(Originally
published 3/17/17)
In the
early 1970s, a hipper, more progressive education took hold in St. John’s Catholic
grammar school and, I suppose, a lot of other places. I distinctly recall a
lecture in the fourth grade about the evils of racial and ethnic stereotyping.
Examples of stereotypes were supplied, including one that really hit home: “Italians
have dirty houses.” The ten-year-old me valiantly tried to explain to my
parents what I learned in school that day. Suffice it to say, Ma and Pa didn’t
appreciate the sweeping Italian stereotype. The paternal side of my
family—including a grandmother and aunt who lived in a clean apartment a flight
of stairs away—were Italian.
Of course,
the whole point of the lesson was that stereotypes were unfair and, in most
instances, untrue or at least exaggerated. The Italians in my circle,
nonetheless, were on the defensive and singled out Irish families they knew
with dirty houses. Kingsbridge in the Bronx, where we all called home—in
clean and dirty houses alike—was a predominantly Irish neighborhood in those
days.
My
grandfather opted to settle in an Irish enclave because he didn’t want my
grandmother interacting with
only the Italian-speaking. He figured she
would better learn English kibitzing with the Irish rather than exclusively relying
on her native tongue in the company of mostly Italians. My grandfather was a
wise man. While my grandmother spoke with a heavy Italian accent, she had a fair
command of the English language. To this day, my brothers and I—in what amounts
to an affectionate tribute to her—employ certain English phrases that she was
wont to employ. When she didn’t like a particular food, my grandmother would
say, “No too good,” or “I no like a-too much.” These two patented phrases of
hers are on the tip of our tongues nowadays—and they are apropos in describing
more than what’s for dinner.
Honestly,
I don’t know where the “dirty houses” stereotype originated. Were the educators
afraid to address the genuine stereotypes—the ones that all of us were
familiar—like Italians are garlic-eating greaseballs in league with organized
crime. Funny, but the second example of an ethnic stereotype was: “The Irish
drink something funny.” What, pray tell, is that supposed to mean? Irish men
and women will freely concede what the abiding stereotype is—and many of them
will say it’s not a stereotype at all.
I’ve known
a fair share of men and women with drinking problems from a cross-section of
ethnicities. My best friend’s Irish mother—who kept quite a neat and clean
house, by the way—summed it up best when she said: “The Italians are secret
drinkers. The Irish like to make a show of it.” It certainly described my
grandfather and father, who preferred to clandestinely imbibe spirits in the
comforts of home. My grandfather even made his own wine. He kept gallon jugs of
it in the closet, which he would pull out in the evenings after a hard day’s
work. I was told that after sampling a few glasses of the grape, he often
reached for his harmonica. My grandmother “no like a-too much” this little bit
of theater. If all that sounds a little stereotypical—so be it!
Nobody, in
fact, laughed harder at Italian stereotypes roles than my father. He loved The
Soprano’s. Apart from the Corleones in The Godfather—who had a smattering
of nobility amidst the brutality—I never cared much for Italian gangster-themed
television shows and movies. And it’s not because I was offended at how
Italians were portrayed. I just found the absolute boorishness and wanton
violence an unappealing one-two punch.
My
mother—whose maternal grandparents came from Austria and spoke German—always
decorated our front door for St. Patrick’s Day and, too, made corned beef and
cabbage for dinner. When her ancestors first settled in Allentown, Pennsylvania
in the early 1900s, my grandmother reported that Irish schoolmates would chant,
“You Huns…go back to Germany!” When my grandfather bought his first and only
home in Kingsbridge, he had to evict an Irish family to move his family in—
and
it took more than a year to do so. I’ve been told that said Irish family decreed,
“The guineas are taking over.” Now, this family kept a dirty house. The roach
infestation that welcomed my grandfather, grandmother, and their offspring is
the stuff of legend. And so is the fact that we all lived happily ever
after—friends for life regardless of stereotyping and name calling.
(Photos
from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
