Rodney Dangerfield was a comedian who during his lifetime claimed that he “got no respect.” Dangerfield was a happy comedian who coined a maxim or two. One of his maxims was, “I’ve been rich, I’ve been poor, and believe me, rich is better.” In this essay, I will contend that there is merit in being born unwealthy.
There is much to recommend in Dangerfield’s philosophy about being rich. On the other hand, it seems to me that being born poor has its merits also unless it is accompanied by the deadly sin of envy or by the equally deadly sin of self-pity.
My childhood coincided with the Great American Depression. The Depression was so painful that to this day, 75 years later, I find that I am often unable to write about it. But as poor as the Carr family was during the Depression, there was an underclass less fortunate than we were.
Clayton, Missouri is the county seat of St. Louis County. Great wealth used to flow to Clayton from the prosperous farms to its west and by prominent St. Louis businessmen and professionals who maintained residences in that town. During the depths of the Depression in the mid nineteen thirties, St. Louis County operated a home in Clayton for orphan boys. For some families, the economic circumstances became so tight that they were forced to give up their boys and place them in the orphans’ home where they were cared for after a fashion.
The Clayton, Missouri public schools reflected the wealth of the physicians, lawyers, and business people who sent their children to that school system. At the bottom tier in that student social structure came the orphans’ home boys. These children knew of the circumstances that had brought them to be wards of St. Louis County. They had every reason to be angry and to pity themselves. I had many long talks with the boys from the orphans’ home who seemed to say to me that somewhere down the road things will get better. The orphans’ home boys ate their lunches from a paper bag, not being able to afford the prices at the school cafeteria. I joined them in that circumstance and was also required to return the paper bag to my mother at the end of the day. The orphan’s home boys attended no student social events because the price of admission was much beyond their means. Yet in retrospect, thinking today, I did not detect any measurable sign of envy and certainly I did not notice any degree of self-pity.
The boys from the orphans’ home grew up knowing what tough times really were. I suspect that everything they received later in life was greatly appreciated. There was never a sense of self-entitlement. Anne Richards said of George H.W. Bush that he woke up on third base and thought he had hit a triple. His eldest son is called out on strikes and expects to be carried off the field by adoring fans. This situation would never occur to the orphans’ home boys. None of them ever attended college but rather went to work at age 15 or 16 years. Their tussle with poverty during the Depression, in my estimation, made them much stronger people. They expected no entitlements and believed that it was necessary to work for everything that was given to them. And so the orphans’ home boys avoided the great sins of envy and of wringing the hands in self-pity.
And all of that brings me to another case where a woman has avoided the sin of envy and the degrading thought of self-pity. When I returned to New York from Washington in 1969, I was given an office on the 25th floor at 32 Sixth Avenue in New York. In that row of private offices were other men working for the Long Lines Department of AT&T and who also held the title of director. Outside our offices was stationed a secretary for each one of us. There were three married women among the secretaries. They were Audrey Weidenheimer, Lois Reda, and Rosemary Bies Bannon. Rosemary was later succeeded by Dorothy Giovi Campbell. There was also one unmarried woman who was edging into spinsterhood. Her name was Virginia Dunne. And then there was Esther Rezoagli (pronounced Rez-wali).
Esther was a woman in what I suspect were her early fifties. She was what my parents would have called a “widow woman.” I know that “widow woman” is a tautology but my parents considered that term a form of respect. Esther was the daughter of Italian immigrants who was born in Greenwich Village and still lived there. From time to time, I would sit in the chair next to Esther’s desk and talk to her because I knew that she was of Italian parentage and she knew that I had spent a large part of my military career in Italy. As I remember it, her parents spoke little English and her father held laborer’s jobs. Esther and her family qualified as one of those of us who were born unwealthy. My conversations with Esther took place in the early 1970s and for one reason or another I could never bring myself to ask her when her husband had died. She described him as a man who had her complete devotion and it would seem inappropriate to ask for the date of his death. So I let that matter pass.
The point that is significant in this case is that Esther had been married for 25 years or thereabouts and had lost the love of her life. There were no children. Esther’s husband was the focus of her attentions during all those years. In our conversations, Esther said she was never tempted by envy of other peoples’ situations. She said in effect, “ I remember what I had and that is enough to carry me forward.”
Esther expressed no envy of the three married secretaries who were her colleagues and, from what I could gather, she had hoped that the unmarried secretary would some day find a husband so that she could enjoy the pleasures of being married. Esther was born poor and worked her way up the secretarial ranks at AT&T. She worked for everything she got and she was thankful that, at that time, the New York city public schools offered a good education. Being born poor and later losing the love of her life never caused Esther to wallow in self-pity. She said, on the question of envy, that “my marriage was a very happy one and that is good enough for me.”
I have not seen Esther since 1974 and I regret that. Esther was a good, courageous woman who held no envy of others in more fortunate circumstances. And above all, Esther spent no time that I could discern in self pity.
Because we have been apart so long, my language skills in Italian have deteriorated immensely. It would give me great pleasure to speak a few words in Italian with Esther even though I know she would correct me. In any language, men would have a lot to learn from people as courageous as Esther Rezoagli. The daughter of immigrant parents who was born in poor circumstances rose to make a success of herself. She suffered a string of misfortunes along the way including the death of her husband. Esther symbolizes strength and decency. I regret that I have lost touch with her and hope that the marvels of the computer will locate her. In any event, I simply wanted to tell Esther that she resides in an honored place in my alleged mind.
Rosemary Bannon was my secretary for a time. Eight to ten years later, after she assumed positions in other departments, Rosemary was murdered by Lonnie Bannon, her husband, also an AT&T employee. Following Rosemary’s murder, Lonnie committed suicide. It was a sad ending to a young woman who looked forward to many years of happiness. Rosemary deserved much more than what she got with Lonnie Bannon.
Life was not fair to the orphan’s home boys. It treated Rosemary Bannon in a disastrous way. And life has not been kind to Esther Rezoagli, but I suppose it demonstrates the thought that we must all play the hand that we are dealt. Even Rodney Dangerfield, a former poor man who wound up wealthy, would agree to that proposition.
E. E. CARR
March 8, 2007
Essay 240
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Kevin’s commentary: Well that one sure took an unexpected turn at the end. Poor woman. In my work experience, as limited as though it may be, Pop’s thoughts hold true — the people who came from the poorest backgrounds tend to work the hardest.