Category Archives: Fordham University

RIP, Ordinary Guy

12 Thursday Jan 2023

Posted by in Art and Artists, Fordham University, Friendship, music, Words matter

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I woke to a sad message today. “Hi Mike. I want to reach out to you personally before we post on FB that Richard Dunne died last night. His heart gave out. Sumus was a joy in his life, as were you guys.”


This news was not unexpected, but still a bit tough to absorb. Richard and I go back to our very young days in the Bronx. We were passionate about the same thing – music. Richard was a gifted singer, actor, and guitar player with the look and charisma that made him the center of attention wherever he performed. In our early teens, we joined together with a couple of other local kids to form the band “Sumus,” where we all began our life-long habits/hobbies/professions/passions.

The band’s lineup changed a few times as we went through the joys and aggravations of learning how to make music together, and how to grow up in the changing era of the 1970s. We spent countless hours causing the living room chandelier to sway in drummer Richie Wood’s parent’s house on Loring Place. We enjoyed the good-natured bemusement of Mr. Wood’s New England – accented question, “how much more shit ya got in there?” as we struggled to load and unload band equipment, dragging it up the steep, narrow alleyway next to the house.


We spent a ton of time learning the songs of the day. Each member had a bit of a preference for different styles. Drummer Woody had studied under a jazz teacher, and his style of play showed that influence. Richard was a fan of the popular vocal groups of the time – notably Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. His pure tenor and great musicality gave him the flexibility to tackle even the most complex parts, and his stage training let him hide any vocal shortcomings with theatrical flair. As the band grew and changed, new members added new voices, colors, and musical skills to the collaboration. Singer Frank Roman, guitarist Michael Cunningham, guitarist/bassist Mike Monaco, pianist Jim Phillips, Hammond player Jim Tiernan, percussionist Allen, and maybe a few more that came and went. The band was always supported by the free-spirited and passionate Victor Ferrara, who never met a speaker cabinet he wouldn’t carry or a long drive in awful weather he wouldn’t make.


Some of our best times were summers spent in Fort Salem, New York, doing shows and playing gigs at the funky Fort Salem Summer Theater. So many memories, I think! Rich also included the band members in the productions he was involved in while attending Fordham University, another learning experience for us. He stayed close to many of the young actors he mentored and inspired.


Richard continued his theater career, performing across the region and later spreading to different parts of the country. He enjoyed a stint on the soap “Another World,” earning him the snarky but endearing title of “DDOG – Dick Dunne, Ordinary Guy.” Some of us still used that term over the decades, even though most of us only connected at funerals or reunions.


Over time I worked in a duo with Richard, he on guitar and vocals, and me on bass and bad vocals. We had some fun, made some pocket money, and met some new folks. One of the most consequential outcomes of this collaboration led to a life-changing event for me.

Richard was doing a show at a theater in Millbrook, New York. The theater had an after-show cabaret, featuring a great band led by singer Toni Glover. The group was looking to grow and expand, and Richard mentioned I might be a good fit. We played a few sets, and I auditioned for the band. I guess I passed because I was learning a whole new repertoire a short while later. I was also learning the names and personalities of the band members, which had grown with the addition of two female singers. After a rocky start and a lot of road time, I became close to the singer who, as I write this over forty years later, is upstairs, playing the piano. So, thanks, Rich.


I last saw Richard in person a few years back, playing at the LA dive bar The Oyster House with his group “The Drinks.” Over thirty years and three thousand miles from the dive bars of the Bronx, nothing had changed, at least not atmospherically. I walked into the bar dressed in a sport coat and slacks – not the usual attire for this establishment. I got the eye, the one we all probably gave to strangers who came into our local spots, and a very intoxicated and hostile guy asked me if I was “from the studio.” After talking to this odd dude, I decided to wait outside until the band took a break. I must note that I stopped drinking long ago and was out of bar shape. A few minutes later, a group of characters tumbled out the back door and approached me aggressively. Richard was among the mob and did not recognize me until I said, “I see nothing much has changed!” But in truth, a whole lot had changed. Me, older, fatter, balder. Richard older, balder, and minus a leg lost to diabetes.


He spent the last years of his life still singing and playing his heart out. The heart that finally gave out after years of illness and abuse.


Thanks for the music, the memories, and the friendships we share.

When we were young… Me, Richie Wood, Richard Dunne, Mike Monaco

Falling

18 Sunday Jul 2021

Posted by in Dreams and Reality, Fordham University, Friendship, Home, Living Our Values, Social Responsibility, Tolentine, Words matter

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In her dream, she was falling.

Crazy tumbling images spun by. Her logical scientific mind frantically grabbed but failed to hold onto the connective tissue that floated just out of consciousness. Her intuitive, primal spirit found a thread and pulled, gently braking the whirling carousel. The random images, sounds, and emotions connected; not in any logical order or sequence, but started to make sense.

In this dreamy vignette, young girls filled the small gym at Saint Nicholas of Tolentine grammar school. A whirl of motion, navy jumpers over absurd blue bloomers, six to a side, as the rules of the day dictated. Basketball, boys or girls, ruled the neighborhood. From grade one through high school, the thud thud thud of ball against the ground was as much a part of the atmosphere as car horns, cooing pigeons, and soft Irish accents of mothers and grandfathers.

The tone of the rhythmic thump changed from leather on wood to the metallic ping of ball meeting concrete. Gone was the swish of the net, replaced by the clang and rattle of the garbage can used for target practice outside the oval that centered Devoe Park. The oval was the neighborhood coliseum for serious players, usually male. Plenty of local girls could compete against the best boys, and handily beat the average ones. But in her dream, she was not one of those girls.

She was still falling. Her vision melted into a kaleidoscope of maroon and white. Words and letters appeared above and beside her, then turned upside down as she descended. Familiar words. She carried them for four years and earned an F, the prized varsity letter that represented Fordham University, the place where she found her niche among the best cheerleaders. The place where she achieved academic excellence. The place where once again the arrogance of men tried to keep her from playing on their court. Forgive me, Father, but I will not be known as Young Miss, but as Doctor.

The picture changed again. A boisterous crowd filled row after ascending row in the most famous of all arenas: Madison Square Garden, home of countless basketball confrontations, rock concerts, and the occasional mass wedding. A young college man, playing his heart out for his school, grew older with each dribble, his face and figure becoming the comforting man she woke up to that very morning. Alongside him ran two boys, who, like the man they resembled, grew into young teens, then mature young men. They were as clear and familiar as her own heart, the heart that pounded as she presented them to the world.

There was no rat-infested apartment building in this dream, no terrifying first lab class with dissected rodents under her shaking hand, no arrogant Jesuit blocking her access to a life in medicine.

There were only twenty-five thousand cheering fans, falling with her, helping feather the landing, and sharing the fear and joy of a tumultuous ride.

She slowly woke, the places of the past replaced by the contours of her office. Her eyes briefly rested on the wall of framed accomplishments. The sounds of distant cheering remained faintly in her ears, as grateful neighbors saluted the arriving colleagues that fight to keep other people’s dreams alive.

Her hand rose to her white coat, feeling for the Blue and Gold SNT, or the Maroon and White Letters she gained at Fordham. Instead, her fingers found the symbol of her calling. She gave a reverent squeeze to the simple tag that bore her name and the most honorable letters, M.D.

Watch The Rack

15 Thursday Apr 2021

Posted by in Fordham University, Friendship, Mt. Saint Ursula Bronx, Tolentine, Words matter

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Boys and Girls

As a teenager who grew up inside the thrumming pulse of the 1970’s Bronx, I was vaguely aware that local businesses along West Fordham Road offered employment for first-timers, old-timers, and everyone in between. There were shelves to stock, registers to ring, dishes to wash, tables to buss, and bars to tend. Delivery boys navigated streets and stairwells, plastic-wrapped dry-cleaning slung over shoulders as wire hangers dug into fingers and palms. Hustling young men lugged cardboard boxes filled with alcohol and cigarettes to customers who too often lived in an upper floor apartment.

A pageant of high school girls worked behind glass bakery display cases, exchanging numbered slips for white paper bags filled with assorted pastries or kaiser rolls. Square cardboard boxes, expertly tied with red and white twine, sheltered a chocolate layer cake or a pound of cookies. Large vibrating slicers noisily turned fresh-baked rye bread into perfect portions, the short, crusty end pieces given to teething toddlers while older folks enjoyed a more civilized chew. It was hard work, especially on Sundays when Mass let out and parishioners lined up out the door. But boy did it smell great, and even the most downbeat patron couldn’t help but smile at the counter girl as she handed over the treats.

Watch The Rack!

On the corner of Fordham Road and Jerome Avenue stood Loehmann’s, the legendary women’s fashion discounter that drew sharp-eyed shoppers from near and far. It provided me with my first real job and a meaningful introduction to people from different ethnicities and social backgrounds. It was a place where my romantic heart and raging hormones tried to figure out how to get along with each other.

Loehmann’s sold women’s high-quality clothing at reasonable prices. In keeping with the discount business model, the company removed the labels from many garments, but astute buyers identified noted brands by look, texture, and fit.

The sprawling multi-level store filled thousands of square feet with chromed racks of blouses, dresses, slacks, and suits. Cashier stations lined both ends of the upper level. An additional row of registers on the lower floor ran perpendicular to the massive plate glass windows facing Fordham Road.

Tucked into the rear of the second floor, the high-end “Back Room” awaited the sophisticated and perhaps better-off bargain hunter.  

Off to the side, away from the main sales floor, long-faced spouses found a bit of solitude in one of the “husband chairs.”

Staff

The workforce featured scores of part-time employees from across the borough. A good number of them were high school and college students. A team of older women acted as supervisors, assisting shoppers in selecting the right ensemble for an upcoming event, trip, or job interview. The proper and stern Mrs. Schultz ruled over the lower level.

I joined a group of mostly high school boys who worked in the stock room. We endlessly cycled clothing from the fitting rooms to plastic hangars, placing them onto rolling racks that we wheeled out to the showroom floors, accompanied by the call of “watch the rack!”

The best stock boys had the hand/eye coordination of a surgeon, the nimbleness of a shortstop, and the soft skills of a well-seasoned diplomat.

The last thing anyone wanted was a collision between a garment rack and a customer. Still, the caution to “watch the rack!” acted as an alert to shoppers that “more stuff was coming out,” teasing the potential appearance of an elusive Pierre Cardin sweater or a St. Laurent skirt.

Often, I turned back to my cart, dismayed to see the carefully hung and sized clothing ravaged by bargain seekers. When the garment’s actual size didn’t match the shopper’s aspirational vision, it landed, rejected, atop the closest display.

With final selections made – and all sales were final – customers trundled over to one of the register stations and dropped their prizes on the long counter. A cashier grasped the blue tag affixed to each garment, read the price, slid it into the register, rang up the transaction, then inserted the ticket halfway into a metal guillotine and gave the padded handle a quick strike. With a solid “thunk,” the bottom half fell into the metal box while the top remained affixed to the clothing. Experienced cashiers developed a smooth rhythm born of a thousand repetitions. The outstanding ones kept a pleasant dialog going with the customer, with an approving smile that conveyed the sense that a bargain, indeed, had been found.

Faces and Voices

I was familiar with many of my co-workers, while others were new to me. They traveled to work from far-away neighborhoods with names like Soundview, Norwood, Pelham Parkway, and Gun Hill Road. The Catholic Academies – Saint Catherine’s, Mother Butler, Mount Saint Ursula, and Fordham University’s Rose Hill campus – were well represented.

Many of their surnames ended, rather than started, with vowels. First names were also different, not conforming to the Irish Catholic practice of honoring a Saint. Miriam, Sarah, and Ruth came from a whole other part of the Bible. Puccini gave us a girl named Tosca.

Crucifixes, horn-shaped pendants, and finely crafted stars swayed on delicate gold and silver chains. The iconic Bronx accent carried traces of exotic flavors from far away places. It was all quite intoxicating and distracting to a teenage boy.

One particular girl, an Italian twin from an unfamiliar neighborhood, totally captivated me. Over time the girl, the street, and the world of the Italian family became very familiar. Goodbye Ragu, hello Sunday gravy.

Rhythms

Cultural historians agree that Hip-Hop sprang from the streets of The Bronx. I heard a very different rhythm within the walls of mid-1970’s Loehmann’s.

The soundtrack sat atop the click of metal hangers hitting chromed display bars. The pulsing hi-hat sweetness of swooshing fabrics sliding against each other, punctuated by the pop of round numbered plastic rings sitting between the twos and the fours. Loaded trolleys rumbled on rubber wheels, cueing the relentless call and response of “Watch The Rack – What’s On That Rack?” while a disembodied voice paged for a hangar pickup at register five. Status stood, invitingly, at the velvet-roped entrance to The Back Room.

I shared the energy of every boy and girl who came to their part-time jobs, looking to bring home a paycheck that rarely broke sixty dollars.

A Different Lens

When I looked outward, I saw a seascape of shoppers who represented a world I hadn’t experienced in my short life. Women of all ages and backgrounds roamed the store, each looking for the common threads of value and quality. Mothers and daughters from Riverdale wrangled dresses and skirts alongside sisters and aunts from Arthur Avenue. The racks didn’t favor one over another, and everyone was equal in the harsh light of the communal dressing rooms.

Every month or so, Orthodox Jewish women traveled on busses from Brooklyn to The Bronx store. Their clothing, customs, and manners were alien to me. Looking back, I recognize that I and others who grew up in insolated enclaves looked at these women with a mix of mistrust, scorn and bigotry; part nature, part nurture, and an outsized portion of ignorance.

That attitude was part of who I was until I found my way clear of the neighborhood and discovered the rest of the world.

More valuable, though not quite realized amid the rush of a hurried life, were the seeds of awareness that took tender root. I just had to learn what was weed and what was flower.