Sylvia, Spaghetti, and Spaldines
by
Joan Caspi
“Never economize on luxuries.” Angela Thirkell
Growing up, I was the only girl on my block in Brooklyn, except for Joanne Tropiano, who was six years old—three years younger than me. I lived in a diverse, working-class neighborhood with Italian, Irish, and Jewish families. We mostly got along.
I loved roller skating up and down my street, East 8th Street, between Avenue R and Avenue S. My skates, the inexpensive kind, clipped onto my shoes. They were tightened as much as needed with a skate key. I knew every crack in the sidewalk and the potholes in the gutter. I zoomed around my neighborhood, the skate key on a piece of twine bouncing around my neck. I was naturally curious and enjoyed checking out the neighbors’ houses and yards, craning my neck to see what I could through the windows.
I think subconsciously, I was looking for an alternative to living in my home.
I was utterly fascinated by the houses of my Italian neighbors. First, I was drawn to the religious statues in the front yard. Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ, dressed in a pale blue sarong of some sort,with her arms outstretched. It was a compelling sight sitting in the middle of a front yard.
My questions about Mary vanished after my first ‘inside visit’ to my friend’s house. There were two kitchens! This wasn’t about being wealthy; it reflected the culture they brought from their ‘homes’ in southern Italy.
I discovered that the ‘kitchen’ on the main level was purely for show, tiled all over in white. The appliances and sink were always gleaming, shining as if they had been polished daily.
The dining area was dominated by a large wall mural of Southern Italy, hand-painted by a family member, so it was not exactly a work by Michelangelo. There was a dining table and chairs covered in plastic, with a centerpiece of plastic grapes, sometimes decorated with yet another religious keepsake.
The living room had a cut velvet sofa, two matching brocade chairs, and a shiny coffee table. Above the couch, there was always a religious oil painting. All these pieces, except for the coffee table, were covered in plastic and only used for gatherings after funerals or graduations. The entire upstairs of the house was, in fact, a ghost town. Today, they call it ‘staging.’
The true heart of these homes—the place where the most inviting cooking smells came from the large pot of ‘gravy’ simmering on the stove—was in the basement. This was where the family gathered to eat, do homework, and play cards. Windowless and sparsely furnished, except for a big wooden dining table and chairs, there was even a small black-and-white TV at the end of the table with rabbit ears on top. This space was the heart of the home. Nonas (Grandmother) dressed in black from head to toe, stirring or chopping at the stovetop, while Grandpa smoked something odd in his pipe and held court at the head of the table. Whether a meal was being served or not, this was his designated “throne.” I loved hanging out in the basement. They might have been subterranean spaces, but they were filled with love.
It was here that my friend Joanne and I played with dolls. The basement setting was perfect because ‘playing with dolls’ was not part of my ‘street’ image.
I could ‘exhale’ in this overheated, fluorescent-lit, noisy, chock-filled lower level, surrounded by three generations of the Tropiano family. They just accepted my presence without question. Bowls of pasta placed in front of whoever was sitting there when the spaghetti was done was placed in front of me, too. I felt more at home in the basement than I ever felt in my own home.
After a few months hanging out with the family, I decided to convert to Catholicism. Embracing this wonderful religion, which didn’t judge me but instead welcomed me and fed me delicious dishes, felt right to me.
I wasn’t exactly sure how to handle the conversion, so I asked my friend’s sister, Maria, who was twelve and attended Catholic school. You can imagine my surprise when she said that the Jews killed Jesus, and I would have to confess this as a Jewish person to the local parish priest. I wasn’t ‘going down’ for murder, nor was I ready to confess every week; I had way too many secrets.
My parents were ‘Part Time Jews,’ meaning we celebrated the High Holy Days with festive meals and observed Shabbos every Friday. I had a vague understanding of Judaism but never attended Hebrew school. It was too expensive to join a temple where they taught my people’s history. My brief but sincere desire to convert to Catholicism didn’t last long. I decided against it. I didn’t want to risk going to Hell. “The Son of God” thing weighed heavily.
That’s the thing about Judaism, I felt safer: no Hell.
My family owned a modest, detached three-bedroom, two-bath home. We had a patch of grass in the front and a small garden in the back. It sounds simple, but my mother planted and cared for that garden as if it were Versailles. Mom was a magician; our house was the only one on the block with a fully stainless-steel commercial kitchen (because it was cheaper), white carpet in the living room (a remnant from the carpet shop), and antiques that helped create Mom’s made-up background.
My mother, Sylvia Spitz, grew up on a farm near Coney Island. Even though they lived close to the famous amusement park, there was never laughter in her home—just chickens and poverty. Her alcoholic mother was abusive and often passed out instead of cleaning. Her older sister took her own life at seventeen, rather than continue living in their dirty house filled with neglect.
Every item in my childhood home reflected my mother's determination to change this story.
I had more important things to worry about now than religion. I was nine years old and desperately wanted to join the neighborhood gang. The boys would let me play sometimes, but I really wanted to become an official member.
I had already sharpened my attitude; I radiated toughness and street smarts that helped me gain acceptance from the boys. They were of different ages and backgrounds, but all were working-class guys who wore their Dodgers caps backwards and spat on the ground to make a point. I was skinny but strong, fast, and agile.
As a result, I could steal bases in stickball, outrun some of the boys in relay races down the street, endure having my arm twisted behind my back without crying, and most importantly, punch back. Still, the gang leader had to give me the nod to become an official member. The chances of this happening were slim; after all, I was a girl. I thought long and hard about the best way to find acceptance...
The local kids always pooled resources for their games because equipment was scarce. Garbage pail covers served as bases for stickball, using old tennis balls found on the local courts. However, they didn’t last long because the stickball bat was worn too thin. I knew the facts; I came up with a plan.
The neighborhood gang was led by Buster, an Italian American who was three years my senior, so he was twelve. His father was a New York City detective. Buster was tall for his age, with a broken nose, the reason for which no one knew, but it did add character to his face. He loved hanging a pair of broken handcuffs from the back of his jeans, so no one messed with him.
Buster ran East 8th Street with an iron fist. He picked the games and whistled using just two fingers. It was such a piercing sound that we all held our ears. Buster chose the teams and could lift anyone who didn’t follow his rules three feet off the ground. I decided to bring him an offering. I wanted in. He was intimidating and a bully, but he wasn’t scarier than my mom, so I went for it.
I asked my mother to take me to the local discount store she liked. I remembered they sold Spaldine balls, the reddish-pink, spongy ones that almost smelled like vanilla. You could bounce these suckers as high as your skills allowed, making them perfect for stoop ball, racket ball, and stickball. Mom was doing her weekly run to the store for toilet paper, so she agreed.
I raced into the store and found the pile of balls. Handpicking was painstaking, but I finally ended up with three perfect ones. I had one dollar left over from ironing handkerchiefs for my dad at a nickel apiece. Three balls were ninety-five cents. I was ecstatic. I was nine years old, and this was my first serious purchase.
My one-dollar bill felt like it was burning a hole in my shorts. I had a big paper clip from Dad’s store and was building my own “pile of money.” I had purchases in mind, but I had only saved up five dollars so far, which was my “mad money,” just like my dad used to give my mom once a month. I knew the importance of saving, so peeling off one dollar, although painful, was necessary.
I stood on tiptoe so the manager could see me. He placed the balls in a paper bag and rang up the sale. I could already taste the Bazooka bubble gum I was going to buy with my change.
“A dollar eight cents,” he said. I was dumbstruck. “You said the balls were ninety-five cents.” The manager peered over his black framed glasses down at me. “With tax, that’s what it comes to.” He reached for my dollar bill, but I wouldn’t let it go. “Ask your mom to give you eight cents.”
Mom was in bargain heaven, her arms full of toilet paper, tissues, and a box of laundry detergent, large enough to last the coming decade. She was headed my way; I had a decision to make.
“What’s your best price?” I asked the guy. “Say what?” the man chuckled. I repeated it, this time standing en pointe, so I could appear serious and taller.
There was no way I was going to ask my mom; she would never let me buy something ‘beyond my means.’ I had heard all the fights she had with my dad about ‘living beyond one’s means.’ The guy looked at my mom, stocking up for an apocalyptic event, and pushed the bag into my hands.
“I like your style,” he said.
I still remember the feeling of victory. My first street negotiation in retail led to my acceptance into the neighborhood gang. They didn’t have a formal name or jackets, but I was ecstatic. I was the first girl in the history of East 8th Street to join that group.
My mother never recognized the connection between my desire to belong, my feistiness to rise above my circumstances, and her own determination to reinvent herself. She did offer me one piece of advice,
“Duck if they hit the ball too hard and kick them in the balls if they knock you around.” Both practical and instructive, I thought to myself as I headed out to the stickball game.
My Dodger cap was on backward, I was snapping Juicy Fruit chewing gum, extra sticks in my back pocket to share - I was ‘ready for anything.’
Brooklyn taught me that.
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