His Mother's Plea was Denied after He was KIA

Margaret Mary Coleman O'Donnell and her son, Joseph Thomas O'Donnell in September 1944
 (3 months before the birth of Joe's first child, Sharon Anne O'Donnell who was born on January 1st 1945 while Joe was fighting in the Battle of the Bulge in Europe.  This photo was taken near Grandma and Grandpa O'Donnell's apartment in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn.  

Below is a letter dated October 25, 1951 my Grandma O’Donnell  received  twelve days after Joe was killed in action on Heartbreak Ridge in Korea on October 13, 1951.

Today, almost 70 years later, I remember another day, i.e., the day my sweet Uncle Joe arrived at our front door at 62 Interboro Parkway in Brooklyn to pick up his daughter, Sharon, who was at my house for the afternoon.  When my mother answered the doorbell and I saw it was my Uncle Joe, I went running to the door to implore my Uncle to allow Sharon to stay longer since we were having so much fun playing together.   I didn’t think he’d say yes since it was quite an inconvenience for him to leave and come back again later.  I was pleasantly surprised when his face lit up in an understanding smile and he agreed to my request.   I remember that moment very clearly as well as my feelings of love and gratitude that I felt towards him.   Kids have an innate sense of who a person is and I sensed my Uncle Joe’s goodness. 

 

Tainted Gold

The term, "the Golden Years" is a misnomer. Granted, I'll be 72 in less than a month and I'm still not dead so I guess you could say I'm one of the lucky ones.  You could say this is golden in and of itself since many of my peers are already pushing up daisies. But let's be honest here, there is a hell of a lot about this phase of life that is anything but golden.
Even if you are alive and well and, for the most part enjoying your every day existence, many people you know and love are struggling.  Pain is permeable, or at least it is for me. I seem to be able to look at a person and absorb their heartache. Sensitivity isn't always a good thing.  I was born under the sign of the fish and years ago someone actually nicknamed me "the sponge" because I cried so much. 
Lately conversations gravitate to such topics as the latest CAT scan results, Physical Therapy Appointments, Joint Replacements, Heart Surgeries, and Bowel and Bladder function. I learn about diseases I never even knew existed, and conditions that I really don't care to learn about.   I find myself craving discussions that contain the excitement of a few naughty words, words that use to make a young Catholic girl blush - words such as orgasm, erection, and sex.   I’m envious of the sexy, scantily clad, firm young female bodies walking on the beach as my once relatively shapely body morphs rapidly into old lady’s flesh.  The mirror doesn’t lie and everyone you meet subtly and not so subtly mirror this truth for you, “you’re an old lady, now”.  Deference or disgust can be seen in their faces and these faces radiate back to you what they see and who you are.
Nevertheless, hope springs eternal.  What are my choices here?  I could resume a fetal position and stay rolled up in a ball or I can go on.  I can schedule the next “people” event, prepare the next birthday cake, read the book that is waiting on the shelf, write that family story, and simply spend some time letting the sun wash over and through me.   I can continue to search for this entity that some people call God.  What I should be doing of course, is clearing away the clutter to make way for the new, even if the new isn’t necessarily for me.  It is the right thing to do, the most loving thing to do.
“Live in the Moment” becomes a vital life mantra when moments are slipping away ever so quickly. I talk about something that happened a short time ago only to do the calculations in my head and realize that a short time ago was actually 20-30 years in the past. If these past decades flew like a sonic jet, my mind and body contains the disturbing knowledge of how fast the next 20-30 years will proceed.  I want my remaining moments to stretch out a little longer.  My heart sometimes sings, “Give me Just a Little More Time…”
When they were in their 70’s, I remember my Aunt Anne O’Donnell once saying to my mother, “What do you think, Rita, that you’re going to live forever?”   Anne wanted my mother to look at life’s reality – we age (if we’re lucky) and we eventually die.   But, I have to say, I kind of like my mother’s approach.  A bit of fantasy isn’t a bad idea and my mother’s philosophy brings a smidgen of a smile to my face.   Plan for your next meal, look forward to the next wedding, luxuriate in your next nap, drink your next Perfect Rob Roy and continue to live in a bit of a state of blissful ignorance for as long as your breaths keep coming.  Several hours before my mother died in her bed at home, I spooned some vanilla ice cream to my mother’s lips and she kept opening her mouth and swallowing. She always loved her ice cream!

Good Cop - Bad Cop

He was a mild, unassuming kind of guy, not the type you would think would be successful in this kind of work.  When he was a student at Archbishop Molloy High School, one of the Marist Brothers infuriated my mother by saying, “he’ll never amount to anything” because he seemed so timid and “never spoke up”.   My mother was furious and this teacher was so terribly wrong.   

My brother, Charlie, had wanted to be a cop for as long as I can remember.   As a little boy, he stood at attention and marched up and down the street with a rifle laid over his shoulder.  Maybe he wanted to show that teacher and the rest of the world that he could do it, that he could make something of himself.   Maybe that’s why he applied and was accepted to New York City’s Finest.

He joined the NYPD and easily rose to the rank of Captain.  He would have gone higher but the more advanced positions were all political in nature and that just didn’t appeal to him.   Charlie was a tremendously good cop.  He was honest, hard-working, intelligent and kind.  He was slow to anger, calm and reflective. As a cop, his temperament was an asset rather than a liability.  When you carry a gun, it’s best not to be a hothead.   Charlie was well-loved and brought people together.  He had a great sense of humor and was well-respected and well-loved by all who worked with him.

I’m certain, there was no better cop than Charlie.   

I grew up feeling that cops were marvelous people. Both of my grandfathers were police officers with the NYPD and it seemed that there were always police officers, firemen and correctional officers surrounding me, both in my family, and in my circle of friends.  Even as a nurse, it always seemed there was a special connection between the nurses and “the officers of the law”.

But, and here is the important “but”.   Not every cop is noble.  Never every cop is blameless.  Police Officers are human beings like the rest of us.   They carry prejudices, too, and some are hotheaded and downright nasty.   I venture to say, some people join the police force because they want to laud it over others or be in a position of power.   I personally overheard cops talking after a beer or two.  They laughed and joked along these lines, “we held the Ni_ _ _ _ down on the ground with our foot and taunted him, calling him, Ni_ _ _ _, Ni_ _ _ _, what’s the matter, can’t you get up?   Boy wasn’t that hilarious, “one of them said.    Honestly, it made me sick to my stomach and I had to leave the room.

Another cop I knew, who wasn’t really a bad guy, had way too much to drink one day and shot his gun off through the ceiling of the tavern.    I felt he was really a good cop at heart although his behavior that day was extremely horrifying.   He was thrown off the force.

So, what I am trying to say here is this:  police officers should not be above the law, simply because they are police officers.    We have to respect all human beings and judge them not because of the role they are in or the uniform they wear, but because they conduct themselves in a manner that deserves our respect.    I grew up respecting Catholic Priests because they were priests.  I learned over the years that not every priest deserves my respect.  Not every cop deserves my respect either.   I cannot respect someone simply because they hold a position that typically deserves admiration.  

Addendum added on 12-13-16 

I have decided to write a follow-up to “Good Cop-Bad Cop” because I received some rather intense feedback that this blog entry was felt to be an attack on the police.  Let me state clearly and for the record that it was not my intention to attack the police force.   I thought I made it perfectly clear that I have always had very positive feelings towards the police and other officers of the law. 

I am sorry if people were offended that I did not mention their names or state them as other examples of “good cops”.   I was simply using Captain Charles A. Fries, Jr. as one instance of a genuinely wonderful police officer.   He was my older brother and my “hero”.   Since I knew and loved him the best, I picked him as my positive example.   And, I will say again for the record, that as far as I am concerned, there was no better cop that Charlie.    

I have also learned over my lifetime that not every cop is a “good cop” or, at least in certain instances, their behavior is less than stellar.  As a matter of fact, at one point in his career my brother, Charlie, was in the very difficult position (Internal Affairs) of having to investigate and determine culpability of other police officers. 

 So, once again let me re-state that what I am trying to say is this:  police officers should not be above the law, simply because they are police officers.    We have to respect all human beings and judge them not because of the role they are in or the uniform they wear, but because they conduct themselves in a manner that deserves our respect.

This follow-up entry is dedicated to all the great cops I know.  You know who you are and I invite you  to add your names in the comment section.  I don’t want to offend anyone by missing someone, so I will leave this up to each and every one of you.

 

Prejudices and Racism- 5 - Miss Connie Thomas, RN

Over the years I have missed having a relationship with Connie Thomas, RN.

We lost touch with each other shortly after my wedding in 1971.  I received a few letters from her when she joined the US Army and then she went missing from my life. 

She never knew my first reaction upon meeting her at the American Red Cross on Amsterdam Avenue in NYC and for that I am grateful.  This is not an admission that I am in any way proud of.  But I feel that it might be a confession that needs to be shared.

At the urging of Susan Smith and Mary Jane Sassone, two classmates from the 1965 graduating class of St. Vincent’s Hospital and Medical Center, I applied for a position on the American Red Cross Blood Mobile.   Back in early 1967, this was a really fun job, (although far from intellectually stimulating) for three 22 year old women.    We got to travel to West Point, police precincts, fire houses, business establishments, jails, etc.  Believe me, there were a lot of single men, flat out on tables, ready to give their blood to playful, young nurses.  It was better than Match.com and E-harmony, for coming up with dates.  But, alas, I am regressing and possibly trying to avoid the main point of my story.

Back at that time in nursing, vena punctures were not part of a nurse’s training – at least not at St. Vincent’s Hospital and we were noted for being top notch and cutting edge.    I remembering being “scared to death” when contemplating that this was one of the main responsibilities of being a nurse on a Blood Bank.   Being the blatantly honest individual that I usually am (some may refer to this quality as having a big, Brooklyn mouth), I told the person interviewing me that I had absolutely no experience taking blood and I was frightened to death by the prospects of doing vena punctures.   I remember being somewhat astonished by my Interviewer, when surprisingly this disclosure seemed to work in my favor.

I recall her telling me that they actually preferred to hire people who had absolutely no experience in vena punctures so they could train them properly in their techniques.    I believe their approach was correct.  As a matter of fact I took my husband, Bob’s, required pre-marital blood sample and he was delighted with my technique. To this very day, I pride myself on doing a brilliant, top-rate vena puncture.  I must also give credit where credit is due - right before sticking the needle into someone’s arm, I have always asked the Holy Spirit to guide my hand and keep me from hurting the person in front of me.

Once again, I am digressing.   So here is the point of my story:   After all the preliminary paperwork is filled out and all the verbal instructions are given, the day comes when the nursing supervisor walks me over to this black woman and introduces her as the person who is going to train me in vena puncture technique.  She is going to be the person working with me until she considers me skilled enough to go off on my own.   She smiles sweetly at me and offers her hand.  Of course, I take her hand and smile back.   After all, I am not prejudiced.

 But- and here is the horrifying realization that is difficult for me to admit - all the while this tape is playing in my mind:  “How can this black nurse teach me anything! Why couldn’t they have assigned me someone who is more competent; someone different (meaning white) I’m thinking, “She can’t possibly know more than me.  At the first mistake she makes, I’ll ask for someone else.”

I don’t think I was ever more wrong about anything in my life as much as I was wrong about dear, Connie Thomas.

She was a marvelous woman, absolutely brilliant, absolutely beautiful inside and out.  We became the very best of friends.  One time when we shared a room together at the Thayer Hotel in West Point, the American Red Cross Truck Crew teasingly said, “You girls can’t share a room together – you’re white and she is black.  This isn’t done.”   It was 1967.  But by this time, having had the privilege and the honor to get to know Connie, I didn’t see that she was black and I was white, rather  we were just good friends     I invited her to a party one weekend and I remember her asking me if there would be any black fellows there.  I hadn’t even thought about it since our “color” no longer had any meaning for me.  She went to that party and one of the smart alack white guys at the party showed an interest and escorted her home only to come on to her rather aggressively.  Connie had the impression he thought she would be an easy mark because she was black and I’m sorry to say, from the description of the events that occurred that night, I think she was right.

Prejudice was alive and well in 1967.  I’m embarrassed to say, it was alive in me.  But I thank God that I met Connie and I lament that I have lost her.  She was a very wonderful friend to me.  If anyone knows her whereabouts or how I could find her again, please share this information with me.  She lived in Queens, NY (I believe in Jamaica) with her family in the late 60’s.  I remember being at her home during a party. I was accepted like one of the family.  Connie Thomas is not an easy name to find through the internet or on Facebook.
Below is the crystal pitcher that Connie sent us for our wedding even though she was in the service and unable to attend.  It has always been one of my prized possessions, specifically because it was a gift form Connie.  It is all I have left of her besides my fondest memories.