What are you?

Brooklyn was a kaleidoscope of sinners, saints, wise guys, wanna-be’s, citizens, slugs and everyone else in between. It was all good. Do your own thing. No judgment. Except for one serious exception: don’t rat. This was a transgression that even the Pope couldn’t forgive. Forget notoriety; Henry Hill was persona non grata.

OK, I admit it. I spilled my guts like a busted macaroni strainer. There was a little known fact that caused Ma no small amount of embarrassment when I made it public knowledge. In my defense, it wasn’t my fault; Sister Immaculate provoked me. None of the details made it to Ma’s ears. Barbara Pasi ran from Saint Simon & Jude to the farthest reaches of the parish to squeal like a little girl. Well, actually she was a little girl; we were both second graders. But the fine points were of no interest to Ma.

That night, I took my regular spot at the end of the breakfast nook. Ma did not even look at me and barely spoke at all while we ate. Finally, in complete exasperation, Poppie roared, “Is it too much to have a pleasant meal? What the hell is going on here?” Ma’s measured response sounded like a death knell in my ears. “Camille decided to share a family secret at school today.”

Concetta’s fork was suspended in mid-air. I actually heard her neck crack as she eye-balled me. Was it possible to commit such an egregious offense at such a tender age? I assured the ladies and gentleman of the jury that I was innocent and there were definitely circumstances beyond my control.

That afternoon, Sister Immaculate was teaching us about Geography. She pointed to various places on the map as different students answered her question about where their family was from originally. Ireland…Italy…Poland…Puerto Rico. It was a short list.

Sister finally reached the last row, last seat. “I am Italian and Sicilian” I proudly stated. “That’s the same thing” Sister replied with a noticeable edge in her voice. “No Sister,” I explained “Italy is the boot that kicks Sicily closer to Africa.” I heard Ma say that very thing time and again. “Don’t be cheeky or I’ll box your ears Miss Vella” she said with her clipped Boston accent. “Your father must be Italian but I know your mother is Irish.”

Heresy. Slander. Defamation. Before I could recite my pedigree, Sister Immaculate painstakingly explained Biology to me. “You have light hair and blue eyes. Your mother has red hair and blue eyes. You’re Irish.” I was adamant in my response. “My whole family is Neapolitan and Sicilian. Our eyes are blue, green, hazel or brown. And Sicilians are not Italians; they are Sicilian.”

Sister Immaculate briskly walked down the aisle, her long wooden rosary beads whipped out from her side. She loomed forward, clenched her teeth and declared “Your mother is wasting her tuition money on a stupid girl who does not know that she is Irish.”

My answer came in seething breaths “My mother dyes her hair red at Alberto’s Beauty Parlor, she is not Irish. She is Neapolitan.” Sister was rendered speechless at both the tone and declaration. How did this exchange stray so far from her sweet geography lesson? Her biting comeback was a guttural “humph” buried deep in her throat. That was the day I discovered my nemesis. We tormented each other for that entire school year and again two years later when she was finally promoted to Fourth Grade.

Poppie had another forkful of peaches in wine. I had clearly made my case; he was satisfied. In Pop’s estimation, calling an Italian kid “Irish” was fighting words. Ma, not so much. She faced Barbara’s mother and all the other busy bodies who retold the story’s punch line with more relish than a Nathan’s hot dog.

“There’s no excuse for sharing a family secret. It wasn’t your secret to tell.” Then she gave me the mommy look and added “I’m very disappointed in you.” That huge lump of salt is making a comeback even now.

Ma didn’t complain at school that her child had been goaded or unfairly reproached. She knew I would face bullies of all sizes and positions. It made no difference to her if I could trace my ethnicity to when we were pre-historic; that was not important. Ma firmly believed it was crucial to always take care of your family, show them loyalty and respect. It was a test of character. Yes, other branches of the family tree sometimes buckled or cracked under the weight of Ma’s expectations. She often made allowances for them but was steadfast in what she demanded of us.

There were several things I could have chosen to do when my fire-breathing nunzilla challenged me. I could have continued the foolish debate and landed in detention or refused to play and stopped talking or given her a knowing smile and suddenly agreed. But my competitive nature got the best of me. In desperation to win, I ratted out Ma. It didn’t matter if I was six, sixteen or sixty. The end didn’t justify the means.

There have been five Popes since that fateful afternoon. So far, not one has answered my request for absolution. So far.