Alan D. Harris

&More--Nov/Dec 2014

Good Neighbors

Alan D. Harris

He was born Amos Muzyad Yakhoob Kairouz, in Deerfield, Michigan. It was 1912, the same year my father was born. People make their way to southeast Michigan for one reason or another. Kairouz began performing on radio in Detroit at WMBC on The Happy Hour Club in 1932. My father was 20 years old. Amos Muzyad Yakhoob Kairouz enjoyed success on the radio waves reaching many Detroit homes where my father would listen as Kairouz played the shifty brother-in-law Amos in The Bickersons or Jerry Dingle, the postman, on The Fannie Brice Show.

Father played a Detroit bus driver while moonlighting as a milkman for both Twin Pines and Brickley Dairy. One day the woman that became my mother played the role of a passenger on Father’s bus. The two had good chemistry, leading to spin-offs—myself included. Father kept his name and eventually passed it along to my mother, my two sisters and three brothers. Amos Muzyad Yakhoob Kairouz changed his name several times in hopes that his extended family would not know that he maintained employment in the highly suspect entertainment industry. Kairouz settled on the names of his brothers so that radio and television audiences would know him as Danny Thomas.

Father stayed on in Detroit, parlaying his driving career into a fulltime job with benefits for his family while driving a school bus for United Hebrew Schools at Schaefer and Seven Mile. Out of loyalty—all of our milk was purchased at Twin Pines dairy stores. But his working hours increased and Father found that he had less time for radio. Fortunately for Danny Thomas, he moved on to the small screen in a big way. My Father made time for only three television shows; The Honeymooners, The Ed Sullivan Show, and Make Room for Daddy. I would sit at his side as Father enjoyed his brief opportunities to take a break from the seriousness of the world, filling the living room with his laughter and the scent of Aqua Velva.

Both my father and Kairouz had dreams inspired by a blue collar city in the heart of nation known for its hearty and sometimes upwardly mobile working class. Father’s dream was to see that his children grew up, unscathed, unjaded, and tolerant in an ever-changing world. Kairouz’s dream was to fund a hospital dedicated to St Jude Thaddeus, the patron saint of hopeless causes. Sometimes the dreams of hardworking Detroit natives collide or intertwine in ways wholly unnoticed in the sea of seemingly unconnected personal narratives. It was 1962 when Kairouz began to build St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. That same year I stood next to Father, seven years old, as he opened the front door of our home when Mr. Siriko, dressed in his best red bowling shirt, came knocking. Father listened to his colorful friend explain the importance of coming together as good neighbors. My father could sense that there was unfolding at our front door an important learning opportunity. I know this simply by the way he held my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. It was Father’s way of saying, pay attention. Mr. Sirico was collecting signatures. Our neighbor had with him a letter, a promise, a manifesto against anyone selling their home to a Negro. “We’re all gonna sign this, Bob—there’s strength in numbers.” My father’s first name was Robert but he went by his middle name Douglas, or simply Doug. People who didn’t know him all that well often referred to him as Bob. But I was only seven years old at the time. I respected all adults, at least the ones my father introduced me to—Jackie Gleason, Ed Sullivan, Danny Thomas/Kairouz, even Mr. Siriko. But above all I respected my father. And at that very moment as Mr. Sirico stood anxiously on our front porch, a foundation stone was being laid somewhere in Tennessee for the Saint of hopeless causes. Yet it went unnoticed by my father and vice versa as he laid a foundation for me by turning Mr. Siriko away. I asked him why he didn’t sign the paper. Father replied that good neighbors would never do such a thing.

A year later I was recruited at the ripe young age of eight (unbeknownst to my parents) to canvas the neighborhood for St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital. I had a script which I committed to memory along with a donation box for charitable contributions. The only person I had ever known who went door to door for a cause was Mr. Siriko, who had only recently sold his home to a black family. Despite limited training and only Mr. Siriko as a role-model I hit the streets. I took my commitment seriously but I was as nervous as any eight-year-old should be. With script in hand I went door to door—Would you like to help Danny Thomas fight childhood diseases with a donation to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital?

House after house turned me away. I was ten doors in without a dime until I finally came to Mr. Siriko’s old house. I was about to give up on believing in my own neighborhood’s willingness to support a good cause just when the young black girl opened the front door. I’d seen her before. She was a new kid at Noble Elementary School. She listened as I stumbled through my well-rehearsed speech. A voice, a mother’s voice, called from inside the home.

“Vanessa, who’s at the door?”

“Some white boy.”

“What’s he want?”

What I wanted was to leave, to run as fast as I could and admit that I was never cut out for charity work.

“He’s collectin’ money to help fight Danny Thomas!”

“Well, honey—bring me my purse. Let’s help that boy.”

“Why, Momma?”

“Cuz that’s what good neighbors do, child.”

It was getting dark when I turned my collection box in for the night. My father learned what I had done and advised me to limit my volunteering to when he can accompany me—or at the very least wait until I turned 12 years-old. To this day I don’t feel bad for taking money that never did go to help fight Danny Thomas. Instead I have always embraced the linking of two men’s Detroit-born dreams.

In 1983, President Ronald Reagan presented Kairouz with a Congressional Gold Medal honoring him for his work with St. Jude Children's Research Hospital. I was watching the ceremony on TV when the doorbell rang. A neighbor was standing on the front porch with a petition on a shiny new clipboard. My young son was at my side when I opened the door for the late thirty-something woman. Dressed in a business suit, red, on a Saturday at my front door, she reminded me of Mr. Sirico. As I overheard President Reagan’s voice in the background I could swear that I had caught the scent of my father’s Aqua Velva as the woman explained in detail her neighborly purpose. She was collecting signatures to take to the City Council meeting. She believed in the concept that there is strength in numbers and I was counted on to add my name to bolster her particular perspective on the value of good neighbors she thought she could count on. It seemed that three doors down from my house the local Community Mental Health agency had purchased a home and were in the process of obtaining a permit to construct a wheelchair ramp. I listened to the woman outline to me how a group home for the handicapped would negatively impact our property values. She sensed my hesitation and asked pointedly, “Do you really want to come home every day from work and drive by people drooling in wheelchairs as they waive to you believing that they belong here?” I didn’t need my father there to know what I would do. But, nonetheless, my little boy gave my hand a gentle squeeze just to remind me that I wasn’t alone in making important neighborly decisions. I replied, “Sorry, but I won’t sign the petition. My family and I will welcome our new neighbors and their wheelchairs.” The scent of Aqua Velva chased the disappointed neighbor in red off my property. In the background I heard Danny Thomas say thank you.