Review: Detective
I recently read the book Detective, and thought it was quite interesting. Kathy Burke was a detective just around the time things were really starting to change for women cops in NYC. She loved her job and rolled with the punches, but the punches just kept coming. I kept feeling the urge to be depressed about it, but she remained so upbeat throughout the book that it was difficult, in spite of the crippling realities. The amount of blatant, evil discrimination she faced is staggering.
Oddly enough one of my favorite bits of the book had nothing to do with being a cop. It was about her mother.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp Mom was certainly one to practice what she preached. After Irish Jack Conlon died, Mom became the target of a lot of nasty rumormongering and backbiting in our Astoria neighborhood. Back in the 1950s, when church, work, and family were absolutely sacrosanct, it was not considered proper or dignified for a single woman to be raising a young child on her own. I guess it just didn't coincide with everyone's stereotypical Norman Rockwell image of both mom and dad standing by the dining room table, carving up the Thanksgiving turkey, while their apple-cheeked kids happily awaited their drumsticks and candied yams. Unfortunately, in those days, anybody who did not fit neatly into this rosy tableau was considered suspect or of weak moral fiber. People felt free to pass snap judgments on their neighbors and spread malicious rumors. And children, undoubtedly taking the cue from their parents, would blurt out things that were downright cruel.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp On the Easter Sunday immediately following my stepfather's death, I wore a pretty, new yellow dress to mass. I knew I was supposed to take extraspecial care of this dress since my mother had dipped deep into her meager savings to buy it for me. It was meant to be my Sunday dress for many, many months to come, and God forbid that anything should happen to it. But on my way home from church after mass, I got into an argument with one of the older neighborhood boys, who promptly smeared grease and dirt all over my new yellow dress and ruined it. For good measure, he also poked me in the face a couple of times and gave me a fat black eye. When I began to cry and scream, he taunted me mercilessly, "So whaddya gonna do about, Conlon? You don't even have a father!"
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp When I ran home and told my mother the story, she narrowed her eyes. A moment later, I could see her jaw muscles working as she ground her teeth. It was as though someone had just waved a red flag in front of a bull. "Where's this kid live?" she demanded. I told her. His house was just a few blocks away from ours. Grabbing my hand, my mother dragged me out the front door and up the street, toward the house.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp "Don't you worry, young lady," Mom told me as she bounded along the sidewalk, a look of fierce determination on her face. "Everything's gonna be just hunky-dory."
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp When we arrived at his house, my mother began banging loudly on the front door, which was eventually opened by the kid's mother. "Yes?" the woman asked, giving my mother the kind of down-your-nose look you might reserve for a leper or a beggar. "Can I help you?" Behind her, I could see her stupid, snot-nosed bully of a son, snickering and making faces at me.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp Mom arched an eyebrow. "Your husband home?"
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp "Who wantsa know?"
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp "Dorothy Conlon wantsa know, that's who."
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp The woman turned and shouted back into the house, "Harry! Some lady named Conlon wantsa see ya!"
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp A moment later, her husband, clad in his undershirt and shorts, his beer belly hanging over his waistband, waddled up to the door. Recognizing my mother--that "woman" who had the nerve to raise a young daughter on her own--he gave her a hard, cold stare, dripping with contempt. "So whadda you want, lady?" he sneered.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp With that, Mom reared back with one fist, uncorked a solid roundhouse to his jaw, and knocked him flat on his ass. He was out cold."
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp As his wife gasped and his sniveling son stared down at him aghast, my mother announced to them. "She don't need a father. She's got a mother." Then she marched me back to our house to celebrate her knockout punch.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp From that point on, whenever I would come home complaining that somebody had threatened to pick a fight with me, she'd wave me off. "Aw stop your bawlin', none of this poor-me crap," she'd scold. "Never let 'em see you cry." Then, kicking my fanny out the door, she'd tell me, "G'wan and get back out there. You're big enough to fight your own battles now."
Oddly enough one of my favorite bits of the book had nothing to do with being a cop. It was about her mother.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp Mom was certainly one to practice what she preached. After Irish Jack Conlon died, Mom became the target of a lot of nasty rumormongering and backbiting in our Astoria neighborhood. Back in the 1950s, when church, work, and family were absolutely sacrosanct, it was not considered proper or dignified for a single woman to be raising a young child on her own. I guess it just didn't coincide with everyone's stereotypical Norman Rockwell image of both mom and dad standing by the dining room table, carving up the Thanksgiving turkey, while their apple-cheeked kids happily awaited their drumsticks and candied yams. Unfortunately, in those days, anybody who did not fit neatly into this rosy tableau was considered suspect or of weak moral fiber. People felt free to pass snap judgments on their neighbors and spread malicious rumors. And children, undoubtedly taking the cue from their parents, would blurt out things that were downright cruel.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp On the Easter Sunday immediately following my stepfather's death, I wore a pretty, new yellow dress to mass. I knew I was supposed to take extraspecial care of this dress since my mother had dipped deep into her meager savings to buy it for me. It was meant to be my Sunday dress for many, many months to come, and God forbid that anything should happen to it. But on my way home from church after mass, I got into an argument with one of the older neighborhood boys, who promptly smeared grease and dirt all over my new yellow dress and ruined it. For good measure, he also poked me in the face a couple of times and gave me a fat black eye. When I began to cry and scream, he taunted me mercilessly, "So whaddya gonna do about, Conlon? You don't even have a father!"
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp When I ran home and told my mother the story, she narrowed her eyes. A moment later, I could see her jaw muscles working as she ground her teeth. It was as though someone had just waved a red flag in front of a bull. "Where's this kid live?" she demanded. I told her. His house was just a few blocks away from ours. Grabbing my hand, my mother dragged me out the front door and up the street, toward the house.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp "Don't you worry, young lady," Mom told me as she bounded along the sidewalk, a look of fierce determination on her face. "Everything's gonna be just hunky-dory."
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp When we arrived at his house, my mother began banging loudly on the front door, which was eventually opened by the kid's mother. "Yes?" the woman asked, giving my mother the kind of down-your-nose look you might reserve for a leper or a beggar. "Can I help you?" Behind her, I could see her stupid, snot-nosed bully of a son, snickering and making faces at me.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp Mom arched an eyebrow. "Your husband home?"
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp "Who wantsa know?"
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp "Dorothy Conlon wantsa know, that's who."
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp The woman turned and shouted back into the house, "Harry! Some lady named Conlon wantsa see ya!"
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp A moment later, her husband, clad in his undershirt and shorts, his beer belly hanging over his waistband, waddled up to the door. Recognizing my mother--that "woman" who had the nerve to raise a young daughter on her own--he gave her a hard, cold stare, dripping with contempt. "So whadda you want, lady?" he sneered.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp With that, Mom reared back with one fist, uncorked a solid roundhouse to his jaw, and knocked him flat on his ass. He was out cold."
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp As his wife gasped and his sniveling son stared down at him aghast, my mother announced to them. "She don't need a father. She's got a mother." Then she marched me back to our house to celebrate her knockout punch.
nbsp;nbsp;nbsp From that point on, whenever I would come home complaining that somebody had threatened to pick a fight with me, she'd wave me off. "Aw stop your bawlin', none of this poor-me crap," she'd scold. "Never let 'em see you cry." Then, kicking my fanny out the door, she'd tell me, "G'wan and get back out there. You're big enough to fight your own battles now."