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In this powerful and culminating work about a group of inner-city children he has known for many years, Jonathan Kozol returns to the scene of his previous prize-winning books, and to the children he has vividly portrayed, to share with us their fascinating journeys and unexpected victories as they grow into adulthood.
���For nearly fifty years, Jonathan has pricked the conscience of his readers by laying bare the savage inequalities inflicted upon children for no reason but the accident of being born to poverty within a wealthy nation.�But never has his intimate acquaintance with his subjects been more apparent, or more stirring, than in Fire in the Ashes, as Jonathan tells the stories of young men and women who have come of age in one of the most destitute communities of the United States. Some of them never do recover from the battering they undergo in their early years, but many more battle back with fierce and often jubilant determination to overcome the formidable obstacles they face. As we watch these glorious children grow into the fullness of a healthy and contributive maturity, they ignite a flame of hope, not only for themselves but also for our society.
- Sales Rank: #50120 in Books
- Brand: Brand: Broadway Books
- Published on: 2013-09-03
- Released on: 2013-09-03
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.00" h x .83" w x 5.20" l, .65 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 368 pages
Features
- Used Book in Good Condition
Review
A Kirkus Reviews Best Nonfiction Book of 2012
A Booklist 2012 Editor’s Choice Selection
“Kozol’s storytelling gifts shine through: with simple anecdotes that show the soulful humor, compassion, and wisdom that kindles progress among the survivors.” —Christian Science Monitor
“Fire in the Ashes isn’t some saccharine account of how disadvantaged youth get a break and then triumph over adversity.� Instead, Kozol shows us the very real costs of putting children in bad schools….Throughout, Kozol connects with these kids and young adults on a human level, refusing to step on to some political soapbox.” —Boston Globe
“As I read Fire in the Ashes and thought about Kozol's admirably principled commitment to chronicling the lives of the urban poor, I marveled at his staying power.� His tone, too, has been consistent for almost 50 years – cool, smart, empathetic and, despite all the evidence to rebut his convictions, full of hope….Kozol's brilliant body of work shines a light not merely on the lives of the poor, but also into the dark night of the American soul.” —Portland Oregonian
“Check out this magnificent book, because I think you’ll like it.� For anyone [who] cares about his fellow human, Fire in the Ashes burns bright.” —Savannah Morning News
“Engrossing chronicle of lives blighted and redeemed....Eschewing social science jargon and deploying extraordinary powers of observation and empathy, Kozol crafts dense, novelistic character studies that reveal the interplay between individual personality and the chaos of impoverished circumstances.� Like a latter-day Dickens (but without the melodrama), he gives us another powerful indictment of America's treatment of the poor.” —Publisher's Weekly (starred)
“In this engaging, illuminating, often moving book, [Kozol] recounts the lives of poor black and Latino children—many now close friends—who once lived in Manhattan’s Martinique Hotel….Cleareyed, compassionate and hopeful.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred)
“An engaging look at the broader social implications of ignoring poverty as well as a very personal look at individuals struggling to overcome it.”�—Booklist (starred)
“Jonathan Kozol is America’s premier chronicler of life among the children of societal neglect. And Fire in the Ashes may be his best book yet . . . . Kozol does not just write about these people; he becomes an intimate part of their lives, sharing their triumphs, defeats, and, too often, mourning their deaths . . . . If you care about the children who are the future of America, this is a book you must read.” —Ellis Cose, author of The End of Anger and The Rage of a Privileged Class
�
“Despite the steep odds stacked against these children—which too many cannot overcome—this is a hopeful book thanks to those who do. The incredible resilience, grit and grace of children like Pineapple are a call to urgent action.” —Marian Wright Edelman, President, Children’s Defense Fund
�
“Kozol has a knack for describing his relationships with poverty-stricken children with a sympathy that is so straightforward one cannot indulge in pity.� Fire in the Ashes is a wonderful book. I couldn’t put it down.” —Deborah Meier, author of In Schools We Trust and The Power of Their Ideas
�
“Fire in the Ashes�is a terrific book—powerful, insightful, and heartbreaking.”
—David Berliner, author of The Manufactured Crisis
About the Author
JONATHAN KOZOL is the award-winning author of Savage Inequalities, Death at an Early Age, The Shame of the Nation, and Amazing Grace.� He has been working with children in inner-city schools for nearly fifty years.
Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
The Journey Begins
Christmas Eve of 1985 was not a good time for poor women and their children to depend on public kindness or prophetic reenactments of the Christian gospel at the hands of civic and commercial leaders in New York. It was a time when opulence among the city’s newly minted rich and super-rich was flaunted with an unaccustomed boldness in the face of New York City’s poor and homeless people, thousands of whom were packed into decrepit, drug-infested shelters, most of which were old hotels situated in the middle of Manhattan, some of which in decades past had been places of great elegance.
One of the largest shelters was the Martinique Hotel, across the street from Macy’s and one block from Fifth Avenue. In this building, 1,400 children and about 400 of their parents struggled to prevail within a miserable warren of bleak and squalid rooms that offered some, at least, protection from the cold of winter, although many rooms in which I visited with families in the last week of December were so poorly heated that the children huddled beneath blankets in the middle of the day and some wore mittens when they slept.
I remember placing calls on freezing nights from phone booths on Sixth Avenue or Broadway trying to reach Steven Banks, a Legal Aid attorney who performed innumerable rescue actions for the families in the Martinique that year. The wind that cut across the open space of Herald Square at night was fierce, the sidewalks felt like slabs of ice, and kids and parents from the Martinique who had to venture out for milk or bread or medicines would bundle up as best they could in layers of old clothes and coats, if they did have coats, or sweatshirts with the hoods drawn tight around their chins.
Dozens of kids I knew within the building suffered from chronic colds. Many were also racked by asthma and bronchitis. Infants suffered from diarrhea. Sleepless parents suffered from depression. Mothers wept in front of me.
I had never seen destitution like this in America before. Twenty years earlier, I had taught young children in the black community of Boston and had organized slum tenants there and lived within their neighborhood and had been in many homes where rats cohabited with children in their bedrooms. But sickness, squalor, and immiseration on the scale I was observing now were virtually unknown to me.
Almost every child that I came to know that winter in the Martinique was hungry. On repeated evenings when I went to interview a family I gave up asking questions when a boy or girl would eye the denim shoulder bag I used to carry, in which I often had an apple or some cookies or a box of raisins, and would give them what I had. Sometimes I would ask if I could look into the small refrigerators that the hotel had reluctantly provided to the families. Now and then I’d find a loaf of bread or several slices of bologna or a slice or two of pizza that had gone uneaten from the day before. Often there was nothing but a shriveled piece of fruit, a couple of jars of apple sauce, a tin of peanut butter, sometimes not even that.
I continued visiting the Martinique throughout the next two years. During that time, a play about impoverished children of the nineteenth century in Paris, called Les Miserables, opened to acclaim in the theater district of New York. Some of the more enterprising children in the Martinique would walk the twelve or fifteen blocks between the hotel and the theater district in late afternoons or evenings to panhandle in the streets around the theater or in front of restaurants nearby. Homeless women did this too, as well as many of the homeless men, some alcoholics and some mentally unwell, who slept in cardboard boxes on the sidewalks and in doorways of the buildings in the area.
The presence of these homeless people was not welcomed by the theater owners. People were paying a great deal of money to enjoy an entertainment fashioned from the misery of children of another era. The last thing that they wanted was to come out of the theater at the end and be obliged to see real children begging on the sidewalk right in front of them.
The problem was resolved to some degree when police and private guards employed by local businesses developed strategies for cleaning out the homeless--sanitation terms like “cleaning out” were used without embarrassment--from the streets around the theaters. Meanwhile, on the East Side of Manhattan, another group of business leaders went a little further by employing people in the homeless population to drive out other homeless people from Grand Central Station, where they had been taking refuge from the cold for several years by sleeping in the station’s waiting rooms.
The ultimate solution, which required the removal of these homeless families from the midtown sections of Manhattan altogether, took a few more years to carry out successfully. In the interim, despite the efforts of the theater owners, many of the older children from the Martinique would manage to slip past the hired guards or the police and walk up to theater-goers, who would sometimes hand them a few dollars.
The younger children from the Martinique, however, did their begging for the most part close to home within the blocks surrounding the hotel, where they would run into the streets when drivers slowed their cars as the lights were changing and where a driver whose compassion overcame his irritation might roll down his window far enough to give the kids some money. Those who were inclined to castigate the parents of these children for letting them go out into the streets at night might have relented somewhat if they understood how rapidly the competence of many of these parents had come to be eroded by the harshness of conditions in that building.
Scenarios of broken will and loss of good decision-making skills were apparent everywhere. Some of the parents were emotionally ill when they arrived here; but those who weren’t would frequently succumb to the pervasive atmosphere of insecurity and high anxiety that suffused the filthy corridors and crowded living spaces of the Martinique. Many who had not used drugs before this time became drug users in a setting in which heroin and crack cocaine were readily available. (The sixteenth floor of the Martinique Hotel--there were seventeen floors in all, but the top two were unoccupied--was operated, with the knowledge and, apparently, cooperation of some of the guards, as an open market for drug users.) A number of people became HIV-infected under these conditions, although in 1985 the term was not yet widely recognized among some of the residents and many did not understand exactly why it was that they were growing ill.
The conditions under which these people had to live were not unknown to New York City’s social service system or to its political administration. Anybody who was able to get past the guards, as I did repeatedly with the cooperation of two sympathetic social workers who enabled me to get into the upper floors and visit families pretty much at will, could not avoid, unless he closed his eyes, the sight of overflowing garbage piled in the landings and of children who, for lack of other options, played amidst that garbage.
But physical unhealthiness, the prevalence of drug addiction, and the documented presence of widely known carcinogens (open containers of asbestos, for example, and asbestos-coated pipes in the lobby of the building) were not the worst of the destructive forces children and their families had to undergo. The Martinique, as I was forced to recognize when the social workers started talking candidly to me during the months to come, was not merely a despairing place, diseased and dangerous for those who had no choice but to remain there; it also was a place of flagrant and straightforward criminality on the part of management and ownership. A young man with a raw, salacious smile, to whom the social workers made it a special point to introduce me and who, they told me, was a relative of one of the two owners of the building, used the power he was thus afforded to induce young women to provide him with erotic favors in exchange for items that they needed, such as cribs and linens for their children.
“He boasts about it,” one of the two social workers told me. “He describes it to us openly, and gleefully. He goes into considerable detail. . . .” Some of the guards, the social worker said, took advantage of the younger mothers too, as one of those mothers, a smart and savvy woman who told me she had had to fight off their advances, reported to me at the time and has repeated since.
There was no need for secrecy, it seemed, because there was a sense that this was “a closed system,” where rules of normal law and normal governance did not apply. Complaint or protest would have no effect except to prompt the guards or manager to punish the complaining woman by denying her essential services or else, if the manager so wished, by calling the police and charging her with one of many forms of misbehavior that were common in a building in which almost every person had to break some rule or operate some petty scam in order to survive.
Cooking, for example, was officially prohibited because of fire dangers, but the city’s meager allocation of subsistence funds to purchase food made it unthinkable to buy it from a restaurant and forced the mothers in the Martinique to cook their children’s meals in secret, then conceal their hot plates when inspectors from the city came around. The management cooperated with the tenants by providing them with garbage bags to cover up the hot plates on inspection days while, at the same time, it pretended not to know that this was going on. When mothers were reluctant to provide the guards who were hired to protect them with the favors they expected, the guards could use the cooking scam or other scams much like it as a way to break down their resistance.
Children, of course, observed the humiliation of their mothers. The little ones, too young to go to school, might perhaps be sent out to the corridors; but most of the mothers would not dare to let them wander too far from the bedroom door. Even the kids who never witnessed these activities first-hand could not fail to be aware of them. I used to wonder what enduring influence all of this would have upon the capability of children in the building to believe in any kind of elemental decency in people who have power over their existence. Would they later find it hard to trust the teachers in their public schools? Would they develop an endemic wariness about investing faith in any older person of authority? Would they love their mothers all the more for having done the best they could to protect them from this nightmare, or would they harbor a resentment that their mothers were not able to avoid this situation in the first place?
One of the social workers who befriended me that year, a sensitive man who had studied early childhood development as an undergraduate at Yale, spoke of the Martinique in unsparing language as “New York City’s midtown death camp for the spirits of poor children.” He knew that I was Jewish and he asked me later if this choice of language had offended me. I told him it did not. I thought it was justified.
Two years later, I published a book about the Martinique Hotel. It appeared first in two successive issues of The New Yorker magazine, and this, in turn, attracted interest from the other media. The Nightline television program, moderated at the time by the journalist Ted Koppel, asked me to go back into the Martinique with a camera crew and do a documentary on the families I had known. The social workers and some of the mothers helped to get the camera crew and the producer past the guards and up into the building. The camera itself was hidden in a baby carriage by one of the mothers, who rolled it through the lobby without attracting scrutiny and brought it with her on an elevator to the floor where she was living. She then accompanied us into other bedrooms whose occupants had told me they were not afraid to answer questions.
By the time we had finished with the final interview, however, a guard on an upper floor had become suspicious, banged at the door, which we did not open, then notified the management. The manager, an unpleasant character by the name of Sal Tuccelli who carried a pistol in an ankle holster, confronted us with several other guards and insisted that the cameramen hand over the material they had just recorded. When they refused, the manager and guards reacted in the same way they routinely did with residents who defied or disobeyed them. I was slammed against a metal wall. One of the cameramen was seriously injured. The TV producer, an unintimidated woman, removed one of her high-heel shoes and used it to defend us. By this point, the police had been alerted. The cameramen got out of the building with the video.
I knew, of course, that journalists were not welcome in the building and that the social workers who had made my visits possible were taking risks in doing so. But until this time I had never witnessed so directly the extremes to which the management would go in the interest of concealment. It reminded me more vividly than ever that the city and the owners of the Martinique, with whom the city had contracted to sequester homeless people at a price tag of $8 million yearly for those 400 families, were determined to discourage any troublesome exposure of the social crime in which they were colluding.
It also left me with a visceral reminder of the terror mothers and their children would experience when the guards or, more frequently, the manager would hammer at their doors early in the morning if, for example, the rental check paid by the city, through no fault of their own, had not arrived on time. “Six a.m.,” one of the mothers told me. “He bangs on the door. You open up. There he is in the hallway with his gun. ‘Where’s your rent?’ ”
This is the way that one of the richest cities in the world treated the most vulnerable children in its midst a quarter century ago. When these hotels were finally closed in 1988 and 1989, not for reasons of compassion but because of the enormous damage the visibility of so much desperation was doing to the image of the city and its elected leaders, most of the several dozen families I had come to know, all but two of whom were black or Latino, were shipped en masse into several of the most impoverished and profoundly segregated sections of the Bronx, far from the sight of tourists and the media. These were communities that already had the city’s highest rates of HIV infection, the greatest concentration of drug-addicted people, of people who had serious psychiatric illnesses, women with diabetes, women with undiagnosed malignancies, and among the highest rates of pediatric asthma in the nation.
Most helpful customer reviews
34 of 34 people found the following review helpful.
A mixture of hope and despair, with a message we all need to hear
By Suzanne Amara
In this fine book, Jonathan Kozol revisits children whose lives he has been involved with for many years. All have some connection to St. Ann's church in the Bronx and the services offered there. Kozol has written extensively about these children over the years, and been very involved in their lives. This book tells the next step of their stories.
In some ways, this is a wondefully hopeful book. Several of the children have finished college, others are living meaningful and service-oriented lives. Many have children of their own, and are good parents. However, in other ways, the book can lead to despair, in thinking of all these children had to endure in their lives, and when you think about the fact that their neighborhood is still full of failing schools and that America still seems to care little for its poor.
The main message here, as Kozol points out, is that the children that succeeded, although credit must be given to all of them for being extraordinary people, had help. They met someone at a crucial point in their life that gave them a leg up, a ear to listen to, help getting into the right school. Some of them had families that went above and beyond to do all they could to help them succeed. But none of them succeeded in a vacuum. We all need to take responsibility to help where we can, either within our own families or by helping the greater community. The cost of not doing this is high---prison, drug addiction, death.
I thank Jonathan Kozol for his life of caring.
29 of 32 people found the following review helpful.
An often depressing, sometimes uplifting, account of running in quicksand
By Nathan Webster
This book should make any reader angry and frustrated toward the criminally-negligent "public education" system that has basically failed/is failing inner city children for decades.
One problem is that it preaches to the converted - I was already impotently angry, and now I'm a little angrier and more cynical, but it seems like the people who could effect some change never bother to read accounts like this, or try to empathize with the situation at all.
To give some comparison - Post Traumatic Stress is legitimately in the news because of so many soldiers affected after 11 years of war and many multiple year-long deployments. The children - the CHILDREN - that Kozol writes about are growing up for their entire lives in hellish, crime-ridden environments not too far removed from war zones, and somehow they are expected to go to school and pass some absurd standardized test that's supposed to prove something. What they experience is the definition of PTSD - minus the "post" part - and it's happening when they're 7,8,9 years old, right through their teenage years.
It's a grotesque obscenity. Really, we shouldn't take ourselves seriously as a country when we sit on our hands and let this happen.
Kozol helps out a lot of the kids he met and wrote about - he quotes emails where they thank him for laptops that he helped provide them. He's doing the right thing - as he points out in an endnote, these children gave him a lot of their time, and they deserve compensation. But, this does feed into America's "winning the lottery" culture. Because these specific children were lucky enough to meet and engage Kozol, they're the ones with laptops, and inroads to better schools and opportunities. The children Kozol did not meet, or didn't connect with, are left to their enviornment. That's not Kozol's fault, but that's how it is.
This kind of individual charity/support is important, but the book reminds me that it will never solve the larger problem. We're all happy that a rich benefactor can drop from the sky with gifts and money, but we all complain whenever someone suggests paying an extra nickel in taxes that - properly spent - could effect some positive change in the entire system. Lottery winnings are spent and then they're gone; systemic change requires a long-term institutional committment that we are apparently unwilling to invest in.
The book is broken into chapters that read more like short stories than a connected narrative. He opens with the stories with unhappy endings, and closes with children that turned out pretty well. Despite the subject matter, it was dry at times, and his very businesslike writing style does a good job at keeping unnecessary melodrama to a minimum, though sometimes at the expense of clear passion. However - that means a reader will never pity the children, but can try to empathize, and that's vital to the book's success.
I had not read Kozol's previous books, where he first introduced many of this book's "characters" (I incorrectly thought he wrote There Are No Children Here: The Story of Two Boys Growing Up in The Other America, which I read years ago), but he provided enough background that I don't feel that was necessary. This book led me to do more research on the ghastly Martinique Hotel, which Kozol explored in Rachel and Her Children: Homeless Families in America; it might have been totally renovated since the 1990s but there's not enough money in the world that would get me to spend a night there.
So this was powerful and depressing...uplifting, but often only on an individual level. It provides little hope for the rotten system these kids have to live in - though there are small victories, and some smaller schools within these communities that are effectively helping some children. Still, for every soldier - and I'm a war veteran - suffering PTSD, there's probably dozens or hundreds of American children who go to school in awful situations and we barely pay any mind at all. It's a crime.
22 of 25 people found the following review helpful.
In-depth accounts, though rather impersonal
By Emily J. Morris
Before reading this book I had never heard of Jonathan Kozol and therefore am not really all that familiar with his work and the people with whom he has worked. Still, "Fire in the Ashes" managed to be an interesting read that rather had me itching to get back into the world of education.
Each chapter focuses on a particular child, and Kozol gives an account of that child's development or lack thereof over the years. The first few chapters are not the happiest, but serves as a decent comparision for the second portion of the book in which the success stories are presented.
The accounts are quite thorough and provided enlightening summaries of these kids' lives to the present--though Kozol's attention to detail and conversation somehow left everything, in my view, surprisingly impersonal. I do believe it would be unprofessional to create a work dedicated to tugging at heartstrings and tear ducts, but I still feel this is the type of book that should get me caring about the individuals. I did find myself much more educated and concerned about the situations of inner-city kids and their schools, but I failed to connect with anyone presented. A big part of me commends Kozol's just-the-facts approach with its scattered events and conversations, but it did leave me feeling rather neutral on the individuals.
This, however, does not take away from the enlightening importance of this book as it works to open eyes to unforunate situations. One may or may not agree with Kozol's politics and social views (which I feel he keeps respectfully in the background) but the book does lay out the undeniable situation at hand.
Personal taste is what fuels my recommendations here. Kozol presents the book and its people without any fanfare and some readers might want more of a conclusion and a point. But for those who just want the honest situation, this will be much appreciated.
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