January 19, 2010--Mr. Cuba
I was going to write something about the Senate race in Massachusetts, about how important it is to the Obama agenda and how in its apparent closeness--this is a state where three-quarters of registered voters are Democrats--it is a bellweather of voter unhappiness, frustration, and deep anger toward anything having to do with governments. And who can blame them. Who can blame us.
But then I came upon an obituary in the New York Times about Mel Cuba who died at 99 and who, from his picture, looked preternaturally familiar to me. (It is linked below.)
I knew a Mr. Cuba from my elementary school days at PS 244 in East Flatbush, Brooklyn. He was my shower teacher. Yes, shower teacher.
As part of its attempt to Americanize the children of immigrants, New York City at the time did various things to teach us good hygiene. We needed to bring and display clean handkerchiefs to school; we needed to hold out our hands every morning in class so our teachers could inspect them for cleanliness, especially to see if our fingernails were clean; we had to provide evidence that we went to the dentist twice a year for checkups and cleanings (I always suspected that dentists organized themselves to lobby for this torturous requirement); and after gym class we were required to take showers, and during that shower class we had a teacher there with us who instructed us on proper soaping, scrubbing, and drying techniques.
In my case, my shower teacher was a Mr. Cuba. So when I spotted an obit for a Mel Cuba, and when his face looked familiar to me, I concluded that this had to be my Mr. Cuba. So I read it carefully.
It was a featured obituary, and this was not because of his hygienic history. Though water was a prominent theme in the obituary. I learned for the first time that his real claim to fame was not his time with us thin-chested public school kids but rather for his heroism as a lifeguard back in August 1933, a number of years before I encountered him.
On that day, 105 orphans from the Judea Home in Brooklyn were brought to Rockaway Beach for a midsummer outing. The ocean was quite rough and quickly 40 of the orphans were swept away. For a time, it looked as if they would all be lost. But one lifeguard in particular was very brave. While his colleagues on the strand struggled to launch boats so they could paddle out to the drowning kids, he plunged right into the rough surf and swan out to the sandbar where they were stranded and in imminent danger of being washed to sea.
When with great effort he managed to get there, he took hold of one boy, than another, and after that two more; and with all four in hand he somehow was able to tread water while a catamaran raced toward him. Just as he himself was about to succumb, the boat arrived and the four boys were hauled on board and brought safely back to shore.
That lifeguard hero was my Mr. Cuba. He was so exhausted by his effort, that he too needed to be rescued. On that day though, one of the worst in New York history, seven children drowned. But the others were saved. Four thanks to Mel Cuba.
Years later, when we encountered him, my classmates and I were unaware of these heroics. If we had known, rather than grousing about the humiliation of having to shower in semi-public, including being required to allow Mr. Cuba to inspect between our toes to make sure they were dry so we could avoid getting Athlete's Foot, we would have spread them and other parts of our bodies to make things easier for him and as a way of acknowledging his bravery. At least I hope we would have.
Rest in peace Mr. Cuba.
But then I came upon an obituary in the New York Times about Mel Cuba who died at 99 and who, from his picture, looked preternaturally familiar to me. (It is linked below.)
I knew a Mr. Cuba from my elementary school days at PS 244 in East Flatbush, Brooklyn. He was my shower teacher. Yes, shower teacher.
As part of its attempt to Americanize the children of immigrants, New York City at the time did various things to teach us good hygiene. We needed to bring and display clean handkerchiefs to school; we needed to hold out our hands every morning in class so our teachers could inspect them for cleanliness, especially to see if our fingernails were clean; we had to provide evidence that we went to the dentist twice a year for checkups and cleanings (I always suspected that dentists organized themselves to lobby for this torturous requirement); and after gym class we were required to take showers, and during that shower class we had a teacher there with us who instructed us on proper soaping, scrubbing, and drying techniques.
In my case, my shower teacher was a Mr. Cuba. So when I spotted an obit for a Mel Cuba, and when his face looked familiar to me, I concluded that this had to be my Mr. Cuba. So I read it carefully.
It was a featured obituary, and this was not because of his hygienic history. Though water was a prominent theme in the obituary. I learned for the first time that his real claim to fame was not his time with us thin-chested public school kids but rather for his heroism as a lifeguard back in August 1933, a number of years before I encountered him.
On that day, 105 orphans from the Judea Home in Brooklyn were brought to Rockaway Beach for a midsummer outing. The ocean was quite rough and quickly 40 of the orphans were swept away. For a time, it looked as if they would all be lost. But one lifeguard in particular was very brave. While his colleagues on the strand struggled to launch boats so they could paddle out to the drowning kids, he plunged right into the rough surf and swan out to the sandbar where they were stranded and in imminent danger of being washed to sea.
When with great effort he managed to get there, he took hold of one boy, than another, and after that two more; and with all four in hand he somehow was able to tread water while a catamaran raced toward him. Just as he himself was about to succumb, the boat arrived and the four boys were hauled on board and brought safely back to shore.
That lifeguard hero was my Mr. Cuba. He was so exhausted by his effort, that he too needed to be rescued. On that day though, one of the worst in New York history, seven children drowned. But the others were saved. Four thanks to Mel Cuba.
Years later, when we encountered him, my classmates and I were unaware of these heroics. If we had known, rather than grousing about the humiliation of having to shower in semi-public, including being required to allow Mr. Cuba to inspect between our toes to make sure they were dry so we could avoid getting Athlete's Foot, we would have spread them and other parts of our bodies to make things easier for him and as a way of acknowledging his bravery. At least I hope we would have.
Rest in peace Mr. Cuba.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
1:32 AM
1 Comments:
Yes indeed my Grandfather was that Melville Cuba. He told stories of those shower classes! He would have loved hearing your memory. Stay well, stay clean.
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