The last story of the year is for Charles Slucki. Sluggo, as his many friends know him. He died suddenly yesterday in LA. Would have been back in Melbourne next week. I have known Sluggo all my life. We grew up on the same street, in Carlton, boys from the same neighbourhood, Canning Street— we in 387, the Sluckis in 501. A single fronted cottage—one of the smallest houses in the street, with one of the biggest hearts. Newly arrived immigrants from the old country milling about, stepping in for a chat, a bit of advice. Working class Aussie neighbours dropping by. On Friday nights, my brothers and I made our way, two blocks north, to his house. The Sluckis had one of the first TVs on the block. We'd watch the Jacky Gleason show, then turn off the box. His father would get out the vodka. Never mind that we were twelve-year-olds, a year or two, give or take. From where old Jacob Slucki was from, vodka was medicine. Old Jacob would raise his glass, and we raised ours. And we'd drink a toast 'tsu der revolutzie': To the revolution. Sluggo's mother, Eda, being more sensible, would make sure there was rye bread and herring, to wash the vodka down. Our secular Sabbath ritual you could say. We were part of an extraordinary family—The Bund—the Jewish socialist movement that protected their communities in pre-war Poland, Lithuania and Russia. A movement based on love and loyalty between friends, secular humanist ideals, a belief in greater equality, and a love of Yiddish as the language of the people. Our community centre, the Kadimah, was on Lygon Street, a ten-minute walk from home. Our mentors were former resistance fighters, community activists, teachers. Survivors. Lovers of life, despite it all. Because of it all. Sluggo and I had bit parts in the Yiddish theatre on the custom built Kadimah stage. We attended the Peretz Yiddish School on Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings, and went to the same high school one year apart. Sluggo embodied and practiced those humanist values our elders passed on. He became a great teacher of drama, a mentor to countless kids. Was recognised as a teacher of the year in 1995. Most of his teaching was done in government schools, still so underfunded, still struggling for support—yet able to produce teachers of his worth. Dear Sluggo, so many memories, so many images flooding my mind...We saw many a football game together at the old Collingwood ground, Victoria Park. Played epic cricket matches on the median strip, between the poplars and palms. Made our way home through a maze of streets and back-lanes. We were immigrant kids who embraced Aussie ways, but stayed true to the values passed onto us. We know the secret—that if granted opportunity, immigrants and refugees will give back far more than they receive. Sluggo gave back way beyond any measure. Have a look at the Facebook tributes and you will get an idea of what I mean. He had time for people. He loved theatre and, and knew what it could mean for a kid to find their voice. He was a confidant to many, a man of unbridled energy, a devoted family man. There are many, many more stories to be told, many more images to bring to light. This is the mere tip of a vast iceberg. But for now, we return to Canning Street. I went there today. I made my way those two blocks from 387 to 501, a three-and-a-half minute walk, past the poplars and palms; each house on the way people we knew, families from many parts of the globe. Temperature 37 degrees—on days like this the bitumen would sometimes melt. I got to your house and, out steps one of the neighbours. He still lives a few doors up. He was shocked at the news. His family had lived there for generations. Working class Aussies from way back: 'Lovely family,' the Sluckis he says. 'I used to go in and help Mrs Slucki press buttons in the back room. It was open door.' I stood in front of the house, and I raised my hand, as I now raise it, two hours later, vodka in hand. And I drink a toast to you dear Sluggo, and to the Sluckis, and to your wife Mich, and your children Jacob and David, your sister Miriam, and to your beautiful family, to Helen and your beloved grandson, Artie; and to the memory of your dad, old Jacob, and your mum Eda, and to our glorious mentors, and to the streets of Carlton, when it was home to newcomers fresh off the boats. We feel for you in your grief. We share your loss. Yes, our elders passed on the secret—always fight for your rights, but always with a love of people, a love of community, and a passionate belief in a fair go for all. To Sluggo!!!
Photos: Canning street, Carlton North. The house at 501. Taken at noon today. And the palm, on the median street, opposite 387.
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