Growing up in Brooklyn in the 50’s was an education in itself. The learning on the streets about such things as the origination of Brooklyn (According to one 7 year old friend it came from a big brick someone found laying around) to the crazy lady down the street who would peek into garbage cans (Looking for her husband, as the legend goes, according to Tessie, my older sister – much older).
Rumors ran wild about teachers and nuns and brothers that taught us by smacking us around until we got it right, or the private life of Sam the owner of the corner candy store. All of this was an education in itself. But there was another education I got from my parents and relatives and Italian neighbors!
“Speak softly love and hold me warm against your heart
I feel your words the tender trembling moment start
We're in a world, our very own
Sharing a love that only few have ever known”
It was not enough to grow up a Brooklynite; you also grew up with an ethnic identity to complete your personality. Italian, Jewish, Irish and German were predominately the cultures, then came the black and Puerto Rican influx, all contributing to the fabric of Brooklyn.
There were two basic Italians in the neighborhood: Neapolitan and Sicilian. I would think they co-existed in the hood in equal numbers.
“Wine colored days warmed by the sun
Deep velvet nights, when we are one
Speak softly love so no one hears us but the sky
The vows of love we make we'll live until we die
My life is yours, and all because
You came into my world with love so softly love”
You could say you were Italian, but that would only invite a question: What kind?
“You Italian???”
“Yup”
“Sicilian?”
“Nope”
Napolitano?”
“Yup”
“Thought so.”
“Wine colored days warmed by the sun
Deep velvet nights, when we are one
Speak softly love so no one hears us but the sky
The vows of love we make we'll live until we die
My life is yours, and all because
You came into my world with love
So softly love “
But even there, you had to explain it further.
What town? Of course if you were Sicilian you carried a knife, were a gangster, from Bari meant you ate cats, Calabria meant you had a hard head.
The issue of speech was a big one too. Each of the Neapolitan and Sicilian cultures had their own dialect, and people had trouble understanding each other. But say the Italian words: “Alto Italiano” (Classy Italian), and they all got up on their high horses to deliberate.
There was one way to resolve any issue amongst the multitudes: at the dinner table, a glass of wine raise: “qui è a voi” and all is forgiven, after all, you are Italian, no?
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