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The first four chapters of the book reveal the world of Staten Island in the seventies and beyond as told by David Borkowski, the son of a police officer and troubled teenager. The author nearly died after he has been shot in the commission of a felony; he held up pizza delivery men on multiple occasions. While the narrative of his brush with death, coupled with the epiphany produced by that encounter drives the narrative as he explains his path to becoming an English professor, another less clearly enunciated project emerges. The autobiography also offers us a penetrating look into the culture of Staten Island as the home of police officers and their families. Borkowski is candid in the representation of his repressed family, their low expectations and denial, which he demonstrates against a social landscape of judgement, bigotry and conformity. In the current climate of national civil unrest around police violence, with Staten Island featuring largely in the mess that has ensued, this is therefore a far more political book than one at first imagines. The individual speaks to the general and gives us a glimpse into how the mentality of secrecy and prejudice develops over generations.
The author spends a great deal of time— and rightly so—trying to understand how he came to commit the crimes that he did. He is after all the son of a police officer. As he tells his story, though no clear reason emerges, one begins to see how these children are left to their own devices in some very mean streets. The codes and ethics that serve their parents are transmitted to the children, but sadly distorted to reveal the flaws in the logic of their parents. Secrets are a central theme and are almost invariably poisonous.
The narrative which penetrates childhood and the relationships that form in those years offers us a chance to gain insight and empathize. The author transmits the confusion and anxiety of childhood well. His strength lies in his ability to verbalize the codes of childhood, which are all highly relatable. I especially relished his accounting of the naming process. My first husband grew up in Brooklyn and introduced me to Joey Lowie, Pete the Poop, Ding Dong (Fred) Bell. They had undergone the naming process and twenty years later the names stuck, at least when they were mentioned.
Again, I return to the idea of courage. Here in telling his own difficult story, Borkowski has told a greater political narrative, breaking codes and risking much.
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