Triangle Fire

                       Triangle/Bronx (3/25, 2010)

                   The Triangle Shirtwaist fire.

     On March 25, 1911, there occurred one of the most horrible industrial tragedies in American history: the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire. One hundred and forty six workers, mostly young immigrant—primarily Jewish and Italian—women and girls were either cremated or jumped to their deaths when a fire broke out on the 9th and 10th floors of the Asch building, located on the corner of Greene Street and Washington Place, right off Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village. The causalities occurred, despite the fact that the building was relatively fireproof, because the exit doors had been blocked by the factory’s owners. Some claim that this was to prevent workers from taking unauthorized breaks or smoking in the stairwells; today one speaker asserted that it was to prevent union organizers from entering the sweatshop. Whatever the reason for the illegal shut-in, the owners were never found guilty of any crime. The fire apparently started when a cigarette butt was tossed into a pile of remnants and spread rapidly. The terrified workers encountered the entrances blocked and some were crushed in the panic. The flames and heat forced many to jump out the windows; their broken bodies fell in heaps on the sidewalk below. In the aftermath of this horrifying catastrophe, there was an outcry for the implementation of reforms, especially in the garment industry. The unions were able to begin a process of ameliorating, at least to some extent, the appalling conditions under which thousands of primarily immigrant workers were forced to labor. Each year, there is a commemorative celebration of the event.

     We arrived on the scene just as the proceedings were getting underway. There were several NYFD trucks parked outside the building on Washington Place, and a temporary platform had been erected on Greene Street, where various dignitaries were already seated on the dais. A band sang songs recounting the tragedy, and there were a number of people circulating among the crowd holding sticks to which were affixed antique women’s blouses (“shirtwaists”) with the names of the victims. Some carried pictures.

     The event was sponsored by a federation of unions, and the main speakers were union officials. The Fire Commissioner and the City Comptroller also spoke. Relatives of the victims—there are no living survivors—were recognized, as were various school groups who were sporting red, plastic firefighter’s helmets. The Union rhetoric and the pleas for continued vigilance were moving. (Speakers also alluded to a recent garment factory fire in Bangladesh—which makes clothing for a local chain of stores—which killed twenty people. ) The images of women who had become living torches jumping to their deaths as helpless firemen looked on—their ladders could not reach the upper floors of the ten story building—were hard to suppress, even after we’d left and headed toward more pleasant activities. Bronx: “Little Italy.”

The Bronx.

   We hopped on the uptown Lexington avenue train and landed in the upper Bronx. We walked east on Fordam Rd., past Fordam University, to Arthur Avenue, which is the center of the main Italian neighborhood in the Bronx. Those in the know claim that it is the “real deal,” as opposed to the desiccated and touristy “Little Italy” on Mulberry and Mott Streets in lower Manhattan. I think this is correct. (At least the people we encountered walking around were speaking Italian!) We had a delicious lunch at Mario’s (claimed by some to have been where scenes from “The Godfather” were shot). The place was quite uncrowded, and the service, including the chef preparing Blanca’s flaming ricotta and brandy pasta at the table, was exceptional. (I had chocolate cheesecake for dessert.) Me and Julio down by the schoolyard. Once out of the restaurant, we walked west to the Grand Concourse, the huge boulevard that runs north-south through miles of the Bronx. Both sides of the avenue are lined with an endless string of bodegas, beauty parlors, restaurants, and churches. We passed a store front where a young Dominican was hand rolling redolent cigars. There are frequent signs announcing the imminent coming of Jesus. Outside one church, called “El Rey Ya Viene” (“The King is Coming Soon”), a spanking new white Humvee was conspicuously parked. On its window was attached a flamboyant sticker proclaiming the message. Sounds of meringue and charanga waft through the air, and we walked miles without hearing a word of English. Close your eyes and you’re in Santo Domingo!
   Back in our hood, we stopped at Bigelow’s pharmacy, where I stocked up on shaving supplies.       
  Sixth Avenue was a bustle with people just getting out of work. In sum, another fine day in the Big Apple.