Monday, June 11, 2018

The Thrills of 1924: Dorothy Day Encounters the “Underworld Denizens” of New Orleans


Advance Notice:



The Thrills of 1924:

Dorothy Day Encounters the “Underworld Denizens” of New Orleans

Epiphany Press, Ltd.                                                   Available on March 1st, 2019

ISBN 978-0-692-13458-0                                           $19.99 + s/h

Specific ordering information coming.

“I wished to expand upon the context of Day’s time in New Orleans. Although Day had mentioned New Orleans in her writings on several occasions, the events surrounding her three months in the Crescent City seemed like a mere footnote.”



Going Undercover in New Orleans



Toward the end of her life, Dorothy Day recalled an ugly incident, which had occurred in a New Orleans tavern in 1924. She had been assaulted by a group of taxi-dancers, who must have recognized the young reporter as the girl who had exposed their industry in the pages of The New Orleans Item. Day had received a black eye in the fracas, from a heavy cup that had been thrown at her face by one of the girls.[1] She further recalled that author John Dos Passos had been present during the incident of violence, which was but one of the many inherent dangers faced by the flappers of the Crescent City.



Day had been asked by the editors of The New Orleans Item to go undercover, using an assumed name, and report upon the rampant vice found in the taxi-dancing industry. The newspaper had also tried to protect her, by publishing her articles a month after they had been written. In further describing the assignment to Chicago editor Llewellyn Jones, Day had explained that “These dens of vice cater only to men, and many girls are hired to dance with them. They pay ten cents a dance, and the girl gets four of it.”[2]



In light of the act of violence committed against Day, several pertinent questions arise. Exactly who, if anyone, was present with Day during her week of dancing at the Arcadia, Danceland, and Roseland dance halls? What were the vices, or dangers that Day and other women faced as taxi-dancers? Finally, what impact did Day’s articles have upon the dance hall industry in New Orleans?



The Thrills of 1924 contains forty-four articles (twenty were signed by Day) from The New Orleans Item. “All Around New Orleans” contains an analysis of Day’s unsigned articles, with ten separate indications that prove her authorship. “Visiting Celebrities” includes Day’s articles relating to Italian tragedienne, Eleonora Duse, and interviews with the family of future Louisiana Governor Henry L. Fuqua. Going Undercover in New Orleans includes the fascinating, and oftentimes lurid, accounts of Day’s exposé of vice found in three different dance halls. The section also includes an interview with heavyweight boxing champion, Jack Dempsey, and coverage of his exhibition matches held in the Crescent City. The Thrills of 1924 section contains Day’s reporting upon the rampant rise of gambling undertaken by women.



*          *          *



Robert P. Russo has a Master’s Degree in Systematic Theology. Over the past ten years, he has lectured, written, and conducted extensive research concerning Servant of God Dorothy Day, and the Catholic Worker movement.  His article entitled, “The Saintly Chain of Causality in the Conversion of Dorothy Day,” was published in Dorothy Day and the Church: Past, Present and Future, edited by Lance Richey and Adam DeVille (Valparaiso, IN: Solidarity Hall Press, 2016).



[1] Dorothy Day, “On Pilgrimage,” The Catholic Worker, June 1979: 2, 6. Dos Passos was in New Orleans in mid-February 1924, where he worked on his novel, Manhattan Transfer. See John Dos Passos, The Fourteenth Chronicle: Letters and Diaries of John Dos Passos, edited by Townsend Ludington (Boston, MA: Gambit Incorporated, 1973), 337, 356.
[2] Day, “To Llewellyn Jones (January 2, 1924),” in All the Way to Heaven, 6.

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Dorothy Day and the Hope for the Future Church in America

Dorothy Day and the Hope for the Future Church in America:

Towards the end of the Second Vatican Council, Dorothy Day, co-founder of the Catholic Worker Movement, was asked about the future of the church in America.  Day responded with the hope that Catholic youth would become more involved in causes which would increase their love for humanity, and also their love for God.  Day’s response spoke of the greater need for the participation of the laity in not only terms of the “Liturgy of the People,” but also for the greater transcendence of the human person, in their going forth into the community, and performing works of mercy for the betterment of all society.    
     Fifty years after the closing of the Council, one must wonder whether there is still cause for hope and unity in a postmodern nation filled with atheism, pluralism, and a general turning away from organized religion.  Has the secular so overtaken the spiritual that organized religion will cease to exist in the United States?  I would like to believe that there is still hope for the future involvement of the youth and laity, however an decisive effort must be made to incorporate the teachings and witnesses offered by such American saints—and saintly figures—as Day, Venerable Solanus Casey, and Elizabeth Ann Seton. 
     Over the past five years, I have researched and written extensively about Servant of God Day, an avowed pacifist, and advocate for the poor.  My fascination and deeper appreciation of Day’s witness concerns the power of her conversion experience, and her total gift of self to all of God’s creations, especially those poor and marginalized individuals which society often seeks to exclude from its very midst. 
     Prior to her conversion to Catholicism in December of 1927, Day had admittedly led a most sinful life—she was briefly a Socialist during her time at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign, wrote for both Communist and Socialist magazines and newspapers, was arrested in front of the White House for protesting in favor of the women’s suffragist movement, was arrested a second time under the guise of “prostitution” during the Palmer “Red Raids” of suspected anarchists in the 1920s, attempted suicide on two occasions, had an abortion, engaged in a year-long marriage to Berkeley Tobey—a playboy who would ultimately marry seven or eight different women in his lifetime—and  later bore a child out of wedlock with Forster Batterham.
     However, Day ultimately experienced a deep conversion experience, and once she was touched by God’s ineffable grace, she did not vacillate in her commitment to serve the poor, voluntarily living a life of true Christian poverty for the remainder of her life.  Day’s witness inspires me—a most sinful man—with the hope of one day attaining the kingdom of God.  For if someone with Day’s past could see the light of God and seize upon His grace, then I truly believe that she has left me with a path that I can follow.  Day has also inspired me with hope for the future of an inclusive Church, although there is much left that needs to be accomplished.
     Amidst declining Mass attendance, and all too numerous parish closings and mergers, I wonder about the youth of today, who have left the Catholic Church in America.  As a Catechist, I have witnessed many former students who have “disappeared” after receiving the Sacrament of Confirmation (Eighth Grade).  Perhaps the doctrine of the Church seems too rigorous for them, or the very thought of being religious is not fashionable in our fast-paced culture.  Perhaps the real reason is that the youth of today need to experience life on a deeper level, before making a commitment, and service, to a religion that their parents chose for them at birth.  If that is the case then, as a community, we need to have more patience, and keep the door open for the youth to return and get involved when they are ready.  To this end, it is important that we stress the power of saintly individuals like Day and Casey (saints in our own backyard, so to speak) early on in the education process. 
     My greater hope is that the Christian witnesses provided by Day and others, will teach the youth (and those of the laity who Christ called tepid) to realize that it is okay to fall away from religion for a time.  We are prone to sin, after all.  However, we must also recover the power of the saints who lived in this country.  Their witnesses are, after all, signs that point to a greater reality—that is that no matter how sinful we all may be, God loves us unconditionally, and waits for our return.

Robert P. Russo
Lourdes University

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Dorothy Day and the Holy Other


Dorothy Day and the Holy Other
Robert P. Russo
Reprinted from the Houston Catholic Worker 35/1 (Jan.-Feb. 2014): 1, 5.

     In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus encounters a “rich young man” who seeks discipleship, but who is also unwilling to part with his material wealth.  Jesus advises the young man: “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell your possessions, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven” (Mth. 19:21, NRSV).  This instruction has a deeper meaning for all of humanity, in that to inherit the Kingdom of God, we must give all that we have in order to obtain all that we need. 
     Jesus’ response to the rich man seems rather harsh, yet necessary, in order to experience life in abundance in this world, and in the world to come.  Although the “rich young man” departs from Jesus in sadness, one is left to wonder what his life of discipleship might have been like, had he heeded Jesus’ instructions. 
     Jesus calls us to experience God as the Holy Other.  This entails placing the needs of others before our own, in a radical relationship born out of love for all of God’s creations—a self-kenosis in which one gives all one has, for the benefit of others.  An example of this type of devotion can be found in the post-conversion life of Dorothy Day, a “Servant of God,” who not only dedicated her life to the needs of the impoverished, but who forewent a fortune as an author, lecturer, Hollywood screenwriter, and a member of the literary elite.
     Day’s life, and her journey towards God, fascinates some members of society, while many others simply turn away.  Perhaps this is because of her sinful nature before her conversion to Catholicism, or the fact that once she saw the light of Christ, she lived in a state of true otherness, placing the welfare of the poor over and above her own needs as a radical response to Jesus’ command in Matthew’s “Rich Young Man.” 
     Day lived within a state of true self-giving for nearly the last fifty-years of her life, and it was perhaps her focus upon the welfare of others that caused her to admonish, “Don’t call me a saint.  I don’t want to be dismissed that easily.”  Although this statement exemplifies the saintly virtue of humility, Day’s devotion far exceeded a personal vow of poverty, as she had been arrested on numerous occasions for protesting against war, and the unjust treatment of the United Farm Workers under César Chávez.
     In August of 1973, Day was arrested and imprisoned for the last time in Delano, California.  She was then aged seventy-five, frail and in ill-health.  While sitting in prison, Day wrote a letter to the bishops of California, in which she stated that “We will be calling on all our readers for support—money, the boycott, the picketing—the giving of time, study and money to this important movement which strikes at a basic evil in our American Way of Life, the love of money” (Ellsberg, All the way, 516).
     Day was also shot at by racists, while standing guard at the front gate of the interracial Koinonia farming community in Americus, Georgia.  On one occasion, she had to leap out of the way of a speeding automobile, intent on hitting her as she picketed for the striking farm workers in Delano.  Her response to the turmoil she experienced in life was to always treat the other person as God commanded us.  She knew that poverty was ugly, smelled, and tasted badly.  However, a true “Servant of God,” she bore all of her maladies with kindness and compassion—a response to Jesus’ command to let all material things go, in order to better serve others out of love.
     Day’s letter to the bishops stands as a testament concerning her future beatification.  Her letter shows that after a near-lifetime of serving those less fortunate, she understood the deeper meaning behind Jesus’ advice to the “rich young man.”  As the saying goes, one cannot serve both God and mammon.  Day certainly wrote the teachings of Jesus on her heart, and experienced them as a radical, lived response to God as the Holy Other—wanting only to help others who could not help themselves.

Monday, June 8, 2015

The Tin Man: A Parable on Poverty


The Tin Man: A Parable on Poverty
Robert P. Russo
     When the essence of a man is stripped away the fighter will remain, and the world may scorn him for what he was.  However, we are not made to be marionettes, bouncing to the rhythm of somebody else’s fingers.  Neither are we meant to be martinets, marching in time to the drumbeats of a senseless war, the cause of which has long been forgotten.  We are born out of love, and love we must be.  Nothing else will ever matter.

     Society may never understand that the true “lost souls” of this earth are bent and broken, dirty and disheveled, poor and lonely for a particular reason.  The evils of this world do not exist in the next, lest we all rich and poor alike be torn asunder in an abyss too dark to mention.  True justice exists on a plane of vision that cannot be readily seen.  In the parable of the Tin Man, desire for notoriety leads a woman to a poverty of a spiritual nature.

*                     *                             *                             *
     My mother was quite a character, God rest her soul.  She would be what we would today call the obsessive-compulsive type, especially when it came to her rock garden, Christmas decorations, and housecleaning.  I could swear that she was responsible for the spread of the Japanese art of Feng Shui, in this country.  In fact, not a month went by in my youth, when my mother didn’t totally rearrange the furniture in my room.  Do you know what it is like to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and bang into a desk that wasn’t there the day before?

     Our family had moved from the rough streets of the Wakefield section of the Bronx, in the fall of 1968.  We had purchased a home in the suburbs of Manhattan, in a little rural town called North Pelham, New York.  During the spring of the following year, my mother began to develop a rock garden in the side yard, which was adjacent to the house.  I remember each member of the family digging in the dirt for several weeks, carving out a level surface in the hillside.  My father had gathered many large stones, and he built a lower retaining wall to further support the foundation.

     My mother had large pieces of slate put down in her garden, to serve as stepping stones.  She planted a large variety of colorful flowers, and also placed several homemade, ceramic statues in the rock garden.  There were figures of frogs, mushrooms, squirrels, and dwarves.

     People came from all over town to admire my mother’s rock garden, and she made many new friends that year.  My mother’s head swelled with pride, and she diligently maintained the garden in military fashion for the next five years.  Her dreams would be dashed to pieces, however, with the arrival of the Tin Man.

     Every Easter, television stations in the metropolitan New York area would air the classic film, “The Wizard of Oz.”  On one such holiday, my mother made her admiration known for the Tin Man.  Soon, the discussion around the dinner table turned to the possibility of constructing a metal giant, similar to the classic movie figure.

     “It will be easy,” my uncle chimed.  “We’ll use some of the spare parts that I have lying around in my tool shed.”  My mother’s eyes lit up, and the legend of the Tin Man was soon to be born.

*                     *                             *                             *
     The Tin Man was an awesome spectacle to behold.  He stood about six-feet tall, and had long metal pipes for arms and legs.  His limbs had been welded to his torso, an old metal milk container which had once belonged to a dairy farm in Monticello, New York.  He had a frying pan for a face, on which were welded two large wing nuts for eyes.  The Tin Man also had a hat, an aluminum funnel, which was welded to the top of his head in magnificent splendor.

     Once completed, the Tin Man became the centerpiece of my mother’s rock garden, and that’s when the trouble began.  Our neighbors, who didn’t understand that the statue was meant to be a depiction of my mother’s favorite movie character, began to complain bitterly about the monstrosity in our backyard.

     “How DARE you put something so evil-looking in your backyard,” went the typical complaint from the neighbors.  We also heard such taunts as, “Don’t you know that you are frightening the children?”

     My mother couldn’t understand why the neighbors were so upset.  She just assumed that they were jealous of her artistic endeavors, and so she ignored their caustic advice to take the statue down.

     About a week later, my mother’s world came crashing down.  She had received a registered letter from “Ezra Jones,” the Town Constable, who also happened to be one of our next door neighbors.

     Constable “Jones” advised my mother that she would have to appear at a town hall meeting, to discuss the numerous complaints that had recently been lodged regarding the statue.  My mother thought that her simple explanation behind the Tin Man’s existence would be a sufficient response, and that cooler heads would prevail.

     At the town hall meeting, several public officials grilled my mother.  They asked her why she would permit such trash to accumulate in her backyard.  One man even cried out, “Are you running a junkyard?”

     My mother did her best to defend the Tin Man, but it was to no avail.  Despite her angry protests, it was determined that she had violated a town ordinance, which specified that any construction over five-feet tall required a permit.  My mother was forced to either remove the statue, or face a fine and possible legal action.

     When I returned home from school the next day, the Tin Man was gone.  I asked my mother where the statue went, and she began to cry.  I asked her several times over the next few years, and she would either quickly change the subject or turn her back to me and cry softly.

     My mother lost all interest in the rock garden after the demise of the Tin Man.  It seemed as if her spirit had been crushed.  Within a year of his departure, the flowers had all died, and were replaced by a tangle of weeds.  The lower  retaining wall had collapsed under the weight of heavy rains, creating a mudslide in our once idyllic backyard.  My mother never did seem to care about anything as much ever again.

*                     *                             *                             *
     On a blustery cold Friday in October of 2007, my Wife Patty and I had the glorious occasion to volunteer our services at a soup kitchen in Toledo, Ohio.  We had partnered with the Altar Sodality ministry of our home parish, and we eagerly waited to begin serving others.

     For five hours, six women and I cooked and served hotdogs, baked beans, corn, and dessert to the homeless, and those individuals living in abject poverty.  I was transformed by the experience of serving the less fortunate members of society.  I can only describe the feeling I received as sheer joy, not joy in the fact that people were in such great need, but joy in the sense that I was in a place where I belonged, and performing a corporal work of mercy.

     I was struck by the solemnity of the large crowd, and that many of the homeless people thanked me for my service.  This had a profound effect upon me.  “Why would anyone thank me,” I thought to myself, “for the simple act of putting a hotdog in a roll?”

     It then occurred to me that we are all alike in our human nature.  We have the same need to be touched, loved, served, and thanked.  This desire transcends poverty, applying to rich and poor alike.  I also came to the sudden realization that there was very little separating myself from being on the receiving end of the food line.  I became deeply grateful for the blessings that I had received in this life, wishing to do more than I had done in the folly of my youth.

     A woman in our volunteer group suddenly began making snide comments about certain members of the homeless group, several of whom came up for a second or third helping.  “Look at THOSE people,” she crowed with derision.  “Why don’t they get JOBS?”  This woman would nudge me whenever she spotted someone coming up for more food.  “That’s his third time up here.  We’re only supposed to serve them ONCE!”

     Her rank hypocrisy stung my senses as she made many more negative remarks.  It was all that I could do to keep from saying something to the ignorant woman, but I managed to hold my tongue.  I went home echoing the words of St. Paul, exclaiming to my wife that “corporal works of mercy, performed without love or compassion, is sheer nothingness!”

     Dorothy Day once stated that “the mystery of the poor is this: that they are Jesus, and what you do for them you do for Him.  It is the only way we have of knowing and believing in our love.  The mystery of poverty is that by sharing in it, making ourselves poor in giving to others, we increase our knowledge of and belief in love.”  Day would have appreciated my mother’s care for her rock garden.  She would also have equated my mother’s love for the Tin Man with service to the poor and marginalized.

     However, we must not serve others because it is the fashionable thing to do, or because we have a lot of free time on our hands.  We must also be careful about the messages that we are sending to those less fortunate, for there is truth in the statement that “There but for the grace of God go I.”  One never knows when one will be on the other side of the serving counter.

*                     *                             *                             *
     As I drove home from the soup kitchen, I began to think about the Tin Man, and his sudden “disappearance” from my life.  I sadly recalled the last time that I ever saw him.

     In October of 1997, my Brother Michael passed away at the young age of thirty-six.  My parents, heartbroken over his tragic loss, began making preparations to sell our home.  They also held an estate sale the following spring, to rid themselves of thirty years of clutter.

     On one of my last visits to my boyhood home, I discovered the Tin Man propped up against a wall in our basement.  He had been locked away in a storage closet, which was located beneath a basement stairwell, for twenty years.

     The Tin Man had been dented beyond repair.  He was rusty, and covered with motor oil.  My Brother Peter had used the closet as a place to store his old Opel GT engine parts, never daring to grant the Tin Man safe passage.  If my mother had sold the Tin Man during her estate sale, or simply thrown him away like yesterday’s garbage, I never knew.

*                     *                             *                             *
     In pausing to reflect on the plight of the Tin Man, it dawns upon me that the people who are homeless and impoverished really have a lot in common with him.  Although the poor may sometimes seem dirty, wearing clothing that is tattered and old, there is a precious metal inside of all of them, an utter desire to be loved completely, which is why the Lord calls us to serve others with kindness and compassion.

     Like the Tin Man, society also tries to lock the poor and homeless away in a “closet,” because impoverished people are wrongfully perceived as ugly, or worthless.  However, we must not forget Dorothy Day’s views on the “mystery of poverty,” and why we are all called to love our neighbors as Jesus commanded.

     It has also been said that God does not make junk and, unlike the Tin Man, there are no dents, rust, or dirt upon what He has made.  The Tin Man may be gone forever, but his memory haunts me still.

Monday, May 4, 2015


If “Property is Theft,” What Then of Desire?
By Robert P. Russo

Lord, grant me the grace

to desire only what I need,

and to need only what you will for me.

All else is but “tinsel and dross.”


If “property is theft,” what then of desire?  In November of 1970, Dorothy Day was commissioned by an editor from New World Outlook to write an article concerning the wealth of the Church.  In her piece entitled “Property is Theft,” which was published in the March, 1971 issue, Day echoed the thoughts of philosopher-economist Pierre Joseph Proudhon in railing against Church ownership of property, much of which was then vacant.

There are, of course, a great number of empty church properties which ought to be used for the poor.  Convents and rectories could turn their top floors into apartments for dispossessed families.  Our seminaries without aspirants for the priesthood can more easily be turned into ecumenical centers than apartments.

     Day realized the inherent difficulties involved in the divestiture of Church property, citing “[t]he State is too much with us.”  She also recognized the onus of double-taxation, wherein the State would penalize any donation that was not recorded through “authorized, recognized agencies who have tax exempt standing.”  Day further advocated that the Church should sell its assets, and “just give to the poor all this tinsel and dross.”  Although these notions are certainly congruent with those of our current Pope Francis, one has to seriously wonder, if “property is theft,” what then of desire?

     With divestiture of Church assets an unlikely option, Day pointed to three viable world alternatives, wherein the secular and non-secular worked together to effect positive change.  Day looked to the work being done in Canada by Jean Vanier, who turned a vacant convent into a community for the developmentally disabled, where “they can love and be loved.”  Day also greatly esteemed the witness of Mother Teresa, who had “done much more than start homes for people to die in, off the streets of Calcutta.”  Mother Teresa had also begun schools, clinics, hospices, and a village housing lepers.  Finally, Day wrote of the example of the Catholic Worker’s own Peter Maurin, who helped to establish houses of hospitality, where “people could be fed, clothed and sheltered, where mutual aid could be practiced, in every parish, poor and rich.”

  *              *                      *                      *

     If “property is theft,” what then of desire?  Over the past few years, I have been fortunate enough to receive five-to-six thousand books—mostly regarding Church History, Religion, and Theology—which were donated to me by the university where I completed a Master’s Degree in Systematic Theology, in 2011.  I housed these books on numerous bookshelves in my small, one-bedroom apartment, which measured roughly 750 square feet.  In fact, my living quarters more resembled a library than an apartment, but I didn’t mind.  I have long had an unquenchable desire for knowledge of my faith, and many of the volumes were used as reference material for the research papers that I have recently written.

     In early January of 2014, with four-foot snow drifts outside my apartment, a level three snow emergency in effect wherein only emergency vehicles could travel on the roads, and no maintenance personnel on staff where I live, a pipe broke in the apartment above me.  Water gushed for over two hours, before it was finally shut off by emergency personnel from the local municipal water division.  During the torrential downpour, I made an urgent appeal to the Lord to save my prized possessions: “Lord, I have been a faithful servant.  Please, do not allow my books to be destroyed.  They are all I own of any real value!” 

     My prayers were soon to be answered, and the books are now all safe and secure in dry boxes, too numerous to count.  Most of my bookshelves had to be thrown away due to the impending dreaded scorn known as mold.  It has been almost a year since my “salvation from the flood,” but due to detachment, and a healthy lack of finances, I have yet to replace the shelves.  I mention this incident because it calls to mind that when we value property to excess, we are really impeding our ability to give in fullness to others.  I know that I must give up my collection, one day, in the near future.  Although my vast desire for knowledge is not wrong in-and-of-itself, my act of hoarding books can be likened to the sin arising from pride of ownership.

     Dorothy Day would have identified with my recent plight.  She concluded her New World Outlook article with an appeal for self-kenosis on behalf of both the secular and religious, realizing that:

My own room is full of books and pictures and I have for my enjoyment and distraction radio and television.  My closet is full of clothes.  I must begin again to strip myself, not only to help the poor, but to put on Christ.

     If “property is theft,” what then of desire?  Perhaps I need to rethink my position on the ownership of too many books.  However, my desire for knowledge is so great, that it replaces a vast emptiness in my life, which sometimes seems like so many discarded and lonely bookshelves.

_____________________________________

“Property is Theft,” by Dorothy Day was originally published in New World Outlook, March 1971, p. 7.  Used by permission, General Board of Global Ministries, The United Methodist Church.