Lunchtime in the Second Grade
I attended an Elementary School in Gloucester County, New Jersey. It was called Chews School and it was among the newest of the schools built to accommodate the children of the post-war, baby boom. The area in which we lived was one of the many GI Bill developments that sprung up in the Delaware Valley in the 1950’s and it was called Catalina Hills, in the town of Magnolia.
For some reason I could never figure out, all of the streets in our development were named after cities in the Republic of California. There was my street, Beverly Drive, then there were Fresno, San Diego, Laguna, Pasadena, Oakland, Malibu and Hollywood Drives. Come to think of it, all of the streets were “Drives” except for the “Courts”, those cul-du-sacs that some of the streets ended in. I was little, but I was sure there were no hills around us and the streets, lined with Rancher and Split-Level style homes, bore no resemblance to anything Californian. Not a palm tree or a Pacific wave to be seen. There certainly was no gold to be found along the Great Timber Creek.
Although there was a cafeteria, we kids in the Second Grade ate our lunches at our desks before recreation out in the playground. Ever since I could remember, all of the kids brought in lunches from home and the only thing the school provided were two kinds of milk; one was normal and one was chocolate. I always drank chocolate. My mother tried to get me to use a lunchbox, but I broke two thermos bottles because she never made me chocolate milk to bring to school. She never caught on to my deception.
One of the cool things you could do when you brought in your own lunch from home was trade stuff with the other kids, but I had a problem.
Most of the kids brought in things like peanut butter and concord grape jelly sandwiches. Some kids brought in bologna (they called it “baloney”) or ham and cheese sandwiches. My mother sent me to school with fried peppers and egg sandwiches, spinach and egg and, sometimes, potato and egg sandwiches. These were basically Italian "frittate" stuffed into a long roll and they dripped olive oil, leaving my brown, paper bag with a slowly expanding stain that usually reached its maximum saturation by the time lunchtime arrived. In addition to this, she usually put a fruit and a Tasty-Kake Cupcake or Krimpet and a paper napkin along with the sandwich. They usually got oiled up, too. I was sure that my mother gave me these sandwiches just in case she wanted to follow the drops to make sure I got to school!
My problem was that no one wanted to trade anything with me!
I did have two, good candidates to trade with – Renato and Filippo. They both had Italian first names, but I was named after my Irish Godfather, Thomas Lafferty, so my first name was American.
Renato’s Dad was born in Italy and came to America before the war. He went back to fight with the American Army and was an interpreter. Ray said he gave Army “k-rations” to his family in Italy so they wouldn’t starve. Ray’s Mom was born in America and was a nurse, or something. She didn’t have time to make Ray’s lunch, so she would buy him a quarter of a Hoagie or some other sandwich with Italian cold cuts before he got on the school bus. Once he came to school with roast beef and provolone with mayonnaise on an Italian roll! I couldn’t believe it!
Ray told me he was an ancient Roman because his last name ended in “us”. He said, that was Latin! I told him that I had an uncle whose name ended in “us” – De Angelus - and his family was from Abruzzo. Ray said my uncle’s family was probably Roman and one of them went to Abruzzo on vacation and decided to stay. In any case, Ray had no reason to trade anything with anyone.
Filippo was born in Italy in the town of Caserta. His Dad was sent to America as an Italian prisoner of war. After the war, he went back to Italy to get married. He was a tailor by trade and he brought his family to America after he was hired to work in some factory in Philadelphia. Filippo’s sandwiches were almost like Renato’s, except they weren’t bought at the deli; his Mom made them at home. Filippo said he liked my sandwiches, but his Mom would smack him if he gave any of his away.
Renato and I understood Italian pretty well, but Filippo was the expert. He told me that he couldn’t trade with me, but that he could teach me and Renato all of the good curse words in Italian; the real parolacce that you’ve got to go to confession for or else go to hell. Both Renato and I already knew some, but we took him up on his offer, anyway, and, over the course of the next few weeks, our recess was spent listening to and repeating the foulest Italian and dialectical words and expressions ever spoken on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. I never knew just how effective they were until a bit later on a Saturday morning visit to my grandparent’s house.
I was returning from the pharmacy on foot with my grandfather to his home on Dickenson Street in Philly when a teenager turned left out of Wilder Street, almost sending the two generations of us to our graves. After slamming on his breaks, he yelled at us both to watch where we were going. Suddenly, I was possessed by a demon that revealed to me my lexicon of Filippo’s curses and I yelled back,” Vaffannculo, coglione figlio di putana!”
Stunned, my grandfather looked down at me, and erupted into a belly laugh and clapped his hands. Unfortunately, I did not see my grandmother standing on the sidewalk in front of us near the front steps. She grabbed me by my right arm, lifted me onto my tip-toes and gave me a whack across the left side of my head. She had a ring the size of a tombstone on that hand and it stung me like a bolt of lightning.
“Brutto mascalzone; Non si usa ‘ste parolacce!”, she screamed.
My grandfather petted me on the top of my head, walked me over to Joe Abate’s Ice Cream Fountain and Cigarette Store on 12th Street and bought me a vanilla cone. Joe Abate was really a numbers writer, but his ice cream was great!
From that day on, my grandmother always gave me the “evil eye” when we greeted each other – even on Christmas!
Getting back to the school lunch, one day I sat at my desk and opened my oily bag to pull out its contents. This time, there was a spinach and egg sandwich. I then felt a presence to my left side and looked up. I spied a boy who looked just like me; almost my mirror image. He had the same color hair, he was the same build and height. My eyes were green and his were blue, but other than that, we could have been brothers.
He introduced himself with a smile,” My name is Steven Cohen and I’m Jewish!”
I was puzzled. I knew he was Steven Cohen; I never really noticed him but I had heard his name every day during Roll Call. I didn’t know what he meant by “Jewish”. I knew it had to mean something to him because he said it all in one breath with his name.
I answered,” I’m Tom Giordano; what do you mean, ‘Jewish’?”
“It’s my religion.”
“Oh”, I answered,” I’m a Roman Catholic.”
He nodded, then shocked me to my socks when he asked if I wanted to trade half of my sandwich for half of his. I said 'sure' before I even asked what he had. We pushed the next desk over and he sat down. He had a sandwich made of two slices of a dark bread which I hadn’t seen before. He told me it was his mother’s chicken salad on a bread called “pumpernickel”. It was delicious; I had never tasted any sandwich better. Then he pulled out a piece of pastry he called a “rugalach”, but you had to pronounce the “ach” like you were clearing the back of your throat.
He really enjoyed my Mom’s spinach and egg sandwich, too. I taught him how to say, “frittata” and told him how it was made. I only had one Tasty-Kake, Butterscotch Krimpet, so I gave him the whole thing. It was the beginning of a great friendship.
About a month later, I asked my Dad what a “Jew” was.
He said,” Well, it’s a person who follows the Jewish tradition; a religion like ours. Why do you ask?”
“My friend Steven said he's Jewish.”
“Oh; I see.”
“He says he doesn’t have go to confession and doesn’t have to bow his head when he says ‘Jesus’. I told him I had to because the nun at catechism says we have to respect Him or she’d crack our knuckles with a yardstick. She did that to Freddy Daley and then made him stand in front of the class and say ‘Jesus’ twenty times. He looked like a Phillies bobble-head doll.”
My father smiled.
When I asked him what the difference was between our religions, he said,” Tommy, you know how the first part of our Bible is called ‘the Old Testament’? Well, the ‘New Testament’ is the part of the Bible that deals with Jesus and his teachings. The Old Testament is the Jewish Bible and ours is both. I want you to think of it this way, we are Jews who believe that Jesus was the Messiah – our Savior; your friend Steven and his family are Jews who believe that the Messiah hasn’t come yet. To them, Jesus was a Rabbi, or teacher, but not the Messiah. Do you understand?”
That was as clear enough a picture as I needed and I was excited to share this news with Steven, but he was absent from school the next day. On the following day, Steven was back at school and he said that Thursday was a half-day and asked If I wanted to come home with him on the school bus for lunch. I told him I’d have to ask my parents. I was permitted.
When we arrived at Steven’s home, Steven touched a strange object nailed to the doorjamb and then kissed his fingers. I said nothing as he opened the door and we went inside. It was then that I met his Mother.
She was a thin, beautiful woman with blond hair and taller than my Mom. She welcomed me to their home and I said,” My name is Tom Giordano and I’m a Jewish Roman Catholic and I am pleased to meet you!”
Her smile made her eyes glint and she looked angelic as she led us to the kitchen and asked me to explain. I told her what my father had told me and she said she thought my father was a wise man.
Over the school year, Steven educated me into all things “Jewish”. I found out about their holidays. I learned what a dreidel was. I learned about what the mezuzah on his doorjamb meant, and what the menorah and the yarmulke were. Steven learned a lot of Italian things, too. Mostly about food, though. I also taught him some of the language, but none of the stuff that Filippo had taught me. I would eventually have my First Holy Communion and would be able to go to confession, but Steven wouldn’t and I didn’t want him to go to hell on account of those Italian curse words!
At the school year’s end, I had become an honorary Jew and a member of the Lost Tribe of Israel and Steven had become an honorary Italian and member of the Roman Legion.
I would not see Steven over the summer because he had to go visit relatives in the State of New York and then go to Summer Camp with his cousins to do Jewish things like the American Indians did. I did, however, get close to the little Dutch girl across the street. We were always together. She ate bologna and mustard sandwiches at my house. One day, her Mom said I could eat lunch there.
As we sat down to the table, I asked Mary Ann’s Mom if they were Jewish.
“Oh, no; we’re Christians”, she responded in a heavy, Dutch accent.
“Oh, like us! Are you Catholics, too?”
“Oh, no, no; we’re Orthodox Presbyterians!”
She put down before me a glass of milk and a Disney plate with an open-faced, white bread sandwich cut into quarters upon it. It was smeared with butter and was covered with chocolate sprinkles that we call “jimmies” in Philly.
“This is what we eat in Holland; it’s called ‘hagelslag’.”
I ate the first quarter slowly. It wasn’t bad, but somehow, I didn’t think I was going to become an honorary member of the Dutch, Orthodox Presbyterian community.