Narration

Transcript

Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
the way I remember my father, the *******. It's through the memory of my grandfather. My grandfather fought four years in the Civil War. Henry Hill was introduced a life in the mob almost by accident in 1955 when he was 11 years old. He wanted in tow a drab, paint flicked cab stand at 3 91 Pine Street near Pitkin Avenue in the Brownsville, New York, section of Brooklyn. Looking for a part time after school job. One of those Frank Capra type voices from the crowd rang out with stern reasonableness. We demand an explanation. A chant began. Way Want to vote? The yawning over the voting table was torn down. A couple of loudmouths on the steps of the bandstand call for the balance to be burned, which seemed beside the point since the problem Waas. There weren't any balance. Dean, ragged in a moth eaten overcoat he bought especially for the freezing temperatures of the East, walked off alone, and the last time I saw him, he rounded the corner of Seventh Avenue, eyes on the street ahead and bent to it again. That was the sound only imagined, never heard. There is no ringing in my ears forever a captive in this tangled night marriage Woods I am left only with the sound of the harpies screeching cries on this eternal conversation with myself.