Born Free

Denise was pristinely dressed and sat quietly on her front stoop reading. Her parents demanded that their children not stray outside the gate without their expressed permission. She was allowed to visit neighborhood friends and certainly went down to Jerry’s deli or the grocery store when asked. But Aunt Chubby’s kids were not allowed to wander freely without a specific purpose.

They were all kept on a very short leash.

Ma and Poppie shared a much different philosophy of child rearing: urban survival skills. They encouraged us to explore and experience. I biked, skated and ran all around the block. Once I was permitted to cross the street, then all bets were off. Brooklyn was my oyster. But long before then, I was taught to fend for myself.

Shortly after I escorted fat Vinnie to his house with my foot up his ass, Poppie brought me down to the basement for a wonderful surprise. He broke out a miniature pair of brown leather boxing gloves and laced them on my hands. Poppie taught me the basics: stance, footwork, defensive moves, hooks, jabs and how to take a punch. Grandpa Vincenzo showed me how to move my head and throw uppercuts. We would all meet downstairs and practice until both men were satisfied I could handle myself. I was definitely not the girly girl that Denise was.

Years later, Poppie taught me judo moves he learned in the Army Air Corps. He would hide in the dark and grab me from behind in a simulated mugging; sometimes he used a plastic knife. The last time was during my college years. He startled me to such a degree that I not only disarmed him but nearly dislocated his shoulder.

There was more to it than just self defense. Whenever I travelled with Ma on any form of public transportation, she would point out landmarks and quiz me on the various stops and transfers. I was familiar with at least a half dozen bus and train routes before I could even cross the street alone. All Ma’s hot spots were committed to memory: Coney Island, shopping at Fulton Street, St. John’s Cemetery in Queens, her old neighborhood in south Brooklyn and all our relatives’ homes.

The summer following fifth grade, I decided to have lunch with Poppie in the city. I told Ma that I wouldn’t be back for lunch then I walked two streets to the F train, bought my subway tokens and took my first of many solo trips to Manhattan. Ma always sat near the train conductor. I did one better. I knocked on his compartment door and asked him to tell me when we reached the World Trade Center, just in case the subway rocked me to sleep.

True to his promise, the conductor came out to announce my station. A local transit cop pointed the way to Tower One and I was on my way. Poppie had often told us he had to take three different elevators to his office on the 69th floor so I was prepared. Once outside the final elevator, I asked around until someone could point out the Audit Division. Bold as brass, I walked up to the secretary and asked for “Frank Vella.” Pat recognized me from the picture on Poppie’s desk.

“Camille, are you here with your mom or Concetta?” she inquired with a confused smile. “Nope. I’m here for lunch.” “Alone?” she asked. Her narrow eyebrows arched into exclamation points. “I wanted to surprise my father” I said with confidence. With that Pat entered Poppie’s office and explained that his ten year old had come to New York City on her own to join him for lunch.

He didn’t believe it at first. Poppie came out to the reception area and gave me a quick kiss. “Where’s your mother?” he asked. I looked up at the wall clock. “Well it’s 11:30. She’s probably in the kitchen pressing clothes” I casually responded.

Poppie called Ma and sure enough, she had been pressing the sheets. I have to give it to him; he was very cool about the whole episode. Pop offered to take me to Horn & Hardart; I loved eating at the automat. I’m not sure if it was the enormous selection or feeding the coins into the display cases. It was like a culinary slot machine and every player was a winner.

No, I wanted to try Beatrice’s, a Spanish restaurant that was a favorite of Concetta’s. They served the meal family-style right out of cast iron pots left on the table. The best part was that it was in Greenwich Village. A few short blocks from the eatery was a renown French Bakery and café where we had dessert. I ordered an iced espresso and drank every delicious drop.

Once we returned to his office, I thanked him for the awesome meal and gave him a quick wave. “I’ll see you at home Pop.” “No wait. Stay here with me and we’ll go back together” he said nonchalantly. “I don’t want to bother you. There’s nothing to do up here.” I answered.

Poppie brought me over to the keypunch operators and had me help them by banding cards. Afterwards we went to a huge, chilly room where the workers wore lab coats, held clipboards and walked on top of a cooled platform. The device in the center of the room was the biggest office machine I ever saw. Poppie told me it was called a computer. There was nothing quite like it at the World’s Fair in Flushing Meadow Park and we certainly didn’t envision personal computers in our future.

The train ride home felt somehow different from my morning excursion. Manhattan was no longer Poppie’s and Concetta’s sole domain; I claimed it for myself and went as often as possible. As the years sped by, I took great pleasure in exploring different attractions and neighborhoods in the city. Off off Broadway became just as familiar to me as Bensonhurst. When I thought I knew every square inch of the Big Apple, Poppie irrefutably burst my bubble and widened my perspective.

The afternoon of my eighteenth birthday, Poppie invited me and a couple of friends to visit him for lunch at the Twin Towers. Once lunch was through, he brought us to the Port of Authority heliport. We were booked to see Manhattan from the air. Poppie waved us off and we began our tour of New York City. It was an amazing gift that ended with us face-to-face with Lady Liberty. Three years later, Poppie outdid himself by getting tickets to a sold out concert at Madison Square Garden, “Sinatra: The Main Event.” Our seats were close enough to see Paul Newman picking his nose and Sinatra Junior mimicking his dad’s performance.

Ma and Poppie gave us wings as kids, even though my thirst for greater independence and freedom was often a source of their exasperation. They did take pride in knowing that they prepared and encouraged us to make discoveries on our own. As for the Newkirk Avenue Vellas, if you visit their former East Flatbush home, you can clearly see the imprints from their butts on the concrete porch. No wonder they’re still pissed at us.