Amerikai Magyar Szó, 1986. július-december (40. évfolyam, 27-49. szám)
1986-11-20 / 44. szám
Thursday, Nov. 20. 1986, AMERIKAI MAGYAR SZÓ 7. JÓCSÁK AND SON BY JOHN F. GOJACK "Now if you will cut out all your bullshit and tell me when you'll bring the money in, we can have a talk," he snapped. That triggered my anger and with blood rushing to my face, I lost control. "You son of a bitch, why did you embarrass me in front of the whole class?' You mispronounced my name after saying it right many times. Don't you like Hungarians?" "Of course not, you dirty, little Hunky." I jumped toward him and hit him on the jaw as hard as I could. He was off balance because the blow knocked him to the floor. I ran out of the school and walked home with my mind churning. He was slightly built but at least thirty pounds heavier than I. I lived in a rough neighborhood and never got into fights. I'd catch hell if Pop found out, so I never mentioned a word. Sleep was hard to come by that night, worrying about what Elizabeth would think after arranging for me to go to that fancy school. I thought I was the first one on the school grounds the next morning, but there was a girl standing at the entrance ahead of me. "John, thpt was a terrible way for the teacher to treat you yesterday. I told my parents about it and they agreed that I could loan you the fifty cents for the book." This surprising news came from the prettiest girl in the class. "Gee, thanks a lot. I really appreciate that. Something happened after class that was pretty serious, so maybe we'll work it out in the principal's office today. I'll let you know, and thanks again." Gazing into her eyes for the first time my heart was pumping and I thought of this warmhearted girl many times after that. At my first class, I was told to go to the principal's office immediately. "John, I want to hear your version of what happened in science class after school yesterday. But first tell me why you cannot bring fifty cents to school to pay for your book. I find that hard to believe," the principal said, looking me over carefully. I told my teacher we were poor, my mother died, and my father got laid off from his job. My other relatives are having a hard time and I couldn't ask them for money. I made good money this summer as a caddy, but it's gone to pay for groceries, the power bill, coal and other things around the house." "I feel sorry for you, John, but being poor is no excuse for attacking your teacher. We simply cannot tolerate such behavior at Colonel White, so I must ask you to pick up anything you have in the school and leave immediately." In five minutes I was walking home, expelled from school. I debated whether to goof around all day or go straight home. Pop would be there. I opted to face the music right away. "I was just expelled from school, Pop, for getting into a fight. Everybody there is from Dayton View, and I just couldn't get along." "That's okay, Johnny. There are other schools, and you'll get along better with some Hunky and colored kids in school with you," he said. "You need a good edu-t cation to get along in this country." I felt sorry that Pop could neither read nor write. At that age I read little more than the local newspaper and wrote less. Our verbal communications were adequate. I admired his ability to talk to people at any level. And he had no peer in cussing, in English or Hungarian. I got into Harrison school next day and liked it from the start. All the students were from working class families, many poorer than we were. My sister Pauline lived two blocks away and offered me a part-time baby-sitting job. I took it knowing I could still do the chores and housekeeping at Pop's. The important thing was to see Pop often. "Don't ever brag or show off, Johnny. You saw where it got me," Pop said. He was referring to the time, when loaded with p'alinka, he showed his drinking partners how to bite a chunk out of a heavy water pitcher. He previously accomplished this feat succesfully. This time he bit a chunk out of the pitcher and lost four front teeth in the process. Kicked out of school, I learned many lessons from Pop. Few boys had the learning experiences Pop provided. With only seven years of schooling, I've been blessed with successes that many university graduates could not attain. I owe it to my father, the great teacher- the illiterate peasant from Transylvania- my Pop. LIVING WITH POP. Winter evenings Pop and I would adjourn to the living room and with no newspapers, radio, or TV, we would exchange news and opinions. "If you had the chance, Pop, would you go back to Transylvania?" I asked. "No, Johnny, Transylvania was a pretty place and we had many good times there, but America is better. When there's no depression, there's work for everyone, and we have a good life here; Besides, you'll have a better chance here in this free country." I knew Pop was in a mellow mood. He usually spoke well of Transylvania people, "except for those rich landowner bastards and the crooked politicians." He had a deep respect for the peasants in Hungary and an equal respect for the workers in America. Pop never heard of Karl Marx, but he had a deep class consciousness that was frequently expressed in anger or sarcasm. He would explode in bursts of classic profanity, English mixed with Hungarian, at news of evil doings by powerful people, in Europe America or anywhere in the world. He retained a warm sense of humor throughout his life. For example, he never bought a bottle of pálinka or wine without this question: "Do you have a bottle fit for a prince, at a worker or peasant price?" "See where you're a big shot now, Johnny", Pop announced one evening at supper. "What do you mean, Pop?" I asked, not understanding his point. "I hear you're smoking now," as he looked me straight in the eye. It was impossible to lie to Pop, and I was too scared to admit it, so I just sat there and dawdled over my plate. "That's okay, Johnny, just finish the dishes and we can talk about it in the living room." There was no point is stalling with Pop, so I cleaned the kitchen and joined him in front of the pot-bellied stove. "Well, Johnny, since you're a big shot and smoking now, how about a real smoke?" He bit off the end of a White Owl. He had been smoking one while I was still in the kitchen. Sticking the chewed end in my mouth, he reached for a match. "I don't want to smoke a cigar, Pop, they're too strong," I almost begged. "Come on, big shot," he said sternly, "if you're gonna smoke, you're gonna smoke like a man." The first puffs were not too bad. After that, they became foul. White Owls were two for a nickel and smelled strong still in the box. I took the cigar out of my mouth and gasped for fresher air. "Smoke that cigar, big shot. If you smoke, you're a man, so smoke like a man," Pop commanded. We were silent for a time, with Pop staring at my progress with the White Owl. I put on a big front, thinking that rapid puffs might get me through the cigar before completely upsetting my stomach. Finally I stopped smoking. "I'm sick, Pop. I've got to throw up." I rushed out the door and did just that. I'm now seventy. Whatever pulls me down, it will not be emphysema or lung cancer. For that I must thank Pop. He stopped me from smoking with his White Owl lesson. From my earliest days with him, Pop was a great teacher. He always let me help him with chores and repair jobs, and often spent as much time teaching me the right way to do a job as on the work itself. One repair job I never had to do again is vivid in my memory. We had a strange housing design, the only one in the neighborhood and probably all of Dayton. We had an outdoor toilet that flushed. Rising off the wooden seat would send a rushing stream carrying everything quickly to the sewer below. It was a double, for both sides of the house. It would have been a status symbol in Transylvania. In all of Sárköz and Újlak as recently as 1976,: all the toilets were outdoors and mostly in tool sheds. The first time I used my cousin's, at my mother's house, a growling and grunting noise forced me outside. The toilet was next to the hog shed. Using our toilet was pleasant in summer months. That's where I read my first sexy joke books and dirty stories. I could hide them in the eave of the convenience-room roof. Winters were horrible. Chamber pots at night where comfortable but not to be used during the day. There was no lingering or reading when the winter winds whistled between the boards. One below-zero morning, we found the toilets frozen solidly into ice. Pop gathered the tools and asked me to bundle up for the plumbing repair job. He took the bowl off and my job was to pour hot water down the pipe. It wasn't working. "Give me the big monkey wrench, Johnny," said Pop, after studying the problem. Numb with cold, I wasn't paying attention and handed him the small wrench. We were both feeling terrible, frustrated by the task and getting colder, all the time. Taking the small wrench, he threw it out of the toilet shed and launched into one of his torrents of profanity, mostly Hungarian blended with broken English. I liked the two Hungarian curses which he used often, and now repeated j many times until he calmed down on this plumbing dilemma. They sounded poetic. Unfortunately, in translation they should never be printed V.
