When I was a kid, I went to the Catholic school in my neighborhood, St. Monica’s. My classmates were kids who lived in the ten/fifteen block radius of the parish. All similar kids with similar upbringing. Mostly, Italian Catholic, Irish Catholic or Catholic Catholic. We all had spaghetti at least once a week, called the red tomato sauce “gravy,” went to church on Sundays, argued over who had the better banana seat on their bike, and never missed an episode of Happy Days or The Waltons. In other words, I didn’t grow up with a whole lot of diversity. The South Philly I lived in back then was about as diverse as the part of South Jersey where everyone from South Philly has migrated to over the last few years. The closest most of us had come to a Jewish person was the guy hanging on the gold cross hanging around our necks. Although, there was a Jewish couple who lived in the house behind mine. I believe my neighbors called them the “token Jews” on the street. I didn’t understand what taking the bus had to do with being Jewish. We knew nothing about being Jewish and thought it was some sort of cult. We would often peek out the back window to see if we could catch a glimpse of them slaughtering sacrificial lambs or performing weird Jewish voodoo rituals. And our knowledge of African-Americans came from watching “What’s Happenin’?” Rerun, Dwayne, Raj and Dee showed us what it was like to grow up in a black neighborhood. They went to Doobie Brothers concerts, hung out at the local soda shop where the huge smart-ass waitress would insult them, and their gigantic mom was always threatening to whip them with a belt. So to us, life in a black neighborhood seemed pretty, well, whitebread.
Then I went to high school, and it opened up a whole new world…one that encompassed other parishes in South Philly. Woo. It was basically kids who lived in the parishes that surrounded St. John Neumann High, all similar kids with similar upbringing. Still mostly Italian Catholic, Irish Catholic or Catholic Catholic. We all still had spaghetti at least once a week, called the red tomato sauce “gravy,” ducked church on Sundays, argued over rock vs. disco, and never missed an episode of Three’s Company or Saturday Night Live. Hey, wait a minute…there had to be something different about high school. Surely, it was more diverse. Oh yeah…there were NO GIRLS! That’s right, it was an all-boy high school. Painful? Mmmm, yeah. Diverse? Mmmm, no. At least there were girls in grade school. We didn’t even have that. Which, now that I think about it, might have been a good thing. You see, going to school with a bunch of South Philly guidos with raging hormones and gold chains, all out to prove their masculinity, was the equivalent of walking through a forest full of gorillas. It smelled like dirty socks washed in spit and ass sweat, a fight always broke out at mealtime, and there were a hell of a lot of hairy backs. Some guys even had knuckles that reached the ground too. Hairy knuckles. I made it through high school relatively unscathed even as the more sensitive, creative type that I was, mostly because I could draw funny caricatures of the teachers really well. A hallway conversation between a couple of those lugnuts would go something like this:
Guido #1: “Yo, let’s kick DiMeo’s ass. He’s a fuckin’ nerd!”
Guido #2: “Nah, he’s a good drawer. Let’s just bust his balls, then go beat up that fag wearing the plaid jacket…”
Oh, and yeah, someone who draws in South Philly is called a “draw-er,” just as someone who drinks is a “drink-er” or someone who runs is a “runn-er.” Or they could be just late for the bus again, when in that case, they’re called “freakin’ lose-ers.”
In my high school, there wasn’t a whole lot of acceptance to gays either, in case you hadn’t guessed. That also was true for guys who weren’t into sports, guys who didn’t drink, guys who studied and did well in school, or guys who wore plaid jackets. But come on, that last one, well, that one is completely understandable. Of course, the same guys who would make fun of the more effeminate guys in school were also the ones who dress up in “wench” costumes and ostrich feathers every New Year’s Day to march in the Mummer’s Parade. Go figure. One day of public flitting around like a fey Vegas showgirl a year is completely acceptable. But dress like that on January 2nd, and those same guys will kick your trannie ass all the way to Fire Island.
Finally, it was time to go to college. Did I choose a university in the middle of the country, where I would live and discover people from all over? No. I went to Temple University, smack dab in the middle of Philadelphia, a mere subway ride from my parents’ home everyday. But--and this is a Nell Carter-sized but(t) -- it was actually truly diverse. I went to class with minorities from all walks of life. In fact, not only did I go to class with them, I befriended them! People of every cultural upbringing and ethnic race! Me! The kid who had been in the presence of Asians only when in Chinatown. Me! The kid who thought the only Indians there were wore feather headdresses. And I was fitting in! Sure, there were cliques, like the South Philly-ites, or the Northeast Philly-ites, who hung out together and refused to look beyond their lives back in the neighborhood. But I wanted more. I had my clique of high school buds, but I also expanded. I made friends with people from the ‘gasp’ suburbs! I even dated a Jewish girl! And she didn’t have any weird Jewish sacrificial rituals. Although, I wouldn’t have minded something a little weird.
I also realized there were guys who didn’t mind if you weren’t into sports or kicking other people’s asses. Generally, that’s a good thing for someone who wasn’t into sports or kicking ass. It was a nice step to being introduced into a world beyond what I knew.
So, being out in the “real world,” re: outside the confines of the “spaghetti once a week, topped with gravy” world of South Philly, expanded my diversity horizons. I learned that no matter where you go or who you meet, there is good and there is bad. There will be people who want to kick some ass because they are simply too ignorant to accept any differences. But even when peeking out my back window at the Jewish couple behind us, I thought that the differences that separate us might also make life more interesting. Sure, there was a comfort in the grade school where everyone had the same upbringing and life experience, when everything outside our realm of experience was showed to us on TV. I was more interested in visiting the “Land of the Lost” than I was any area outside South Philly. I could go home and watch Rerun and Dee, or Chico and the Man through the safe non-descript dialogue of a white sitcom writer. But as I grew older and wiser, I found I was right. Life is more interesting thanks to all those differences.
Today, I try to instill in my kids a sense of understanding, tolerance, and realization that it’s never a good thing to wear plaid pants or suit jackets. I think they’ll do just fine, even after they decide to move out of the safety of South Philly. Although it's too bad that “What’s Happenin'” is hard to find on TV, even in syndication. I miss Dee. She was funny as hell.
1 comment:
Even in my white, Northeast Philadelphia Jewish home (in a non-Jewish, bigoted neighborhood), we ate spaghetti once a week, although "gravy" is something that goes on mashed potatoes. And I dated a few Italian girls who had hair on their backs.
As far as the animal sacrifices and weird rituals... obviously, you've never been to an Orthodox Jewish synagogue.
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