Scratch-Off: Ms. Shirley Jackson at SU

July 13, 2017 by Christopher Sinatra

She was a lonely student, in a new town, during an interesting time. In 1937, Shirley Jackson, whose short story “The Lottery” would soon become obscenely popular, was habitually alone. Her year at the University of Rochester had been disheartening, indeed, almost maddening, but she wrote in her application to SU that she “wish[ed] to further her writing career.” And she would, but not in the way that you might think.

“The Lottery” stands today almost as well-known a Cold War parable as Arthur Miller's play, The Crucible. Indeed, writers are still influenced by the stark tale of a woman randomly chosen to be stoned to death – sacrificed – for the good of her town. For example, in Colson Whitehead's 2016 novel, The Underground Railroad, he pays homage to the chilling ending of “The Lottery.” As the townspeople recapture an escaped slave, “Two more children picked up rocks and threw them...the town moved in and then Cora couldn't see them anymore.”

One thing that separated The Crucible and “The Lottery” was the timelessness of Jackson's violence, which may have been the reason for so many negative reactions. While The Crucible was about a real witch hunt, the dangerous ones in “The Lottery” were ostensibly fictional townspeople – perhaps even the readers? Jackson herself was called a witch, a persona she did not publicly quibble with. And why bother? This was the age when, for Miller and many others, it was the witch-hunters who were evil. An Associated Press reporter commented that Jackson “wrote not with a pen, but with a broomstick,” but her reputation hardly suffered for it.

Ruth Franklin's 2016 biography, Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life, is an illuminating look at a woman whose stories and psychological makeup have been explored in detail before, but whose family life, until Franklin, biographers have overlooked. This despite her many columns about being a wife and mother, collected as Life Among the Savages and Raising Demons. However, the depth of Jackson's troubled relationship with her husband was something she never wrote seriously about. Franklin has done a superb job reading Jackson's lines (and between them), and argues that, as a woman in the mid-20th century, her marriage to Stanley was the most terrifying thing of all.

Chapter Four is called “S & S: Syracuse, 1937-1940,” and it is about Jackson's undergraduate years in the English program. It is also where Shirley meets her future husband Stanley, and ends with the two of them moving to New York City to become writers. But an incident that remains murky occurred her senior year when her department shut down the literary magazine they created. It makes sense of Stanley's later contrarian satisfaction that “the college was glad to be rid of both us and the magazine,” and adds a touch of irony to Shirley's statement to the Daily Orange in 1965 that “my education at Syracuse started me writing.”

When I saw that Jackson's new biography was coming out, I was riveted. I was not familiar with Jackson's other works, let alone the story of her life. But the few pages that comprised “The Lottery” had shaken me and never let go. I was always drawn to horror, but the blood-soaked tales of Stephen King and Clive Barker felt like something else. This “old lady's” subtlety shocked me and her implied violence were more relatable and less apt to be romanticized, but just as scary as the Masters.

You see, when I began middle school in a rural district, the bullying was constant. The dread that came with me to school many mornings seemed much larger than me. I stood at the end of the long, dark and empty hallway on the first day and the first person who walked toward me as I tried to open my locker grunted, “Fucking faggot.” He didn't lunge at me or even veer in my direction, but the sense of menace that he projected was threatening nonetheless. And no one came to help me. There was violence in his words. They weren't upon me yet, but they were before too long.

Judging from her photo in the 1940 Syracuse University yearbook, The Onondagan, Shirley Jackson's three years at Syracuse University were relatively uneventful. While the eight students' pictures around her all boast of membership in Greek organizations, only her major is listed.

Shirley had left the University of Rochester after an unsuccessful freshman year. She had made some friends and dated, but lived with her parents, and soon her grades began slipping. Burnt out, she left school and began a strict writing schedule of 1,000 words a day. She applied to Syracuse University in 1937. Syracuse had a reputation for being a bit wilder than the U of R. Her Rochester boyfriend, Michael Palmer, had called SU “a hotbed of communism and antisocial attitudes.” But for the first semester Shirley remained a loner in the small library listening room.

Jackson's application to Syracuse University. Since it asks, she notes she was a girl scout.

Writing had been the center of her life for a long time. She had kept a diary since she was a young teenager and wrote for pleasure, but hardly received any praise from her family for her efforts. After reading them a particularly interesting story, the responses ranged from her brother's “Whaddyou call that?” to her father's 'Very nice.' Her mother wondered if she had “remembered to make the bed.”

Now, for the first time in her life, she was away from her unsupportive parents. Soon Professor A.E. Johnson's creative writing class gave her an outlet to write and meet new people. She and a friend explored downtown, including “the swanky Yates hotel,” and Shirley wrote in her diary that “I have been relaxing into myself. I do not feel the constant strain to be someone else.”

Campus life in the late 1930's shared many similarities with today. Frat houses lined Walnut Avenue, and students hung out on “the hill” at places like The Cosmo, an all-night coffee shop known to students as “The Greeks.” The Daily Orange had been a newspaper since 1903.

Instead of dorms, female students lived in "cottages." Pictured is Lima Cottage, (926 South Crouse Avenue), where Jackson lived.

She wrote a piece called Janice that the campus magazine printed. Barely a page long, the story is about a college student who casually chats with a friend about committing suicide. The almost throwaway line, “Darn near killed myself this afternoon,” was hallmark Jackson. Although it was not a political piece, it captivated Stanley Hyman, a fervent left-wing literature student who introduced himself to Shirley immediately and, Franklin writes, told her, “you were the only live thing I had seen outside the greenhouse all winter.”

Shirley and Stanley began dating. They shared literary interests but were not aligned in subject or style. Stanley was a member of the Young Communist League who, at one point, spent time trying to organize steelworkers in Solvay. His writing was directed solely toward the class struggle and disdained apolitical writing. At one point he told Shirley, “i [sic] think you are potentially the greatest writer in the world, [and] wish you had something to write about.” This despite most people agreeing that Shirley was by far the finer writer of the two.

Yet they started a campus literary magazine called Spectre with some friends (and the backing of the English Department). In the editor's introduction, Shirley jokes that she and a group of friends were hanging around “trying to think of some way to pass a long hard winter.” “Let's tie friends in chairs and read our stories to them,” she reports Stanley replied with a grin.

The magazine mostly published short stories. One of Jackson's, “Call Me Ishmael,” was about the narrator's frustration at the difficulty of communication with her mother. They look across a street at a woman (presumably a prostitute) and cannot even agree how to talk about her, as if they speak different languages, or exist in different worlds. Another story was Shirley's humorous essay, “My Life In Cats.”

At the same time, this was 1939, and war was everywhere. Yes, there were a few passing allusions, like the story “Land Of The Pilgrim's Pride,” about an Austrian refugee trying to make enough money to send back to his family. But most of the overt political commentary in Spectre was about the University itself.

In only its third issue, the “We The Editors” section announced, “Here we are, already a magazine with a lurid past.” After a short run, the University would shut Spectre down. “It seems we had two pictures of two nude male bodies, and if you want to have nude bodies in a campus publication, without corrupting public morals, they have to be female bodies.” Interestingly, the editorial goes on to make the magazine's most direct reference to Hitler and what it meant for intellectual freedom on campus. “The college cannot, must as it tries, avoid reflecting some measure of contemporary social and political reality. Today there is a war, with half of Europe under arms and the other half scared stiff (you may have heard of it).”

The denunciation of racial segregation at SU in *Spectre* I, no. 4 (Summer, 1940).

But in her biography of Jackson, Franklin theorizes that the drawings did not close down Spectre. She writes that it was Shirley herself who tipped off the magazine's faculty adviser about the nudes in order to generate controversy and doesn't think the plan would back-fire that completely. Another possibility was the critical attack on Prof. A.E. Johnson's poetry in its pages – anonymous, but probably made by Shirley and Stanley. But Franklin discounts this theory too. The politics of the college that Shirley did comment on the most was discrimination against black students. The editors observed that Marian Anderson had performed at the school, and in fact, “sells out every time she comes here, but they won't allow negro girls in the college dormitories.” This was playing with fire.

In this critique Jackson was just barely ahead of her time. In a 1984 scholarly article, “Discrimination at Syracuse University,” Harvey Strum analyzes how drastically the university's policies about race and sex changed after 1942, when William Tolley became Chancellor. The path toward inclusion was not straight, and depended much on who led the University. In fact, in the early 20th century, Chancellor James Roscoe Day had battled uphill against bigotry, telling John D. Rockefeller, “We welcome Jew, Gentile, Protestant and Catholic.”

William Pratt Graham, an electrical engineering professor and sixth chancellor of SU.

Then, in the 1920s, racism and the Nativist reaction against immigration began to affect policies at SU. Vice Chancellor, and later Chancellor William Pratt Graham, instituted discriminatory admissions and housing policies for African-Americans, Jews, Catholics and women. This was in line with many other American universities, and according to a Daily Orange investigation at the time, in accordance with many of the students' beliefs. Graham, himself an 1893 graduate of SU, convinced the Director of Admissions, Eugene Bradford, that including photographs with applications was required to avoid accepting students who shouldn't represent the University. After all, “his certificate is generally the same color as a white man's.” Bradford suggested adding to applications the directive, “If other than a native white American citizen, state race and nationality and enclose a photograph.”

It wasn't until two years after Jackson graduated that Tolley ascended to the chancellorship and began to direct the roll-back of Graham's exclusive policies. By that time there were only three black students left at SU. Stanley belonged to the only Jewish fraternity. Interestingly, a top-down order had also cut the number of women allowed into the university, especially in the English Department of the late 1930s, when Shirley attended. Understandably then, as Shirley and Stanley left Syracuse in 1940 to move to New York, they didn't look back. Chancellor Graham left the University too, but became a member of the Syracuse Common Council.

An edited Syracuse University transfer document notes that Jackson wrote *The Lottery* and became Mrs. Stanley Edgar Hyman.

Jackson and Hyman remained husband and wife until she died in 1965. The central argument of Shirley Jackson: A Rather Haunted Life is that she was scared, not of the beyond, but of the here and now. She and her husband shared an intellectually stimulating life together; that much is clear. She also adored him, and indeed, supported him with love and money when his books failed, numerous times, to support the family, both because they were specialized works of literary criticism and he could never seem to make deadlines.

Still, Hyman was consistently and openly adulterous. The pain that Shirley suffered as a woman from his treatment (and society's), would haunt her, Franklin argues, for her entire life. Stanley was not only incredibly condescending towards Shirley's writing, but thoroughly dependent on her for domestic needs. Some said that he could not even make a pot of coffee. It's not a coincidence, Franklin notes, that the woman who dies in “The Lottery” was late because she had been at home washing dishes. The irony of Hyman's statement while they were still at Syracuse, that she had nothing to write about, is now clear. Jackson was writing about him; alas, she wrote not with a broomstick, but with a pen.

This drawing, from *Spectre* I, was not one of the two "offensive" pictures, which were removed from the magazine.

All of this came after Shirley Jackson graduated from Syracuse University, yet I see a thread running between the Spectre affair and her life with Stanley. On April 28, 1965, the headline of The Daily Orange was “Jackson Credits SU With Writing Start.” “But most of my class compositions came back criticizing me for confusing 'that' and 'which,' she added with a laugh.”

Did the University ban Spectre because of its editorial positions against racial discrimination? The drawings? Or for biting the hand that fed them, Prof. Johnson? We'll probably never know. That they are all plausible gives one pause. Since the appearance of nude drawings was the given reason, it is worth exploring what it says about history as well as the present.

It may be tempting to equate the shuttering of Spectre with that of the SU's racist-joke smeared Hill TV channel in 1995. Political correctness run amok, some say. But I would disagree. At the end of “The Lottery,” as the village closes in on the “winner,” Tessie Hutchinson, with rocks at the ready, she screams, “It isn't fair, it isn't right.” Jackson says nothing about political correctness, the accusation of which has been too often used as an either a euphemism or epithet to comfort the feelings of straight white men. The victim of hate speech does have reason to worry that violence may follow, at SU and anywhere else.

Most of the talk about political correctness recently has been about whether Muslims are dangerous to democracy. ACT for America's anti-Muslim rally, which took place in Syracuse on June 10th, is pertinent in that its members seem to assume that American men have consistently and altruistically acted for womens' best interest, and still do. The protest was formally billed as an anti-Sharia law event, but as many have noted, there is no danger of Sharia law governing Americans. Still, for these 21st century patriots, the cry for the veil to be torn off seems reasonable. Our claims of progress are as American as “mom and apple pie.” Because here, ladies are still free to wear as little as they want. It's a free country, right? (It's true; all the guys are saying so!).

Another example of body image expectations from the 1930s.

But according to a Spangle magazine article “Why Is The MPAA So Concerned About Male Nudity?,” the opposite is not true. Displaying a naked man is still taboo in a way that it just isn't so for a naked woman, and hasn't been for a long time. “Think of how many times you've seen a naked woman in a film as compared to a man; that's because straight men are turned on by the sight, and women aren't turned off. Homophobic Hollywood doesn't think the same is true of the opposite, so naked men are a rarity.” When I went to an art exhibition called “The Sexuality Show” in Corning, New York last year, there were no images of nude males. It's obvious which gender benefits from allowing the exposure of naked women while practically banning that of naked men.

Of course, if the study “Discrimination At Syracuse University” were done now, it would look very different. We might be asking whether the pictures were censored because the male bodies stirred up fears (or worse, desire?) of and for queerness that the University wanted to squash. After all, until very recently, outing a gay person created professional as well as a personal liability.

In 1937, the same year that Jackson entered Syracuse University, Grant Wood, the artist known for his 1930 painting, “American Gothic,” revealed his lithograph, “Sultry Night,” which showed a naked farmhand cooling off with a bucket of water. His distributor, the Association of American Artists, condemned the piece as did the U.S. Post Office, as being obscene. Wood's sexuality was subject to gossip in newspapers and magazines and at the University of Iowa, where he taught, but his sister's later burning of his letters prevented confirmation of the rumors.

In any case, the illustrator of the first issue of Spectre was a woman named Florence Shapiro. Shirley despised Florence, and soon replaced her, because she found Florence and Stanley alone in his room, where he had invited her after repeatedly praising her figure. Marital relationships such as Jackson's and Stanley's were also seen differently then. Franklin's book is testament to the fact that that many of the most progressive intellectuals had what we would call major blind-spots and – and so might we.

A "Junior Beauty" from *The Onondagan* yearbook.

One final bit of Shirley Jackson history is instructive here. The editors of Spectre made a list of snobby yet bitingly funny observations about SU called, “22 Propositions Illustrating the Cultural Level of Syracuse Students.” Number one is, “They object to the lack of good lighting in the library, but don't bother about the lack of good books.” And then number 16 bewails, that “The same students who thought Mice and Men and Grapes of Wrath were depressing spent four hours watching Scarlett shoot off the front of a soldier's head.” The last, number 22, reads simply, “Junior Beauties.”

Amid the pages of The Onondagan yearbooks during the years Jackson attended were full-page photographs of female students deemed “Junior Beauties,” a kind of a “page 3 girl” feature that flaunted these women as advertisements – as objects to be possessed. It seems that Jackson saw this feature for what is was, and her derision speaks for itself. But when the next anti-Muslim march comes to Central New York, we should all remember that although life is indeed a lottery, we retain some choice of who we speak for, and how we play the game.

ACT for America rally outside the James M. Hanley Federal Building on June 10, 2017.

I would like to thank my friends and colleagues in the Downtown Writer's Workshop for all of their wonderful feedback. Thanks also to Nancy Keefe Rhodes for teaching the class and editing this piece.

The Salt City’s Talking Dead: Spiritualism in Syracuse

April 29, 2017 by Christopher Sinatra

I've been told that seeing a ghost is a very personal experience. Judging from friends’ stories, it usually happens late at night. It's dark, and the visitation lasts for only a few seconds. The light just turned off. It could have been a cat. This recounting is anecdotal, of course. I have not done any kind of polling on the subject.

However, in 1919, the Syracuse Post-Standard did. It solicited “interesting letters from readers who have had experiences which they regard as supernatural.” Eugene Drake of Auburn submitted an account of a man who had “projected his spirit” into a girl’s body who had recently drowned, and brought her back to life. He won $25, for the story, which he admitted could not be verified save for his theory. So interestingly enough, in the mid-19th century, Spiritualism, or communication with the dead, was not a private matter at all. In fact, Syracuse, “an important Centre…a city of –isms,” as one commentator called it, was not only at the very heart of abolitionism and feminism, but Spiritualism as well.

The first two modern Spiritualists, Kate and Margaret Fox, were 12 and 15 years old when they allegedly received word from beyond. In December, 1847, the girls moved into a house near Rochester, and quickly discovered they could not sleep due to the strange nightly “rappings” emanating from somewhere inside. Kate told the being, “Mr. Splitfoot, do as I do,” and began to snap her fingers back. In this way the sisters developed an “alphabet raps” system which allowed further conversation. People began to spread the word about the Fox sisters across New York and eventually the rest of the country. Having it become well known (via the Fox's Spirit friend) that a former tenant had been murdered and buried in their basement couldn't hurt for publicity either.. Then, as now, sick sells.

By 1850, only two years after the Fox sisters made friends with Mr. Splitfoot (a common name for the devil at the time), a local paper reported that “The Rochester knockings have broken out in Syracuse.” In 1856 a writer calling himself “Pupil” estimated that there were “more than a thousand Spiritualists in Syracuse and about one hundred and fifty mediums.” With a population that hovered around 30,000, it would be safe to say that the dead had found a second home in the Salt City.

Séances, abounded. No longer relying solely on rappings, mediums vocalized messages from the other side. In 1850, a curious few gathered at the Genesee Street home of Mr. Savage for a sitting. One guest arrived late, and, “the spirits refusing to communicate until all were present,” held up the meeting. Identifying himself as the apostle Paul, the spirit answered yes/no questions and then told the group leader to enter a, “mesmeric state.” A witness describes what happened next: “We first observed a few spasmodic twitches and the countenance seemed to be illuminated with a smile and expression that denoted great sensation of pleasure, and she began to describe the spirits of the departed – the parents, brothers and sisters of those present.”

As often happens, with publicity comes scrutiny. In 1856, the integrity of a young medium named Mr. Van Vleck was questioned in the Syracuse Daily Journal. The skeptic and an associate met with six men and four women at No. 11 Pike Block to see for themselves. Musical instruments including a harp, banjo, violin and bass drum were collected, and Van Vleck’s arms were tied with harp string to assure an authentic experience. Alas, he complained that it was too painful to proceed, and began to leave. But the group convinced him to try again, and holding hands to prevent a “fraud” from occurring, extinguished the lights. Soon people reported feeling the breeze created by instruments floating by their faces. Some heard them play music. Van Vleck asked to be tied down again and soon “the spirits were lifting him on the table,” chair and all.

Visitations were not merely in-home affairs. The Salt Springs Hotel on North Salina and Wolf Street was supposedly the subject of a “prophecy” in mid-January 1857 which “doomed” the building “to ashes.” The guests took note and, gathering their belongings, “prepare[d] to fly into the streets [despite] this inclement weather, thankful that their lives were saved.” One night the alarm was raised again, but after evacuating the hotel, it was discovered that the chimneys had merely burned out. The moral of the story according to the reporter was “Never try to look into the future further than God intended you should see without the aid of spirits.”

Although many mediums were local, spiritualist celebrities also graced Syracuse with their presence. Ira and William Davenport – known widely as the Davenport Brothers – were from Buffalo. They counted Arthur Conan Doyle and John Wilkes Booth among their admirers, courting praise and scrutiny in America, and during the Civil War, in Europe. As young twentysomethings they too demonstrated their “gift” with a special kind of musical act. It consisted of the brothers being bound and shut into a large cabinet with musical instruments which would be played by spirits. However, a performance in Malcolm Hall in Syracuse left the crowd scratching their heads. Although the bell and tambourine rang, two of the three time the cabinet was opened one or both of the Davenports were untied! “One member pronounced them a downright humbug and imposition.”

Some reports seem downright satirical. A 1858 news brief noted under the heading “Strange” that a Mr. Edgerton of Pompeii, an unbeliever, had “received” three bullets in his body during a sitting in his house. “The bullets were thrown by some invisible agency and struck him on the heart, but not severely.” Edgerton changed his mind after the incident, and the journalist wryly noted that this could no doubt be “partially attributed to the receipt of the mysterious bullets.”

From the very beginning, many people expressed skepticism, and not only from a naturalist position. Many members of local Presbyterian Methodist churches, for example, argued strenuously against Spiritualism’s compatibility with Christianity. One letter to the editor, signed “Orthodox,” claimed that it was tempting many believers and even clergy from their traditional faiths. He called spiritualism no less than “the sin-accursed undermining power.”

But there was was a deeply serious and yes, a religious side to communion with the dead. One may well wonder how the young Fox Sisters had pioneered such a popular movement. During thethe first half of the 19th century, western and central New York was host to a particularly wide range of alternative yet popular religions including the Mormons, the Seventh Day Adventists, the Shakers, and the Oneida Community. Spiritual fervor was so strong that Presbyterian leader Charles Grandison Finney later called the area the “Burned-Over District,” which historian Whitney Cross wrote, “adopt[ed] the the prevailing western analogy between the fires of the forest and those of the spirit.”

Professor of Classics, Philosophy and Religion Cathy Gutierrez lectured at Le Moyne College in November, 2015 and explained that Spiritualism’s foundations lay in 18th century Europe. At the time, she said, Swedish scientist and mystic Emanuel Swedenborg wrote that heaven was “a bustling society of schools, clubs and social institutions like marriage,” that had three tiers corresponding to its inhabitant’s level of moral advancement. What this meant was that instead of worrying that they and their loved ones would spend eternity in hell for their sins, moral and spiritual progression could continue in heaven, where everyone would be admitted.

She added that, Andrew Jackson Davis of Poughkeepsie, New York expanded Swedenborg’s three tiers of heaven to seven. Gutierrez noted that Jackson, who lectured in Syracuse with his wife in 1856, taught that heaven would be magical – in seventh heaven, spirits could eat aromas.

For many alienated groups, including women and black people, the Spiritualist hubbub sometimes presented opportunities for a select few. In 1857, seventeen year old Cora V. Hatch performed at Myer’s Hall (formerly on East Washington Street), and was awaited with great anticipation as “one of the most remarkable women the world had ever produced.” Unfortunately, historians have pointed out that female and black mediums were often presented as ordinary only when exhibiting the extraordinary. About Hatch, it was said that usually “she is simple and childlike to a charming degree, but on stage, when laboring under what she believes to be the spirit agency, her flights of eloquence are bold, lofty, sublime and beautiful beyond description.” This condescension may have been one of the reasons that the abolitionist Frederick Douglass wrote of his distrust of the “genuineness” of rappings. In a short letter, he assured a recent host – worrying she had misheard him – that he thought that it was the lack of critical examination of spiritualism that was “atrocious,” not the company he had shared at the sitting.

Numerous public debates were held between believers and unbelievers, so it would be rash to think that the faith was uncritically accepted by any group in particular. Indeed, Arthur Conan Doyle, the master of detective stories went to his grave a staunch believer while Harry Houdini tried to show that the Davenport Brothers were mere amateur magicians.

Professor Gutierrez mentioned that one of the things that fascinated her about the subject was the connection between faith and many forms of technology, which also excited people in the 19th century. This could be why musical instruments were so much a part of Spiritualist demonstrations before spirit photography became popular into the twentieth century. Today, it would be the internet that's haunted - at least according to the 2014 horror movie, Unfriended.

Whatever one believes about the truthfulness of spiritualism, séances often provided consolation to grieving loved ones who were suffering wrenching losses. Also, the sense of curiosity and wonder that drew crowds to see demonstrations was another reason for its success. The archives of the Onondaga Historical Association is full of information about the history of Spiritualism in Syracuse. Besides newspaper clippings, there are boxes of books, artwork and photographs by and of a famous local Spiritualist named Helen Butler Wells, who, Gutierrez noted with delight, would not be listed as the author of her channeled books in the Library of Congress’ new system. In other words, the spirits are all right.

Thanks to Dr. Cathy Gutierrez, Dr. Ranjit Dighe of SUNY Oswego, and Sarah Kozma of the Onondaga Historical Association.

Destiny...Onondaga?

July 31, 2015 by Christopher Sinatra

Resembling a bustling Coney Island or even an elegant Saratoga, the images of middle-class luxury on the shores of Onondaga Lake during its golden age are truly breathtaking. It’s as if a long-lost city were unearthed — an El Dorado or Arcadia. Well, perhaps more gilded age than golden age.

But further back, the landscape looked even more different. Four hundred years ago at the exact spot where Destiny USA now stands, there was an Onondaga Indian town. Records, however, don’t reveal how many houses there were inside. It was certainly not as large as the Huron town of Cahiague, which was said to have had 200 longhouses and between 3,000 and 6,000 people inside. Still, according to a contemporary illustration, it was quite impressive. It was surrounded by 30-foot-tall wooden fortress walls and topped by protective barriers, or parapets. Water coursed through the gutters to extinguish fires, should it threaten the wood.

Early in October in 1615, Samuel de Champlain appeared in Onondaga country, along with an interpreter and around a dozen French soldiers. Each wielded an arquebus — an ancestor of the rifle, which was not as accurate as a bow and arrow, but was faster and easier to use. While the Indians would become familiar with the exploding weapons soon enough, at the time, many were astounded at the weapon’s loud nose, which to them, resembled thunder.

Known to us today as the explorer who founded Quebec, Champlain was also an accomplished mapmaker, diplomat and artist; he provided the above-mentioned illustration of the town. His goal in North America was to found a New France, which would bring glory and riches to the mother country in the form of fish and furs. But he and his small contingent couldn’t do this alone. As the school-ditty goes, “they were already here.”

The Huron, Algonquin and Montagnais didn’t view Champlain merely as a threat. The French could also be used as allies against their powerful enemies to the south, the Iroquois, who had a habit of raiding their lucrative northern fur trade route. It was lucky for them that for all the resume-padding Champlain could have taken advantage of, he most often referred to himself as a soldier.

In 1609, the French and Indian force had attacked the Mohawks near Ticonderoga. The battle was nothing like what we are used to imagining Indian wars to look like. Clad in wooden armor, they used cotton-woven shields to deflect enemy arrows. The warriors approached each other in phalanx, or line formation, much like the Europeans did.

Defeat of the Iroquois by Champlain.
Photo provided by Wikimedia

But this time was different. To the surprise of the 200 Mohawk warriors, the Huron stepped aside to reveal Champlain dressed in armor and an elaborate feather-peaked helmet. When one or more of the Mohawk chiefs aimed their bows at Champlain, he fired his arquebus.

He shot four balls simultaneously, killing two of the three chiefs. Two French soldiers shot from under the cover of nearby trees and the third chief dropped, causing the Mohawk to flee. Perhaps simplifying things, warfare in North America would never be the same. The stealth and ambush strategy familiar from books and film was actually an adaptation to new circumstances. It would be foolish to rush in against the guns.

The French and Indian alliance attacked the Mohawk once more in 1610, and using the same strategy, they won. Yet, four years later, Champlain and around 500 Indian warriors marched toward “Iroquoia” again — this time to Onondaga Lake.

It took them more than a month to reach. Besides the unwieldiness of the large group, hunting for food was crucial and time-consuming. Creating their own supply line as they walked, they “advanced by short stages, hunting continually,” Champlain wrote. He was impressed at the Indians’ expertise in corralling deer into the water and killing them with large spears. The Indians were less than enthused when an arquebus accidentally fired and wounded a warrior. This required the French to give a gift of reparation.

After reaching Lake Ontario, the army island-hopped across by canoe and landed on the eastern shore of the lake. Now in enemy territory, they hid their vessels to enable a safe escape and over final four days trekked south toward the Onondaga by way of the path roughly followed today by Interstate 81. Along the way, Champlain admired the sandy shores, bountiful trees and the many fish provided by the Salmon River.

But as they neared their destination, an incident occurred which made it clear that this was not a sight-seeing expedition. The party came upon a small group of Onondaga — men, women and children — and took them prisoner. One of the northern Indians severed the finger of a female captive and an angry Champlain vainly objected that this “was not the act of a warrior.” A Jesuit priest would later write that this chastisement was not appreciated by another Indian, who promptly killed an infant to spite the French. Champlain was also informed that, despite his qualms, this was how they expected to be treated by their enemies.

As the large force reached the fortified town at the southern end of the lake, they expected to engage the enemy the same way that had succeeded against the Mohawk. The arquebusiers would shoot from the flanks as the Onondaga streamed out of the gates toward them. Unfortunately for Champlain’s plans, things went wrong from the start.

Spotted before they were ready, it was the French and Indian army who were surprised, as they were attacked before they were in place. Small, unorganized skirmishes were the result and before long, the two sides regrouped to care for their wounded.

With the Onondaga behind such high walls, the circumstances now resembled a European battle, and accordingly, Champlain planned a siege. The Indians built a cavalier, or siege-engine, which towered over the fort walls and enabled them to re-capture high ground. They also constructed long wooden shields called mantalets, which would protect them against Onondaga arrows.

Onondaga village attacked by the French explorer Samuel de Champlain, 1615.
Photo provided by Wikimedia

The French soldiers’ shot into the fort from their wooden platforms for a long time, perhaps even three hours. Secure under their mantalets, the attacking Indians tried to set fire to the fort. However, the wind was not in their favor, and water which fell from the fort’s gutters and doused the flames before any substantial damage was done.

Left to improvise, the attackers began to shoot arrows over the walls, but to no avail, and Champlain himself was hit in his knee and leg. He wrote that the Onondaga arrows “fell upon us like hail.” Soon, his allies began to refuse Champlain’s orders to continue the assault. “We are winning,” he insisted. They wanted to wait, however, until a group of Susquehannocks, who had promised to come and help defeat their mutual Iroquois enemies, had arrived.

The allied force waited for days, yet no one came. Finally, they retreated back up the path toward Lake Ontario and to their safely hidden canoes. Champlain would later write that the Indian warriors had not listened to his direction and, in any case, were not really soldiers. One wonders if they thought the man in the funny hat was a bit mad for not realizing that the battle was over and that they had not won. The fact that the French and northern Indians had defeated the Mohawks earlier must have made this especially frustrating, but in this case, earlier victory did not mean destiny.

It didn’t necessarily mean victory either, as many historians now argue. Not only did the attackers reach far into Onondaga country and inflict many casualties, but they suffered many less killed and wounded themselves. The warriors ferried their injured comrades away from the pursuing Onondaga in large baskets tied to their backs and no captives were taken.

Still, I would argue that the battle is an important part of the history of Syracuse for at least two reasons. As Champlain wrote, the goal of the mission was to take the fort, which the French and Indian alliance decidedly failed to do. For those who survived the onslaught, it was victory of a kind. As the historian Colin G. Calloway points out in his new book, The Victory With No Name: The Native American Defeat of the First American Army, defeat at the hands of Indians goes largely unrecognized today, even though it was considered vastly important at the time.

More recently, the debate over the cleanliness of Onondaga Lake asks us to question whether new technology is as dependable as we hope. As an Onondaga Nation youth group tried to remind us last week, the lake has been dredged, but its southern end is still too polluted for fishing or swimming. The clean-up, surely a great thing, can only be seen for now as — of a kind.

Bad Fences; Good Neighbors: The Story of European Refugees and their Journey to Oswego

July 17, 2015 by Christopher Sinatra

As the train which had transported the refugees from New York City to Oswego rumbled and screeched to a halt in front of their new home, a military policeman yelled over the din that nobody was to move until orders were given. The fence topped with barbed wire, which surrounded Fort Ontario, was surely the worst kind of welcome to survivors of concentration camps. Yet to some, it felt like a deliverance. A young Austrian woman named Kitty Kaufman said, “If you ask me, I feel safer behind a fence; even in America.”

The story of the only Emergency Refugee Shelter in the country during World War II has been told before. However, the United Nations recently found that the number of people displaced by violence and war has never been recorded higher, so perhaps it deserves to be heard again; although this time from a different perspective. Abstract fears and sensational headlines about the danger of foreigners is one thing, but the experience of living with and next-door to living, breathing and thriving neighbors is surely something else, as many residents of Oswego could and did attest.

D-Day had happened earlier that month in June 1944 when President Roosevelt announced that the United States would accept 1,000 people as his “guests” from war-ravaged Europe. Anti-Semitism was still rampant and there was plenty of pushback to those citizens and organizations who had been clamoring for action for years. Partially to free up space in Italian refugee camps and partially as a humanitarian gesture, a “token refuge,” as it has been called by Susan Lowenstein, would be provided.

Fort Ontario.
Michael Davis Photo | Syracuse New Times

These lucky few, out of 3,000 who applied, would not be invited to settle here. In fact, they signed contracts stating they would be here only temporarily, and would live in Fort Ontario, an edifice which had existed longer than the United States. During the war, African-American, and then illiterate troops were stationed there, and residents of Oswego, including the Chamber of Commerce, had lobbied the federal government to make use of it again. They got their wish.

The two and a half week trip aboard the Army transport Henry Gibbon across the embattled Atlantic was, in a way, a metaphor for and microcosm of future tensions among the evacuees. Although their famous escort Ruth Gruber started English classes right away, divisions were stark. People of 18 nationalities who spoke 21 languages were on the ship, and although only 100 were not Jewish, there was conflict between Orthodox and Reform Jews as well. Many were children and elderly and had been on the run from war for almost a decade; tensions were high. In one incident, a Polish child running on the deck tripped over a Yugoslavian man’s leg. “Polako, polako!” he chided the boy, “go slowly!” An easy mistake to make, but less easy to clean up.

The light began to shine for them in small and unexpected places as they walked onto the pier in New York. The solemn military police were worrisome for sure, but one MP, recent immigrant Herbert Altman, broke rank when he saw his parents-in-law among the refugees and ran to embrace them.

After they arrived at the Fort, Gruber and other administrators, including the camp director Joseph Smart informed the crowd that they would be quarantined. Unable even to visit American family members who had read of their arrival in the newspaper, freedom rang — across the fence.

However, as soon as they arrived, residents of the small town flocked to the barrier. They were shocked at what they saw. Some brought clothes. Many brought children’s shoes, which were particularly needed. Others brought cigarettes or beer to pass over the fence.

A young waitress named Geraldine Rossiter, who had come to the Fort by bike, saw the refugee children’s excitement at her “beecycla.” A human pyramid managed to pass it over the fence. Geri went home, changed into old clothes, and snuck under the fence through a hole that had been used by Oswego kids to get to a swimming area. She made fast friends with the beautiful young Yugoslavian Edith Semjen, who had entertained troops on the Henry Gibbons with a rendition of “You are my Sunshine” accompanied by an accordion.

Entertainment and culture would become a regular part of shelter life. Among the refugees was Otto Presser, an Austrian performer Gruber compared to Eddie Cantor and Leo Mircovic, a baritone in the Zagreb National Opera who insisted on dressing to impress at all times. Both on the ship and at the Fort, plays were performed and songs were sung.

It was incomprehensible to many that they were not allowed to leave the camp for the month of the quarantine. The barracks that housed them were simple, in keeping with the President’s directive that they be “protected,” not coddled. A cot, table and little else. Still, because of the barrier between members of the town and their new neighbors, rumors began to circle suggesting that inside the walls these Europeans were being treated to amenities such as washing machines and private bathtubs, which Oswego residents didn’t necessarily have themselves.

Joseph Smart decided that to dispel the rumors, there would be an open house that September. That way the townspeople could see for themselves that these were not lavish accommodations. Relatives of the group were just happy to see them. More than a third of the refugees had family members in America already, many of whom were serving in the military. Chaim Fuchs, a former prisoner in Dachau, hugged his son Gustave Fox so tightly that his glasses snapped.

The editor of the Oswego Palladium-Times and the president of the Chamber of Commerce Edwin Waterbur still received some angry letters, but the open house was largely a success. He would later estimate that most people, about 90 percent, were positive about the Safe Haven.

One other positive outcome of the open house was that the high school principal, Ralph Faust, visited the camp and lobbied to enable the young people to enter school, which 193 of them soon did. When Eleanor Roosevelt came and heard that the few college-age students were not enrolled at Oswego, she intervened and they were able to do so.

Still, there were many criticisms about the camp. There was a chapel on the Fort grounds, but that wouldn’t help most of the people there. At first food was plentiful, but it became less so as health was regained. Even then, “white bread?” people wondered. That Oswego winter was worse than usual.

The government planned to allocate jobs to refugees in a way that would make the camp self-sufficient. Yet the guests often had a hard time working in the conditions provided, especially when wages were the same if a doctor or a laborer performed the tasks. Pay was the same for administrative work and shoveling coal to keep warm in the drafty barracks. As Albert Hirt, a Polish judge commented, “I am a judge, so I shovel coal in America.”

An Oswego Advisory Committee led by a lawyer, Catholic priest and Principal Faust helped connect businesses in town with the refugees. Working within the guidelines of government, companies were allowed to sell their goods inside the camp at a makeshift canteen. Because of the labor shortage during the war, workers were desperately requested by local employers, but were only allowed to work at an orchard after farmers complained that their crops were failing. Imagine the shock of the refugees when they saw that German prisoners were working nearby for the same wages! The status of POWs was more secure than the residents of Fort Ontario.

Once the quarantine was lifted, Fort residents were allowed out with six-hour passes. Families opened their doors to entertain their guests, and the refugees became familiar with the town. The 11:30 curfew was stretched to midnight so they could finish the last movie at 11:45 and walk back to the shelter. Those who desired more snuck out of the Fort, like the teenaged Adam Munz, who hitch hiked to New York City many times before he was caught. A shop teacher at the high school brought some students to Syracuse to marvel at American industry.

Even though they were protected, it was not certain that their safety would last. After all, they had signed documents — which were confusing in translation — stating that they would return to Europe when the war was over.

Eventually, their fates were put before a congressional subcommittee hearing. Children who had become boy scouts told the old men that they loved America and wanted to stay. Fourteen Oswego residents testified in favor of the refugees. But in the end, it was another executive order, this time by President Truman, which allowed them to remain in the country as part of the immigration quota.

Some refugees decided to go back to Europe, but most decided to stay. Many became well-known and successful, while others led comfortable lives. Despite many troubling hurdles, their story is a testament to what can happen when biases are set aside and a chance is taken on those who need help. Who am I speaking of? I mean both the refugees and Americans themselves.

Recently the Safe Haven Museum of Oswego has begun a project to collect the memories of townspeople and their family who have personal memories and stories they would like to share. Please contact the museum for information at www.safehavenmuseum.com.

Festive Development: The Struggle of the LGBT Community has Deep Roots in Syracuse

July 02, 2015 by Christopher Sinatra

What a thrilling week for Americans. The struggle for gay rights — not limited to the right to marry — in this country has been long awaited, and public opinion changed almost instantly over the course of just a few years. One question that is often asked, usually in hindsight, is whether politicians or activists deserve the lion’s share of credit for changes. It’s the old hope vs. change question.

Seeing that America is a republic, the voting process is undoubtedly an essential part of the equation. Perhaps taken more for granted are those who bravely stand against public opinion in a way which is moving, inspiring and too often thankless. In June, 1974, such an event occurred in Syracuse when the first “Gay Pride Field Day” was held in Thornden Park.

The event was organized by the Gay Freedom League, the first group of many who put their time and reputations on the line to make their city a great place to live. Sponsored by Syracuse University’s Hendricks Chapel, the GFL provided information and support with a library and phone line, known as Gayphone.

That day, people — gay and straight — gathered in the park, much as they do now, to eat, drink and be merry. It was a strange combination of openness and wariness. A sound system blared dance music, no doubt drawing attention to the crowd, but only three people used their full names (Bob and Harry Freeman-Jones and Bonnie Strunk), and some teachers wore paper bags over their heads to avoid being fired from work.

According to Earl C., who became a leading gay rights activist in Syracuse, the celebration was going on just fine until some teenagers began to throw rocks at the crowd. Incredibly, Channel 3 news arrived to cover the event and began to film the “stoning.”

Earl became irate with the way things were coming together — this was not the way the day had gone. He confronted the black reporter, Johnny Bowles. Surprisingly, Bowles agreed and offered to interview Earl on camera.

“It was a hard choice, but truly, I had no choice. Earl C. became Earl Colvin and came out on the Channel 3 6 o’clock news.”

Colvin was fired from AGWAY the next day, but he still viewed it as the right decision. At the time, employment discrimination was banned only in certain cities in New York. His characteristic sense of humor intact, he would later joke that when he one day owned a business he would fire employees because they were straight.

A cover of an issue of the SLURP newsletter.

Later, he and his partner Joe Rinne would print a newsletter called Syracuse Lavender Union Reporting Press, or SLURP. Subscribers to SLURP, which included entertainment and political reporting, were kept confidential.

Twenty-two states (plus D.C.) and as many as 500 localities prohibit employment discrimination based on sexual orientation. However, federal law has yet to catch up. Change comes in fits and starts, but relies on people — not just politicians — to inspire hope as well.

Earl Colvin died this past May before the Supreme Court decision was made. Judging from tributes from his family and friends, his life, full of creativity and courage, will not be taken for granted.

For more information on the fascinating history of the Gay and Lesbian movement in Syracuse, see the Chad Wheaton Papers at the Onondaga Central Library.

The Wolf at the Door: Slavery in Central New York

June 25, 2015 by Christopher Sinatra

Tom began to head home from the party after 2 a.m. that morning. A farmer, who did odd jobs for neighbors and who loved to play the fiddle, he lived in the Hollow with his wife, Sadie and their four young boys. Earlier in the evening, he had entertained women as they quilted and men who worked on finishing a favorite alcoholic drink of the time called applejack. Tom’s path down the hill must have been as familiar to him as his set list, which, according to sources, consisted of just two tunes, the English/American “Heye Betty Martin” and the well-known anti-Irish satire, “Brian O’Linn.”

It was just springtime in the early 1810s, and he wore his usual homespun pants with a deerskin belt and a patched white shirt. Since the snow had mostly melted, his feet were probably bare. Only during the cold winter months (say February — to the Onondaga, Ka-na-ho-ta, or “winter leaves fall”) did he wear moccasins.

He was well on his way toward home when he heard the foliage crack behind him. Someone was there, he may have thought. But when he peered into the darkness, the only eyes he saw staring back were those of a large wolf. Deep in the animal’s element, all appeared to be lost for Tom. He had eaten and drank at the party as well, and was in no condition to race.

Then, a second wolf appeared. When the beasts gave chase, he fled but to flee, but, to his surprise, he noticed a shanty ahead which he had helped a shingle weaver build about two years prior. Leaping into the building through a small trapdoor, he scrambled up the peg-pole and cut the cord — closing the door, and the first wolf in, too. Fiddle in tow, he held tightly to the rafter while the wolf paced below and waited.

According to a source, he played a tune to his captive audience. Soon it was morning, and the search party that Sadie had organized heard his cries. When they learned what was inside, a few of the men stuck their rifles between the logs and fired.

A few weeks later, Tom answered his door and found three of the men outside his cabin. handing him a deerskin bag, one said

“Here’s somepin’ to keep you warm next winter when you start rememberin’ that cold night up in the shanty,” he said.

Tom opened the bag and pulled out the fine wolfskin wrapped inside.

“I do, thank you,” he replied. “I know you all want me t’have this, but I can’t take it. That wolf was only hungry. ‘T’would be unchristian t’ glory over him losin’ a meal.”

Image of a local newspaper.
Photo provided by Fultonhostory.com

He accepted the $50 bounty on the wolfskin offered by the men, but only if they invited him to play at upcoming social gatherings free of charge. It appears from this story that Tom was a well-respected man in Onondaga, and it isn’t strange to see why, except that Tom was black.

This story was included in the book, The Hill and the Hollow, by local historian Marian K. Schmitz, and is well worth the read. It got me wondering what life was like for African-Americans around the time that Syracuse was beginning to form. What did Tom’s color have to do with the way things panned out, if anything? How much of a threat did wolves pose to settlers in early Onondaga County? Why was it Tim who provided the entertainment that night? The trek from Onondaga Hill to Onondaga Hollow (now, the Valley), seems like a stretch to us now, but what was their relationship before Syracuse eclipsed them as “civilized” parts? The answers I found surprised me.

Smoke from the Revolutionary war had barely cleared when the former soldier and future trader Ephraim Webster left his family’s farm in New Hampshire to go west in 1784. He lived with the Oneidas for two years, dealing in furs and supplies while at the same time learning Native language and customs. The Onondagas introduced him to the valuable salt springs, and he was invited to set up a trading post by the chiefs.

With their permission, he soon settled in an area which would become known as the Hollow. Other folks, hearing about the opportunity, came too. By 1798, when the town was incorporated, approximately 80 people had come to the area, mostly from New England, leaving behind high taxes and land as scarce land.

Some made their homes in the Hollow, but many others preferred the high ground of the Hill. After a few wealthy “founders” bought land from a state sale and sold small lots, a town began to form.

Competition to host the county seat pit the Hill against the Hollow. Those partial to the latter argued that its location was easily accessible to travelers and that it was home to many of the most prestigious and wealthy townspeople, including Webster. Still, the Hill country had ample land to improve. The swampy land to the east which later became the site of Syracuse seethed with rattlesnakes and bears and was out of the question. (Bear and Wolf streets were practical names it turns out). By 1810, the Hill had seven pubs and eight stores, and it retained its place as county seat until 1827 when the coming of the Erie Canal inspired its move to Syracuse.

Photo by Christopher Sinatra | Syracuse New Times

Any town worth its salt needs to have a newspaper. The Lynx was founded in 1811 and preceded even the Onondaga Register, which is often cited as the first local rag. Thurlow Weed, the well-known editor and Whig political booster (he backed Seward over Lincoln!) got his start here. The paper’s founder, Thomas Crittenden Fay, wrote in the paper’s prospectus,

“I shall endeavor to promote the nation’s interest, with the industry of the BEAVER while I watch its enemies with the eyes of a LYNX.”

But it was wolves that caused the real alarm. Since the community was carved out of the wilderness, the majority of government business involved dealing with plants and animals, according to minutes of town meetings in 1810. Everyone was responsible for removing Canada thistle and Tory weeds from their properties and roads, and people who let their animals roam during the winter months were charged a $5 fine, the same as for failing to eradicate the monarchical plants.

Wolves had been used for feasting mainly on wild deer herds until settlers began to erect fences around their livestock, which, of course, was to the wolves’ advantage. In colonial New England, wolf heads had basically been a form of currency due to the bounty prices. This became problematic when hunters sometimes handed in the same head twice for payment — one solution to this was to cut off the ears of captured animals and bury them separately.

As Tom’s story shows, people felt threatened as well. Despite the gruesome due diligence involved in the bounties, the bodies of wolves were not necessarily wasted. In unheated colonial town meeting houses, wolfskin bags were attached to seats that could be used as leg-warmers. Thus, the bounty that would later be offered in Tom’s story was not unique; its amount would fluctuate as the wolf population did.

In addition to the growing marketplace in town, agriculture required the bulk of the labor, and even to abolitionist Central New York, some settlers brought slaves. Of the northern states, New York had the largest number of slaves, but also of free blacks. After Independence, the national map of bondage we are familiar with came into being on the territory. Northern states began to outlaw slavery. In 1785 the New York legislature divided over how many rights blacks would be granted as citizens. Intermarriage, the right to act as a witness in court and the right to hold office were agreed upon, but the two houses deadlocked on whether black citizens could vote. It was only 15 years later, in 1799, that slaves were gradually emancipated: boys born after July 4 would be freed no later than their 28th birthday and girls their 25th. One of the first generations of black Americans in New York would spend their “formative” (and most lucrative) years in slavery.

As Edgar J. McManus reminds us in his book, Black Bondage in the North, “some runaways fled to the forest where they sought refuge among the Indians.” The Iroquois were crucial agents in the safe harbor and passage of runaways, especially in the colonial era. McManus points out that “recovery clauses” included in tribal treaties. Rewards for the return of slaves were offered, but, “even Indians as closely allied with the English as the Iroquois refused to return blacks who took refuge among them.”

The Jerry Rescue story, in which an escaped slave was broken out of jail by Syracuse abolitionists, is now well known. However, well before the tumultuous 1850s,“Central New York was a magnet for African-Americans, whether in Rochester, Buffalo or Syracuse,” Doug Egerton, a history professor at Le Moyne College told me. “Many of those new to the area were from Massachusetts, and their strong religious faith led them to oppose slavery.”

A few notables such as Samuel Day, the first Onondaga County judge, emancipated their slaves upon arrival here. Another story has it that John Ellis, who owned 6,000 acres on the Hill, requested in his will to be buried with the slaves he had bought from Virginia. However, his wife freed them after he died, so Ellis’ wishes were probably left unfulfilled. In addition to the manumission of slaves, some undoubtedly escaped to Canada. A young woman named Harriet, described as, “so fair that she would generally be taken for white,” stayed with her owner, a Mississippian named Mr. Davenport at the Syracuse House in 1839. A black waiter named Tom Leonard arranged for her to be smuggled out of Syracuse to Marcellus, Skaneateles and on to Peterboro where the abolitionist Gerrit Smith arranged for her journey to Canada.

Apparently Tom (no relation to the waiter) had come from “down south way” in 1808, but when asked about his past, he replied simply that he had “jumped over the broomstick,” a wedding custom thought to be practiced by slaves. had he meant he jumped over the whip? It seemed that the townspeople had their views.

“No one who knew Tom ever questioned his origin — no one that is, who valued his own standing in the community or the good opinion of his friends and neighbors,” Schmitz writes.

Whether they were escaped slaves, free blacks or, somewhere in between, like Tom, Central New York granted more freedoms to black Americans than many other localities did.

However, I began this story wondering how much freedom one could have in the wilderness without proper protection from our version of lions, tigers and bears. In colonial New York, free blacks were forbidden to carry firearms. If Tom had been carrying a rifle along with his fiddle, we might have been spared a Fenimore Cooper story, but Tom could have gone home to his wife, kids and neighbors without risking such a run-in out in the woods that night.

Douglas Egerton, whose 2009 book, Death or Liberty: African Americans and Revolutionary America explores these contradictions by focusing on how black Americans saw slavery in the Revolutionary era. He pointed out that local or state law did not prohibit free men from carrying guns, be they white or black.

“If you were a bad guy, then it was possible that the sheriff would disarm you, but it was not color that decided the question.”

This was unexpected, but good to hear. It makes sense: the less black Americans in a population there were, the less necessary it became to legislate them into a coffle. In a way, Tom’s meeting with the wolf was much simpler than I had imagined before the research.

Yet much remains unknown about the context of the incident. Canada thistle and Tory weeds? We thought liberty cabbage and freedom fries were bad…

More seriously, why did Tom only play two songs on the fiddle — “Heye Betty Martin” had English roots but was played and sung by black musicians as well. “Brian O’Linn” was about a lovable but savage Irishman. Isn’t it likely he knew other songs, just “not safe for work?” Maybe it depends on who, if anyone, taught him to play.

He was also a young man around 1810, so it’s fitting that he played the fiddle. Very common in early America, it was often handed down from father to son at a fairly young age. It was also considered “slightly servile” and a large percentage of the musicians who played at socials and dances were black. For such a contentious instrument, outsourcing immorality may have been a compromise that was easy and pleasurable to make for all involved.

Where did Tom and his wife come from and where did they go? They seem to have made a comfortable home in Onondaga County. Still, as westward expansion continued, the debate over slavery intensified. In the book and film Twelve Years a Slave, Solomon Northrup, also a farmer and violinist, recounts how he was kidnapped from eastern New York in 1841 and sold to a planter in New Orleans.

Commenting on the Missouri Compromise in 1820, shortly before his death, President Thomas Jefferson wrote,

“But as it is, we have the wolf by the ear, and we can neither hold him, nor safely let him go. Justice is in one scale, and self-preservation in the other.”

For a man who is remembered as such a principled and uncompromising idealist, this comment is deeply disappointing. Tom no doubt desired a secure life as well. As he looked at the wolf’s body on the shanty floor, he remarked, “Poor ole feller. Had his heart set on a tasty meal – namely me.”

Port City Hall: the Port City of Oswego

June 04, 2015 by Christopher Sinatra

Flour, pork, lard, butter, cheese, grain, salt, wood, brick, stone, sand, planks, boards, scantlings, sawn or hewn timber, shingles and fence posts.

These were just a few of the goods which made their way by boat to the north coast in the mid-19th century. If a natural resource (salt) put Syracuse on the map, it was Lake Ontario which drew many to Oswego. The Market House was built in 1836 by the village to facilitate trade and increase tax revenue for village improvements. Money borrowed to pay for construction failed to materialize for some time, but the Market House brought, bought and sold much more. Folks who are familiar with classy joints in Central New York know of the building (which still stands!) as Old City Hall. That much is true, but less well known are the purposes that preceded it. Not particularly lauded for its unique governing style, the business of the Port City was business, and Port City Hall was its headquarters.

Oswego (known to the Iroquois as osh-we-gah, or “the pouring out place”) was a crossroads of commercial, cultural and governmental rivalry from the beginning. After the French built a trading post and fort at Niagara to lay claim to territory and the fur trade, the British Empire did the same at Oswego in 1722. The forts built on either side of the river would host many a battle and in the Seven Years and Revolutionary wars. However, after Independence, British retreat (in 1796!) and a short interruption during 1812, it was time to build up, not tear down. In 1803, the federal government decided that Oswego would host a port. But, it was when Lake Ontario was connected to the Erie Canal by way of the 1828 Oswego Canal that the village’s major growth spurt could commence.

Before the number system so familiar today, streets were named after symbols of the zodiac. Whether this indicated a healthy optimism or a kind of Oswegonian exceptionalism I can’t say, but in 10 years, the population roughly doubled. The market was primed to receive the grain, lumber and finished goods, which the river bank and its businesses provided and the early ‘30s became known as the boom period. Between 1830 and 1836, canal toll revenue rose from under $4,000 to over $50,000.

While business on the lake in 1830 had been worth about a quarter million dollars, by 1848, the number had increased to over $18 million. Smaller canals on either side of the river were used to generate power for the many businesses and homes, which continued to multiply. Only at the end of summer when the water level was low was steam power necessary, City of Oswego historian Mark Slosek said. Until 1836, the Oswego lighthouse was on the east side of the river near the fort, but times had changed and the new beacon was built on the west pier.

That year, the village government authorized construction of the Market House, a four-story structure to be built on the river’s edge. It would be located in the “centre of business” between the Oswego River and West First Street to the east and west and Gemini (Schuyler) and Cancer (Seneca) streets to the north and south. Designed by Jacob Bonesteel, this church of commerce was “an architectural gem,” according to Slosek.

“It was modeled after the Washington Market in Albany, which at the time, set the standard in the state,” he said. “He added a third story, perhaps in an attempt to outdo the capital city.”

The design itself was noteworthy and the detail and symmetry of the late Federal style remains impressive to this day. In Landmarks of Oswego County, Judith Wellman points to the cupola which graced the roof, the rare globe window above the Water Street door and elegant brick arches which livened up the facade. Winning my vote for a comeback would be the walkway, which wrapped all the way around the building, allowing open doors to flood the Market with light and breeze.

The harbor was packed with steamboats and schooners which unloaded not only cargo, but people. Once landed, carriages and a plank road awaited some, but “the less fortunate individuals, immigrants often sick and destitute en route to the West, were frequently a burden to the village,” a newspaper account wrote. The variety continued inside the building. On the first floor, The Market House not only offered fresh meat, vegetables and fish, but was more like a modern mall; or to use the euphemistic title which has come back with a vengeance, a “commons.”

Its longest tenant was the village post office and various office spaces would eventually replace the few remaining meat stalls by around 1848, when the City of Oswego was incorporated. Food sales inside the building came to an end, but cynics of all things government might appreciate that fish remained for sale outside the north end of the building after the Market House was rechristened as “City Hall.”

Instead, government and culture were served from the river’s edge. Various organizations hosted social and cultural events in the spacious blue hall on the third floor, including plays, or “theatricals,” the Oswego Brass Band and public balls. The Mechanics Association and the library could also be found here. The Oswego Guards used the space for drill sporadically, but besides the soirees, some of the most contentious gatherings held were religious.

The Universalist Society and the Bethel Mission held services on Sundays in the 1840s, but when “another religious society” attempted to find a room of their own, the Counselors forbid all faiths from practicing on the premises. Yet, the West Baptist, Bible Tract Societies and even in Oswego, a Temperance Association would meet there in the early 1850’s. Later a journalist writing a history of the Hall would reason, “No doubt, the Council had decided that these activities supplemented the efforts of the Court.”

After all, it was the City Hall. Government offices from the Council Hall and Customs office to the Supreme Court were established, but they didn’t last for very long. In 1856, Mayor Lucius B. Crocker appointed a committee to decide whether government should be moved to a new location. It found in the affirmative, reporting that the present Town Hall on Water Street between that narrow street and the River, is an unpleasant and disagreeable location for a building devoted to the general business of the city… the space of twenty years has now immensely increased its value for commercial and mercantile purposes, while it has greatly reduced its value for city use.

Before leaving the antebellum history of the Port City Hall, it’s worth noting that perhaps the strangest function of the edifice lay underground. In the basement, below the commotion above, vagrants and accused criminals awaited deliverance from the County Jail, also known as the “Black Hole.” The nickname came from an infamous episode in British Imperial history when in 1756, an Indian prince sent thousands of troops to halt the expansion of a British fort and imprisoned anywhere from 140 to more like 60 men (and two women). Approximately 20 people survived the night in the eighteen by 15-foot cell. In other words, the Oswego Jail was probably dark, dank and crowded.

The racial and class connotations couldn’t be clearer, but even more upsetting to some was the peril to feminine virtue which the layout of the jail tempted. Three 9-by-12 foot cells for men and one for women were separated by only “a board or plank partition.” One particularly virulent letter, which referred to the lock up as “a revolting burlesque” is, I believe, worth quoting at length.

"It is enough to mantle the cheek of every citizen with shame, to know that in this enlightened age of progress and improvement, when the condition of the unfortunate, the degraded, the abandoned are everywhere receiving the sympathy of and aid of the benevolent in their effort to better their condition – that here in the enterprising city of Oswego, the old “Black Hole of Calcutta” should be completely eclipsed and thrown into the shade!"

How something so dark could be thrown further into the shade is puzzling, but I would venture to say that this local activist has been vindicated by history and can rest in peace.

It’s here when the modern industrial age barreled through. Soon after the City Hall was moved to its present location, its Water Street home was sold to the Oswego-Syracuse Railroad Company. Oswego’s peak economic years were still to come toward the end of the 19th century, but though the iron horse created many opportunities, the railroad became the preferred conduit for trade, which irreversibly eclipsed the waterways with smoke in the process.

Slosek said when he was a youngster, the building was all but abandoned, save for a bait shop which rented boats and sold fishing gear. It wasn’t until the 1970’s that interest surfaced for restoration, and in 1974 the Market House was given a place on the National Register of Historic Places. Its model, the Washington House in Albany, was demolished in 1864, and was greatly outlived by its successor. While the “Black Hole” is a thing of the past, the former leaders of the state Senate and Assembly might see some shade soon. On a lighter and tastier note, Old City Hall Tavern and the Market Street Cafe still serves the goods, and maintain the tradition as a pouring out place for Oswego. Brunch, lunch, dinner, beer, spirits, trivia, open mic, live music, community, commotion… how’s that for historical continuity?

There But For Fortune: The Story of Ronald Brazee

May 27, 2015 by Christopher Sinatra

On a chilly March day in 1968, a woman walked into the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in downtown Syracuse. The magnificent Gothic Revival structure was quiet and peaceful. She thought she was alone, but soon saw a teenager standing near the altar.

Sixteen year-old Ronald Brazee had thought he too was alone, and quickly exited through the side door, leaving his coat and a metal gasoline can behind.

Outside, he asked a man if he could spare a match.

Brazee’s quick departure probably seemed strange to the woman, but then again a lot of things seemed strange in 1968. Above everything else, the American war in Vietnam had become the focal point of world-wide protest against authority of all kinds. Having formally begun in 1964, the war was, to greatly understate it, proving incredibly divisive around the world.

However, Syracuse’s place in this story had deeper roots than the 1970 Student Strike.

President Lyndon B. Johnson attends the Newhouse 1 dedication, August 5, 1964, where he delivered the Gulf of Tonkin Speech.
(Photo: sumagazine.syr.edu)

On August 5, 1964, President Lyndon Johnson attended the dedication of Newhouse 1 at Syracuse University and delivered the Gulf of Tonkin speech, which two days later would become the justification for expanding the conflict. However, protest was swift. David Miller, a student at Le Moyne College was one of – if not the – first to torch a draft card after Congress made the act a felony in 1965.

Catonsville Nine: Tom Melville puts more fuel on the burning draft cards at the Selective Service office in Catonsville on May 17, 1968.
Photo: Baltimore Sun

In Syracuse, Daniel Berrigan, who taught theology at Le Moyne, and his brother Philip, both priests, were part of the Catonsville Nine, who burned almost four hundred draft cards using homemade napalm.

Youth vs. their fathers, black vs. white, rich vs. poor, women vs. men and the burned vs. the unburned. There was not much to agree upon in 1968.

But one type of protest most likely made everyone uncomfortable. In 1963, Thích Quảng Đức , a South-Vietnamese Buddhist monk set himself on fire at a busy street intersection in Saigon. He self-immolated “to make a donation to the struggle” against the authoritarian Catholic leader, Ngo Dinh Diem.

The fiery image became an icon and was emulated around the world – even in the United States. Alice Hertz, Norman Morrison, Robert Chevalier, and George Winne, among others, were inspired by Quảng Đức. In 1965, a junior at West Chester State College, Patricia Ann Conway, told people she did so, “because I love God.” She insisted that she was not protesting the war, saying, “I did it because of a personal thing.”

No one can say for sure why 16-year old Ronald Brazee ran out of the Syracuse Cathedral that day and set himself on fire, dying a month later.

Ronald Brazee.
Photo provided by Michael Brazee.

Ron, or “Ronnie,” was the second of eight children of Hugh and Elaine Brazee. “We weren’t dirt poor, but we were barely three rungs above it,” says software engineer Michael Brazee, the fourth oldest of the siblings.

The kids, Jim, Ronnie, Greg, Mike, Jeff, Hugh (“Scott”), Michaele and Mark, resided in a small home in the City of Auburn. “We didn’t call them duplexes then, it was a half a house.” he points out.

Although Auburn was “a very Catholic town,” the Brazees was not particularly religious. “When my parents moved to Auburn, the First Baptist Church was the only group that came and welcomed them to the neighborhood, so they joined the church.” Hugh worked as a foreman for Agway and Elaine at General Products auto parts factory before staying home with the little ones while Mike was still young.

Politics did not play a huge role in the house, although it was hard, then as now, to miss the little things.

“There was a small sticker that my father had put on the front door. I think it came in a Reader’s Digest magazine, and under the American flag it said “Love It or Leave It.” He remembers being annoyed both by the sticker’s message and that it was perpetually peeling off at the edges.

The kids didn’t have much to rebel against. For such a large family, they got along fine. “We weren’t subversives, but we were independent.”

So you were like the Brady Bunch? I asked. “No, because we couldn’t sing,” he chuckled.

“Me and Ron were really close, very tight,” Mike says. “We collected all kinds of comic books – Spider-Man, Fantastic Four, X-Men – the first issues. Stan Lee was Ron’s hero.”

The brothers also liked to go to the movies and to listen to the Rolling Stones. But Ron’s favorite band by far was Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. Ron and his cousin went to see the band when they performed at the War Memorial in February of ’68.

The boys were waiting for Elaine to pick them up when they saw someone they knew walk outside.

“Meeting Zappa after the show was probably the highlight of Ron’s life – they talked for a good 15 minutes.” Mike says that Ron penned a review in the Central High School newspaper called Of Mothers and Morality. “He was a smart, smart kid,” Mike repeated over and over. “He was very sharp, sarcastic – no, not sarcastic. He had a dry sense of humor.”

Zappa was known for his inventive style, deeply political lyrics and a strong dislike of hippies. In the song, “Who Needs the Peace Corp,” he parodied them for their perceived rose-tinted hedonism.

“I will wander around barefoot
You know I’ll have a psychedelic gleam in my eye at all times
I will love everyone
I will love the police as they kick the shit out of me on the street.”

Ron was most definitely a heavy consumer of news as well, and won third place at Central High in Time Magazine’s Current Events Contest, which consisted of, “100 questions about national and foreign affairs. Business, sports, entertainment, science, religion, literature and the arts.”

He was young, and so wasn’t as politically active as many of the college students across the country. But neither were most high-schoolers. It’s clear that Ron wasn’t living with his head in the sand. “If I could point to any direction he might have gone in, it would have been as a writer,” his brother said.

The day that Ron died, he skipped school and hitchhiked from Auburn to Syracuse with his cousin. Mike isn’t troubled that they played hooky, “It shows that he was a regular kid,” Mike says. “We used to hitchhike sometimes, it was more normal then.”

At one point the cousins split up and “sometime after 2 p.m.,” Ron walked into a gas station. The clerk refused to fill his plastic container so he returned with a proper metal gas can. He then went to the Cathedral and once inside, poured the gasoline over his body. When Catherine O’Connell entered, he fled. He quickly made his way around the building to the front of the Cathedral and asked Joseph Madden, of Solvay, for a light.

The elderly man told the Syracuse Post-Standard, “I gave him a match and he lit it and went up in flames and ran ahead.”

Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, Syracuse.
Photo: cathedralsyracuse.org

“Other passersby, including Charles Fahey, director of Catholic Charities, and Harry Honan, former deputy county executive, ran after the blazing youth, tore off their coats and used them to cover the flames,” the same article reported.

Fahey and James Carey, who was also present, talked to me about their memories of that day. Carey couldn’t overstate how tumultuous the times were. Fahey agreed, remarking, “It was dramatic and traumatic.” They had both seen someone who was on fire in front of the Cathedral and rushed outside. Fahey took off his coat to extinguish the flames, and says Brazee practically ran into his arms. “I was just about hyperventilating…He never lost consciousness. I almost did.”

Fahey and Carey weren’t the only people who witnessed the act. Joseph Michaels, who was driving by in a Niagara Mohawk truck called the fire department from his new radio. Tony Saya, who was standing near the Cathedral, remembered turning around and seeing someone “burst into flames…He was screaming as he ran along the street and so were the priests who ran after him.”

They all used their coats to try and put out the fire. Fahey, not knowing the boy’s religion, performed conditional last rights. Saya recalled the disturbing scene, “He rose to his feet as the ambulance came. He kind of grinned, but he didn’t say anything.”

“He doesn’t like the war. He didn’t want to go there,” Jimmy, Ronnie’s oldest brother was quoted as saying. Their father, Hugh, stated that he had no comment.

Mike says he doesn’t know exactly what drove Ron to do it. He thinks it was largely to do with his opposition to the Vietnam war, but can’t rule out mental illness either. He doesn’t think it necessarily has to be one or the other.

According to Michael Biggs, a professor of sociology (St Cross College, University of Oxford) who researches self-inflicted suffering as protest, immolation is more complicated than many think.

“Protest by self-immolation has become associated with death by fire, but the etymological root of immolation is ‘sacrifice.’” He argues that as much as it is an old phenomenon, it has made a modern comeback since Quang Duc. The ability of images of the act to be transmitted by the mass media, as well as the diminishing visibility of execution by the state are two reasons for this resurgence. Quang Duc set himself on fire in full knowledge, and hope, that people would see his death.

This Goya-inspired anti-Vietnam image"Amerika is Devouring its Children," by Jay Belloli was one of many created by the Berkley Political Poster Workshop.

In Ron’s case, the assistant superintendent at Auburn gave voice to this when he told the newspaper that images of the war on television might be, “too much to take at the age of 16.”

Since the end of January, 1968, the war had reached a critical point. The Tet Offensive had had plummeted hopes that it would be over soon. In mid-February, the highest death toll of US service members in a week was reached, with 543 dead and 2,547 wounded. And on February 7, an Army Major told New York Times journalist Peter Arnett, “It became necessary to destroy the town to save it.”

In other words, it was no accident that the Catonsville Nine used napalm as fuel.

The draft was also a pressing issue. In the March 20th edition of the Post-Standard below the announcement of Ron’s self-immolation, a headline read, “Draft Call for May put at 44,000” and noted that this was the third continuous month with such high numbers.

As Jimmy Brazee had told the newspaper, conflating the past and present, “He doesn’t like the war. He didn’t want to go there.”

Ron had almost no chance of making it out of the hospital, as he suffered burns over 90% of his body. Not many people could visit him because of the severity of his wounds, but Msgr. Fahey thinks that local peace activist and then-priest Frank Woolever did. Mike told me that to the end, Ronnie kept his sense of humor. “He would say to my mother that when he got home he would grow a beard. Up to that point he could only grow three or four whiskers.”

Ronald Brazee died on April 27, of pneumonia. There was no public vigil after his death – only before, shortly after he was first taken to St. Joe’s. A small crowd of approximately 75 silently paid tribute.

Photo provided by Dik Cool, founder of Syracuse Cultural Workers.

“We will not forget Ronald Brazee – or his horror at the Vietnam war,” one sign read. Mike Brazee, recalls, “It was in the paper for a few days…for a few days…”

He is still troubled the silence which surrounded the event, both at home and in school. “There was no grief counseling for the family or his friends. We’d never even heard of it.” Contrasting this with both the changes in the news cycle and mental health treatment, he points out, “These days, we would have been hounded…. I handled it pretty well – not all of my siblings did,” Mike said.

At home, his mother would talk about it once in a while, but Hugh never would. “He was a strong man. The only time I’d seen him cry was when their grandparents came to the house after the incident.

At school, teachers didn’t seem to know how to approach the subject. Mike admitted, “It’s okay, I didn’t know what to say back.” One exception to this was an 8th grade social studies teacher, who commented on Ron’s death by saying, “well that’s a stupid thing to do.”

In an article about the Class of 1968, the headline read, “black-draped chair dominates graduation at Central High.” But this was about a board of education member, not Ron. Yet the speeches at the ceremony included plenty of politics, which calls into doubt the idea put forward by Auburn administrators that the students didn’t think about the war on an emotional level. Class valedictorian Robert Perry disapproved of opposition to the war, counting “the Vietnam war protest, crime and the Hippie movement and student revolt on campus among the wrong actions performed by the younger generation.” He asked the crowd, “if adults could trust anyone under 30.”

On the other hand, P.W. Fedorchuk, a classmate of Ron’s, wrote a poem which was published in The Citizen-Advertiser entitled “The Peace Orphan,” memorializing both his life and his cause:

A saddened day, a quiet year,
The silence does not die.
The people’s minds are mild,
His yearning soul does cry.

Reflections gathered freely,
in the sea of tranquil thought,
Questions asked so quickly,
Answers to be sought.

A burning sun, a flame of
love,
No action was in vain,
Futile words of sympathy
A sacrifice profane.

Confusion’s crowd, contained
In cold,
The hate, it makes it dim.
Alas, poor peace, thy face is
warm,
To many more like him.

More soldiers and civilians from the United States and Vietnam would die or be injured during the war. Although many young men volunteered, those who were drafted had no choice but to enter the ranks, and they were disproportionately from poor families.

If their birthday wasn’t picked they were “there but for fortune.”

While substitute teaching in a social studies classroom, I was able to see Kevin Cook teach the draft in a way I will never forget. As students told him their birthdays, he would read to them the number that had been assigned. My birthday, April 25, was number 351. I would not have won the lottery. “But,” he said, “if you were born on April 24, you would have been number 2.”

David Miller, a young Catholic pacifist, became the first U.S. war protestor to burn his draft card in direct violation of a recently passed law forbidding such acts.
Photo: epicvietnamwarprotest.weebly.com

Ron’s mother Elaine is 92 years old and still lives independently. She is pleased that his story will be told. So is Ron’s sister Michaele, who Mike thinks probably took his death the hardest out of all of the siblings. I asked him what he thought of the idea, known then and now, as “love it or leave it.” He immediately replied that it never made sense to him. But the thing he disliked the most was when people would say everything happens for a reason.

“There are reasons that things happen, but everything doesn’t happen for a reason.”

He likened the phrase to believing that things have to happen the way they do, as if people can’t make their own choice, or act according to their conscience. “If it were true, there would be no reason for there to be trials or juries,” he said.

Finally, I asked him if his brother’s story should be more familiar to people. “There are a lot of stories, and people have to have priorities,” he said, wistfully. “But wait a minute,” he continued, his voice becoming tense, “What did Kim Kardashian wear last night? When I was working with my dad and held the flashlight in the wrong direction he would say, ‘It ain’t help if you ain’t helping.”

Regarding Ron’s death, he had a similar thought. “The story can’t be told if it can’t be told….If Ron were alive he probably would have been there with the students at Kent State.”

What a tragically ironic thought.

Fine Lines

May 07, 2015 by Christopher Sinatra

Have you heard the news? Syracuse is awesome again! New development projects like the Onondaga Lake cleanup and the Creek Walk and city pride groups like Believe in Syracuse and Forty Below remind us that a house is not a home, and lest we forget – Billy Joel came to the Dome recently.

All of this and much more makes me feel good to be from the ‘Cuse (especially because I don’t follow SU basketball). But as you know, the burgeoning enthusiasm about our city hasn’t always been so loud and proud.

Or was it?

As the good folks from our sister-city Portlandia remind us, history is awesome again, too – so let’s find out.

(Dream of the 1890s – Portlandia from Para One on Vimeo.)

One of the big lessons I’ve learned as a student of early American history is that there is often a fine line between the present and the past. There are ways to relate to the past which seem very modern. Yet other stories seem so utterly unfamiliar to us now that it is easy to forget that people very similar to us inhabited the same region.

It is also easy to forget that one person’s progress is another person’s problem.

In 1906, author William Dean Howells observed, “Yes – what the American public always wants is a tragedy with a happy ending.”

I think that we often believe there was a “golden age” of history because it’s clear to us that happy endings are not guaranteed. Yet it brings comfort to have faith that this was not always the case. To many of us, what the past means has a direct effect on what the future will mean, which can become problematic. And who better to paper over problems than hometown heroes? Too often, though, hometown means “born to run,” like Rod Serling, whose family moved away when he was just a bubelah. Many were merely celebrities like, well…Tom Cruise. If one reads outside the Entertainment Weekly box a bit, though, it’s fascinating to realize that we actually tread the same ground (ahem…concrete) as Onondaga sachem Tadodaho, women’s rights activist Matilda Jocelyn Gage, Vietnam war correspondent Michael Herr and even Spongebob Square Pants, kids.

But there are other stories.

In 1868, 12 year old “Willie” Thornby was working as a bell-hop at the Syracuse House, an early hotel which girded the Erie Canal where the M & T Bank Building now stands. One sleet filled day in early March he was honored to attend to Charles Dickens, who was passing through Syracuse on a book tour. Willie was not only treated to a private reading of his favorite Dickens story, Little Nell, but he says, “I had the honor of carrying his manuscripts across the street from the hotel to the theater for him. He and Dr. Wieting and I went over after the crowd had taken up all the chairs and room in the place, and I sat in the wings and listened to him read. It was great. He could make you laugh one minute and cry the next.”

Indeed – what a Dickensian story in and of itself. Whether Willie had recorded these memories accurately so many years later or not is difficult to tell, but worth remembering even with a grain of salt, especially in the Salt City. Thank you, Willie. You too, Charlie.

Each of these people arguably contributed as mightily to our world as those whose monuments we pass by every day. Also, there were many who are omitted from our collective memory whose struggles and victories were as crucial to the development of our locale as those of the usual suspects. In fact, I have heard these unsung people called, “heroes of their own lives,” an idea which I am sure some of us can relate to.

Another idea Syracusans are familiar with is a major transportation project raising serious hackles among citizens, taxpayers and business owners.

As the Onondaga stretch of the Erie Canal was being built, (its impact to our lives greatly overshadowing I-81’s invasion of the late 1950s), visiting newspaper editor William Leete Stone asked a companion, “Do you call this a village? It would make an owl weep to fly over it.” How’s that for a review?

The social and commercial opportunities brought to the city by the canal in 1820 are well known, but many people were less than thrilled with the implications of the project. As Carol Sherrif argues in her book The Artificial River: The Erie Canal and the Paradox of Progress 1817-1865, many localities were afraid that the canal was being built too far away and that its benefits would pass their town – and them – by. In 1825, neighbors from Manlius sent a petition to the state of New York requesting permission to build a small canal, or a “side cut,” which would provide a life-line to the main canal, all of four miles away.

“…if we succeed in getting our side cut we think we shall still be able to cope with our neighboring villages on the canal.”

Erie Canal at Salina Street, downtown Syracuse, New York, 1904.
Photo: Wikipedia

In the early 1840’s, at the tail end the recession resulting from the Panic of 1837, disagreements about the Canal hit Syracuse hard. Salt manufacturers protested a new toll on fuel by writing, “a burthen from which we have allways heretofore been exempt.” Most shocking were the mule drivers, often poor boys and orphans, whose status left them without shelter during the harsh winter months when the canal was closed. Some of them even broke vagrancy laws in order to spend time “indoors!”

Back in the relatively comfortable twenty-first century, it’s springtime now, and last night I went out into the comfortable air and looked out across the beautiful landscape. I asked myself a very basic question. What is Syracuse? What is it I am being asked to believe in?

Maybe if I venture out again tonight I’ll ask – what happened here before Colonel Stone’s owl began to weep, and after its eyes were dried?

Are they dry now?