I was poor – very poor. But in my neighborhood, I never knew it until I grew up and left my asphalt-lined block in Brooklyn. My neighborhood was bifurcated yet unified by respective family values, interchangeable between the two, distinct cultures of Italians and Jews. These were the only two labels I knew that defined the classes on 84th street. And even these two seeming cultural opposites were more alike than different. But when I look back on my tribe – the Italian Americans – it wasn’t economics that divided us into boxes – it was the kind of Italian you were.
I was taught how to drill down to figure out who was like us and who was not. I’ve never understood how only Italians ask other Italians what type of Italian they are. I was always asked what part of Italy my parents were from as if that might put me into an upper echelon above my other compares. My answer — always the same – my family is from Naples. That seemed to perpetually elicit a benign nod of neutral acceptance unlike those hailing from Sicily. I was told that Sicilians aren’t Italians and that Sicily is at the boot of Italy because Italy, in its infinite wisdom, had been trying to kick it away. Of course, I didn’t mind that story. I wasn’t from Sicily.
Next, the division between the classes was more broadly applied depending on where you lived, or rather, in what you lived. I lived in a sprawling six-story, red brick apartment building. The tar black, wrought iron fire escapes snaked up all sides of our towering structure – the tallest on our block. Actually, it was the only apartment building on our side of the block. The rest of my street was dominated by newer, pale brick row homes with stoops, patios and Fedders air conditioning covers. These were the people who lived “across the street.” They owned. I only rented. I was one of the “apartment people.”
Even further up the evolutionary chain of 84th Street were the chosen few who owned the scant handful of detached houses. Some driveways were shared, but some were not. The latter few were the exalted. I never knew it to be a matter of money, but more a conscious choice my parents made to rent an apartment. And that seemed okay to me.
When one of the neighborhood boys took issue with my sense of self-assuredness and contentment in being one of the apartment people, I was verbally assaulted about living in my red brick tower. I wasn’t affected at all by Pinuccio’s use of profanity and indignation — until he insulted my mother. Within moments my eyes swelled with tears that stung worse than Pinuccio’s ill-placed profanity. The resulting events that soon ensued, redefined my standing in the neighborhood. I was poor – very poor. But…I wasn’t just an Italian kid with family from Naples. I was connected. Mafiosa. Uncle Funzi. And nobody gets away with insulting Funzi’s niece.
