Moving from my loft above a bar in downtown Boston to a single family house in Dorchester demanded a change in life-style I was unwilling to make.
Dorchester was one of the oldest residential neighborhoods in the city of Boston. It was made up of seven hills first settled in the mid to late 1600's. By the late ninetieth century immigrants from Ireland were drawn to the workers houses that ran perpendicular to Dorchester Ave, the main link to downtown. It was in one of these houses on one of the many crowded streets in this working class neighborhood where we now lived. On the higher elevations, Savin Hill and Ashmont Hill, you could find formerly posh Victorian houses, with their turrets and wrap-around porches, like elegant ladies that had fallen on hard times.
In 1985 the city was very diverse but not exactly what you would call integrated. Our street was white, conservative, the last remnants of those original Irish immigrants. If you walked one street over, the houses looked similar but all the families were black. A few blocks further, heading towards the city, the Cambodian and Vietnamese restaurants gave a clue as to who the residents here were.
I had been warned about the dangers of living in such a neighborhood. I ignored the warnings. I was single, white, with a teenage daughter. She had a lot of friends. (Two of them were the Wahlberg brothers, Donnie and Markie. They were just starting out then with "New Kids on the Block". My daughter thought they were dumb ass Dorchester punks. Now she laughs and shakes her head when she sees them on movie posters and Donnie with his new TV series "Boomtown").
I had a lot of friends too. They were mostly male. Sometimes the friends stayed over. RG was the most frequent overnight guest. He started leaving more and more of his stuff at the house until I finally had to secede the bottom drawer of my bureau to his underwear. But I was careful not to let anyone get too entrenched so as to make my other friends feel uncomfortable. Besides RG, Bill seemed to be the most willing to accept the situation. Robin was the least frequent visitor to my Dorchester home. He felt the presence of the other men. He felt intimidated. He preferred the illusion that he was the most important to me, so when we had sex, we had it in his studio on "A" street. I still modeled for him occasionally so that was the ruse to bring me down there.
Bill was one of those rare men who felt comfortable in a tuxedo. He and I both loved to dress up and go out on the town. Art openings were always a good excuse. That spring, Bill invited me to an Alex Katz opening at the Rose Museum, part of Brandeis University. Bill had tickets to a private, formal dinner
after the public opening. I rented an opalescent, body fitting dress and a white feather boa. It was the kind of dress I picked as a kid to be a princess on Halloween. I loved it. Bill picked me up in his BMW the night of the opening. We took Polaroids of each other in front of the Dorchester house. I sensed the neighbors peeking from behind their lace curtains.
We took a few pictures at the museum. Alex Katz was a rising star in the art world then. I was thrilled to meet him. Bill and I had a great time. But nothing can compare to the night I won the diamond.
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Comments: 11
Do you ever come to Dorchester to visit?
I no longer live there, am now in Cambridge...
But of course Savin Hill and Ashmont Hill were different, then.
I lived there just when you were leaving. It got better, and than worse again...
When heavy duty drugs entered the picture that really is what brought the neighborhood down...
You should definitely turn this comment into a post of your own.