflect the facts on the ground. Palookaville springs to mind. So does Affordabletown, Work Acres, Hope Flats, or Meltingpot. If we want to keep the ties to history, just Dot works fine.
As we have pointed out again and again, Dot is not an disparaging name and the label puts a pointillist focus on a self-contained orb that spins according to rules of its own making. Dorchester is a bull's eye to be aimed at. On Boston's canvas, it is like a spatter of paint that didn't get laid on a Jackson Pollack canvas, one that held all the creator's intended meaning but will never be seen because it's on a potato barn floor somewhere out of sight. It is on the edge of the main show, forgotten and neglected. Only the artist saw its worth but once the paint had dried it was too late to change the picture. The final picture sold for a trillion bucks at auction decades after completion. Dorchester is a work in progress.
I guess it doesn't matter what you call yourself. Dorchester is Dorchester when the day is done. It is full of palookas and hope and affordable rents and the hurly-burly, hurdy-gurdy, sing-song grunt and weft and sweat and chance and happenstance that close company breeds. Dorchester is a Dot, but a name means little on the streets. What is the moon except the thing you see in the sky? Is there a man there looking down? Wave hello. That is the Dorchester way.
"You're last name is King, you'll never see any need to change it,"she said. I admitted the idea has never entered my mind. She continued, "Imagine going through the first half of your life as Jennifer Tukus? When I got married I clung to my new last name like a life raft. The best thing my ex-husband gave me, the only good thing he ever gave me aside from our daughter, is my new name. Until something better comes along, I'm going to keep calling myself Jennifer Winner." She had a winning point.
Why is Dorchester called Dorchester, besides the usual accidents of history? What does Dorchester, Mass., a part of Boston, have to do with Dorchester, England? Very little if anything at all anymore. Savin Hill, Neponset, Lower Mills, Codman Square...all these neighborhoods have an organic reason for their designations, but Dorchester? Why? Because Englishmen from British Dorchester settled here four centuries ago? I can walk down every street in the Dot swinging a broom and I won't hit one limey.
I'm not in favor of changing Dorchester's nom-de-guerre for marketing reasons. I'm not in favor of Shadyvale or Pleasantville. Quite the contrary. If Dorchester elects a new name, I think it should reflect the facts on the ground. Palookaville springs to mind. So does Affordabletown, Work Acres, Hope Flats, or Meltingpot. If we want to keep the ties to history, just Dot works fine.
As we have pointed out again and again, Dot is not an disparaging name and the label puts a pointillist focus on a self-contained orb that spins according to rules of its own making. Dorchester is a bull's eye to be aimed at. On Boston's canvas, it is like a spatter of paint that didn't get laid on a Jackson Pollack canvas, one that held all the creator's intended meaning but will never be seen because it's on a potato barn floor somewhere out of sight. It is on the edge of the main show, forgotten and neglected. Only the artist saw its worth but once the paint had dried it was too late to change the picture. The final picture sold for a trillion bucks at auction decades after completion. Dorchester is a work in progress.
I guess it doesn't matter what you call yourself. Dorchester is Dorchester when the day is done. It is full of palookas and hope and affordable rents and the hurly-burly, hurdy-gurdy, sing-song grunt and weft and sweat and chance and happenstance that close company breeds. Dorchester is a Dot, but a name means little on the streets. What is the moon except the thing you see in the sky? Is there a man there looking down? Wave hello. That is the Dorchester way.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Proud by osmosis by choice
It is mid-March and Spring is making progress from misery toward a blossom of crocuses and daffodils in Dorchester. Dot Ave's cherry trees and magnolias will soon be in full bloom. The ground is firm but not solid enough to stop flowers from raising thier heads. The breeze of Dorchester Bay smells clean. It blows with a hint of April freshness.
Dorchester, Boston's best neighborhood, is bounded on one side by a bay made up of pure ocean water that laps the shore like a baby nuzzling and licking a teat. The Neponset River leaks accumulated nutrients into Dorchester Bay. The fish are feisty. The shellfish are meaty. Crabs are particulary robust and hearty. Seals who wander into Dorchester Bay eat like starved Vikings at a smorgasbord and they depart fattened and satisfied, ready to take on the challenges other, stingier harbors have to offer.
A curious anatomical fact: amniotic fluid has the same density as seawater. We are all nourished for nine months in a bath that mimics the ocean. Unlike Hyde Park, Roxbury, West Roxbury, Allston or Brighton, Dorchester stays in touch with the source of all evolutionary life, that richest of breeding grounds, the broad, deep breast of the sea.
Dorchester is home to the fruit of the womb. This statement applies to the citizens as well as to the formerly freestanding town itself. You have to be tough and street smart, savvy, cagey, and canny, to make your mark in the Dot. An individual needs to be able to steer through shallow, treacherous currents the way Dorchester itself has had to navigate unmappable shoals and rough spots in order to be the best part of Boston that it undeniably is.
Some people are lucky enough to be born in Dorchester and they have tenacity and grit in their genes. Others come here by choice. They gather the Dot's best attributes by osmosis after constant exposure to Dorchester's trace elements. The slag gets pounded and smelted away from the ore. After enough beatings, they shine with a polish that rivals the gleams off the pot of gold at a rainbow's end.
Live in Dorchester a year and you will be content. Live here longer and you become more ecstatic, more proud, and more assured with every passing day. You can't help but inhale promise when you spend time in Dorchester. The flavor of hope will stick to your ribs.
Dorchester, Boston's best neighborhood, is bounded on one side by a bay made up of pure ocean water that laps the shore like a baby nuzzling and licking a teat. The Neponset River leaks accumulated nutrients into Dorchester Bay. The fish are feisty. The shellfish are meaty. Crabs are particulary robust and hearty. Seals who wander into Dorchester Bay eat like starved Vikings at a smorgasbord and they depart fattened and satisfied, ready to take on the challenges other, stingier harbors have to offer.
A curious anatomical fact: amniotic fluid has the same density as seawater. We are all nourished for nine months in a bath that mimics the ocean. Unlike Hyde Park, Roxbury, West Roxbury, Allston or Brighton, Dorchester stays in touch with the source of all evolutionary life, that richest of breeding grounds, the broad, deep breast of the sea.
Dorchester is home to the fruit of the womb. This statement applies to the citizens as well as to the formerly freestanding town itself. You have to be tough and street smart, savvy, cagey, and canny, to make your mark in the Dot. An individual needs to be able to steer through shallow, treacherous currents the way Dorchester itself has had to navigate unmappable shoals and rough spots in order to be the best part of Boston that it undeniably is.
Some people are lucky enough to be born in Dorchester and they have tenacity and grit in their genes. Others come here by choice. They gather the Dot's best attributes by osmosis after constant exposure to Dorchester's trace elements. The slag gets pounded and smelted away from the ore. After enough beatings, they shine with a polish that rivals the gleams off the pot of gold at a rainbow's end.
Live in Dorchester a year and you will be content. Live here longer and you become more ecstatic, more proud, and more assured with every passing day. You can't help but inhale promise when you spend time in Dorchester. The flavor of hope will stick to your ribs.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Being a part of it
When the going gets tough, the tough take a stroll in Dorchester, Mass. Boston is a city full of inspiring sights but Dorchester is the part of Boston that breeds aspirations. I have wandered these streets and felt myself buoyed to flights of fancy inspired by the people who crisscross this liveliest part of a great, active metropolis. You can be down on your luck, counting on the loose change in your pocket to get through the day, without a hope in the world yet plenty of cares. Time spent in Dorchester will show you the way past immediate hardship if you have the eyes to see rainbows.
The economics in Dorchester aren't rosy. Details are difficult to pin down, but a neutral statistician will soon deduce that Dorchester's per capita income skews Boston's overall average down. You'll see frowns in Dorchester, but most of them are turned upside down. This is a neighborhood full of stores that boast your dollar will buy more here. It isn't the material things that count in the end, though. If you don't have money, you still have your health. If you don't have good health, you still have your family. If you are a transplant, you have the surrounding community. High fences may make good neighbors, but Dorchesterites make the best neighbors of all.
The people of Dorchester are rich in gumption and pride. They get knocked down on a regular basis but that doesn't stop them from starting each day with a grin, good cheer, and the expectation that things will get better. Things often do get better, eventually. It is good to be alive in Dorchester, just as it is good to be alive in any part of Boston. A city is a place where opportunities coalesce in kaleidoscopic array. Some people pick the low fruit while others reach for the stars.
Aim high if you want to hit the mark. Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Be prepared for whatever chance may come your way. Let Fortune be your guide. Follow you nose through thickets and brambles and down Dot Ave. It is always darkest before the dawn though platitudes won't put food on the table. Hustle and bustle are Dorchester's hallmarks. If you can make it here you can make it anywhere.
I only speak for Dorchester, but I think all of Boston is a place of opportunity if you can seize a day and make it yours and parlay that into weeks and months and years. Fortune smiles on the bold. The Imperatrix Mundi has a special dispensation for Boston and an even more especial one for those who call the Dot home.
The economics in Dorchester aren't rosy. Details are difficult to pin down, but a neutral statistician will soon deduce that Dorchester's per capita income skews Boston's overall average down. You'll see frowns in Dorchester, but most of them are turned upside down. This is a neighborhood full of stores that boast your dollar will buy more here. It isn't the material things that count in the end, though. If you don't have money, you still have your health. If you don't have good health, you still have your family. If you are a transplant, you have the surrounding community. High fences may make good neighbors, but Dorchesterites make the best neighbors of all.
The people of Dorchester are rich in gumption and pride. They get knocked down on a regular basis but that doesn't stop them from starting each day with a grin, good cheer, and the expectation that things will get better. Things often do get better, eventually. It is good to be alive in Dorchester, just as it is good to be alive in any part of Boston. A city is a place where opportunities coalesce in kaleidoscopic array. Some people pick the low fruit while others reach for the stars.
Aim high if you want to hit the mark. Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. Be prepared for whatever chance may come your way. Let Fortune be your guide. Follow you nose through thickets and brambles and down Dot Ave. It is always darkest before the dawn though platitudes won't put food on the table. Hustle and bustle are Dorchester's hallmarks. If you can make it here you can make it anywhere.
I only speak for Dorchester, but I think all of Boston is a place of opportunity if you can seize a day and make it yours and parlay that into weeks and months and years. Fortune smiles on the bold. The Imperatrix Mundi has a special dispensation for Boston and an even more especial one for those who call the Dot home.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Memorial day
We were at the corner of Richmond Street and Dot Ave this morning at 9:30AM. The Memorial Day parade was assembled and started, heading in stately grace to Cedar Grove Cemetary to honor the war dead. It wasn't a long parade, but it was an important and grand one. The veterans's organizations were assembled, and the pomp was fit for the circumstances and occassion. We hold these truths to be self-evident: a community that honors its heroes is one that will never lose its soul. Dorchester is such a place.
A bigger crowd would have been nice, but a better audience wouldn't be possible. The sidewalks were lined by onlookers who knew the import of what they were witnessing. Tose who marched did it with dignity.
I tied a cloth poppy reminiscent of Flanders fields onto my motorcycle. It fluttered in the wind the rest of the day as I made my rounds around Dorchester. Let us remember the dead today and pay our respects throughout the year at the memorials that stand all over our noble borough. Freedom is not free.
A bigger crowd would have been nice, but a better audience wouldn't be possible. The sidewalks were lined by onlookers who knew the import of what they were witnessing. Tose who marched did it with dignity.
I tied a cloth poppy reminiscent of Flanders fields onto my motorcycle. It fluttered in the wind the rest of the day as I made my rounds around Dorchester. Let us remember the dead today and pay our respects throughout the year at the memorials that stand all over our noble borough. Freedom is not free.
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