In the Year of Our Lord 1976

A month before I graduated from grammar school—in May of our bicentennial year—the entire eighth-grade class embarked on a field trip. This was the big enchilada—a reward of sorts for making it that far. And far it was in comparison with past field trips that ranged from a stroll over to the local police precinct to a subway ride downtown to Radio City Music Hall to a bus trip to a decrepit amusement park in Lake Hopatcong, New Jersey. This latest bus excursion, though, was a four-hour one to our nation’s capital, Washington, D.C.

Days before the big adventure, our principal, Sister Estelle, furnished us with the trip’s itinerary. We were poised to cram in a lot of sightseeing in a single day’s daylight minus, of course, the eight hours traveling from and back to the Bronx. Sister Estelle later remarked to a smaller group of us, which included little Mikey C, “Maybe we’ll see someone important like President Ford.” Mikey, who fancied himself a thirteen-year-old wit extraordinaire, replied, “He’s not important!” When his snarky rejoinder fell on deaf ears, he repeated it to a second resounding thud.

What I remember most about that day was assembling at the school in dawn’s early light. Down the street, the hearty staff of Bill’s Friendly Spot gathered up and assembled the new day’s various newspapers. This fortuitous set of circumstances permitted Jimmy M to have a thermos bottle filled with his drink of choice—a chocolate egg cream—for our impending long and exciting day. And, as memory serves, we didn’t see President Ford or anyone all that important, except House Speaker Carl Albert—a little known figure in those days—presiding over a rather empty chamber. We did spend an inordinate amount of time in a Capitol building gift shop with very long lines. For my grandmother and aunt, I purchased a decorative aluminum bowl that featured images of everything from the Smithsonian National Museum to the White House to the Washington Monument. Despite being a non-smoker and it having nothing to do with Washington, D.C., a skull-shaped ashtray so intrigued me that I bought it for myself. The skull sported a pair of metal glasses, which doubled as cigarette holders.

I distinctly recall walking through the impressive Capitol Rotunda in awe—a kid’s kind, especially one interested in American history and American institutions. Fast-forward almost forty-five years and a ragtag band of faux insurrectionists barreled their way through the very same hallowed halls, ostensibly to interfere with and cast aside a free and fair democratic election. Egged on by the loser of the election, it was simultaneously unprecedented and unbelievable—a disturbing visual from disturbing times. The aforementioned President Ford is reputed to have said, “If Lincoln were alive today, he’d be turning over in his grave.” He certainly would!

I consider myself fortunate that I don’t have another forty-five years to witness further erosion of American democracy and the Constitution. The genie’s out of the bottle and absolute nuttiness now travels at the speed of light. Many seemingly intelligent people—and lots of really dumb ones, too—throw in nowadays with the most preposterous conspiracy theories. So, pardon me for briefly returning to 1976, when we weren’t completely obsessed with red and blue allegiances, cult worship of unsavory demagogic politicians, and insidious woke censorship—when most people voted because it was their civic duty and then got on with their lives.

Back to Washington, D.C. back in the day: As our multiple buses pulled into Arlington Cemetery—the last leg of the day’s journey—the skies opened up big time. Courtesy of Mother Nature, we couldn’t even exit the bus to lay eyes on that Eternal Flame. A footnote here: Sister Estelle, a rather large woman, was nicknamed Sister Estell-e-phant by some, which wasn’t very nice. Yes, kids can be cruel—and adults, too. Gerald Ford certainly wouldn’t have called her that, but Donald Trump would have had no such hesitation. That about says it all, I think.

Lastly, approximately a month after our field trip of all field trips, little Mikey C hosted a graduation party in his old walk-up building apartment. Most of the apartments in the neighborhood were in old walk-ups. A couple of friends and I were invited and we turned up in jeans and sneakers, only to discover that the party was “formal.” We didn’t get the memo. Oprah would have said, “Awwwwwkward!” I must say that entering a Ralph Kramden-esque apartment and encountering a group of my peers sitting on the barren floor dressed to the nines was a rather silly spectacle. I don’t remember much else about that party, except that I didn’t have a good time. Perhaps if I was wearing my Sunday best, things might have been different. I do, though, miss those more genteel, intelligent, and quieter times.

 (Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)