On My Own Authority

In 1964, I made a big transition in my life. I went from being an uptown Juvenile Delinquent expelled from High School and running from my angry parents to being a lower-tier folksinger in Greenwich Village. It was a major cultural shift, and it didn’t just happen overnight. In some ways, it might have been easy if it had been a clean break—one day, one status, the net, something else.

But I had people I called friends uptown, and for a month or so, I struggled to maintain a relationship with a girlfriend, her crowd, and my friends. It didn’t take long for the strain to show. My girlfriend’s parents took a rather violent dislike to me as a “shiftless bum.” I went from being that “nice boy” to being called a few things in Yiddish that aren’t nice. My girlfriend had friends who acted and were “legitimate” musicians – they performed classical music. To them, my folksinging for a living was ridiculous. I was a fake, a mediocre imitator of my betters, or a hamfatter, to use an obscure term. Soon, her parents issued a ban on visits, and she broke up with me.
Similar things happened with my male friends. The split widened and became permanent.

Now, in the Village, I had a tricky time learning how to fit in. First of all, there was the language. Yes, it was English, but it was hipster, jazz musician-influenced English. Then there was the work. You started in the early evening and went to two or four in the morning. There were long breaks between sets, so you spent time at your favorite coffee house or restaurant with friends playing, singing, talking, and learning. I met several artists and wound up crashing ( sleeping) on the floor amid the piles of painted canvas’ and sculpted clay. I learned to talk and act like I belonged.

Uptown regularly came downtown for entertainment, which was awkward. Several times, I ran into former associates on the crowded streets. Trying to explain what life was now like was very hard. They still lived with their parents, went to school, and had their needs provided for. I “worked” for a living, was my own authority, and provided for all my needs. Eventually, I avoided contact with them. A social worker I talked to at the Settlement House told me it was an “adjustment crisis to adult life.” It took me a while to figure that one out. When I could not avoid contact with my uptown past, I just started fabricating bald-faced lies. It was easier than telling them truths that they’d never understand.

Eventually, I went on the road as a Pius Itinerant and never saw them again – this was good.