MY *VERY FIRST* PRINTED LETTER...

...preceded this one by by 41 years, but in the same "New York hometown newspaper," the Daily News.

In the summer of 1964, at the tender age of 17, I opened the paper one day and the centerfold (which used to be all pictures) was filled with photos clandestinely taken at one of those grand old American traditions, a Ku Klux Klan meeting somewhere in the deep south. But when I saw a young mother holding in infant fully clad in a KKK outfit, complete with the requisite cowardly hood, that did it for me. Without a word to anyone, I decided to write and voice my own opinion.

Deeply affected by the civil rights horrors that were happening in the south at the time, I just could not abide the thought of people teaching babies to hate before they were literally old enough to walk. A few days went by, no letter. A few more days, again nothing. A novice at the time, I just shrugged it off and thought it was dumped into the newspaper's round file.

The following Saturday, a full week later, my father arrived home with a bag of groceries, and the newspaper neatly folded open on top. He unceremoniously placed it on the kitchen table and said to me, "Well kid, now you really did it." Clueless, I responded, "What did I do?" He pointed to the newspaper and I said, "Oh WOW, they printed my letter!!" Not only was it printed, but the very first letter at the top!

My father then said, "I can understand your feelings, but did you have to include your name? Why couldn't you make it anonymous?" to which I responded, "What good is an opinion if I can't stand behind my own words??"

Then the phone calls started...my father's psychotic brothers, SCREAMING that I "disgraced the family name," blah blah blah. The rest of the family's silent disapproval as they "tsk-tsked" about their niece's 'unconventional' and outspoken behavior. In my old neighborhood, 1964 may as well have been 1934, the mindset just never evolved. (With obvious exceptions, of course.)

And then the hate mail began to arrive from none other than George Lincoln Rockwell's delightful American Nazi Party, along with death threats. This rattled my father so badly, he had me temporarily move in with a relative just in case they 'found' me at my home address.

When the insanity began to subside in the fall, I was allowed to move back home again.

I continue to write letters whenever I see injustice, cruelty, and yes, ugly racism too. Amazing how, in 41 years, some things just never change.

And now that I've tacked my mother's maiden name onto my own surname, I get to "disgrace" both sides of the family! How lucky can you get?

INTERVIEW WITH A CONTEMPORARY ESCAPEE VIA THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD

Note: With apologies to all enlightened people of the American South.

Approximately two years ago, via the internet, I met a person I shall call "Marc Antony" who is a self-described escapee from the south, now residing well above the Mason-Dixon Line in "damn Yankee" territory...and thus began what will positively be a loving and lifelong friendship.

Our initial phone conversations bubbled over with comparisons of growing up in a city as opposed to southern country life, and since we were both little rebels, we laughed until we cried. Literally. Then, one night, I innocently said to Marc, "Wow, I'd love to tour the south some day" at which point my dear and funny friend burst out, "ARE YOU INSANE?? YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE ASKING FOR!!" followed by a 'virtual tour' that had him apoplectic, and me gasping for air and screaming with laughter.

Mimicking me, he said "So you'd love to tour the south, would you? Here, let me save you the trip. First of all, you're heading into Bible Belt country and all that entails...proselytizing hypocrites who hold what are known as revival meetings, where children ~ I know, I was one of them ~ are dragged by their Jesus Groupie parents for an entire day of Preacher Blowhard's endless sermon. When you're seven years old, that can give a kid really good reason to start hating their guts, disregarding all the other BS they deliver in their shaky-from-emotion-but-oh-so-righteous voices."

At which point, Marc began imitating a southern preacher, complete with sermon, and I could swear I was listening to Jimmy Swaggart.

"OHHH LAWD, HELP THESE SINNERS DOWN HERE ON EARTH, PRAISE THE LAWD, THANK YOU JESUS! I'M PRAYING FOR THEIR SORRY SOULS!"

"Continuing on your tour, my dear, how do you like those bumper stickers that say I'D RATHER BE SHOOTING YANKEES? Don't open your mouth or you'll be target practice. And all those Confederate flags you see around you? Charming, aren't they? That's because they're proud of the hurritage, as they pronounce it. WHAT heritage?? Slavery, ignorance, racism, what seems like a collective IQ of 50 for the entire southern region, greedy lazy people who became wealthy off the backs of people they owned?? 

Oh, and they just love their 'traditions' ~ tea time and gossip, bridge games and gossip, and they are just wild about names. If their ancestors were involved in the 'War of Northern Aggression' (to all educated people, the infamous Civil War) well, that just gives them a downright case of the vapors, darlin'!

The division of class in the American south is still glaringly obvious, and best represented by the inevitable question, 'WHERE ARE YOUR PEOPLE FROM, YOUNG MAN?'

If your name happens to land in the vaulted Civil War category of names ~ from Lee to Davis and everyone in between ~ they will welcome you with open arms. If not, you'll hear the sweetest 'Oh, bless his po' little heart!' which, in reality, translates to 'go fuck yourself' although they'll never say it outright. No, it's all sugar and cream, honey and molasses for those southern belles!"

By this point, I was so convulsed with laughter, I had to ask Marc to please stop the 'virtual tour' because I could no longer contain myself. I am, however, still treated to spontaneous outbursts of real southern charm whenever Marc remembers his experiences growing up.

Marc concludes, "If you EVAH do decide to tour the south, please don't expect Scarlett O'Hara or her descendants (real or imagined) flouncing around in their antebellum gowns..."

He ain't whistlin' Dixie, either!!

HOMESICK BLUES

"I want to go home where I belong..." ~ Lonely Teenager

And since Dion, the two remaining Belmonts and I are all contemporaries from the same neighborhood, I've no doubt they, too, wish they could turn back the clock and go "home"...to a time and place that no longer exists except in our memories, hearts, and every fibre of our being .

Quite seriously, the older I become, the more those memories occupy my thoughts, pull at my heart and leave me feeling blue as can be, and terribly, terribly homesick. How simple it was (and even if it wasn't, we were young and naive and had no way of knowing the social injustices of the time) how carefree and innocent, our only decision which comic book to buy, what flavor Italian ices on a hot summer day or which game to play.

Without going all treacly and nostalgic, making this just another "remember when" piece, I can honestly say that I have lived many places since leaving my original neighborhood behind, and the only place I think of when I hear the word "home" is that section known as Belmont, tucked away in the middle of the Bronx, a stone's throw from the world-famous Bronx Zoo and NY Botanical Garden.

A neighborhood comprised of mostly buildings, rapidly vacated as the city began to change in the late 1960s-early 70s, leaving it 'Little Italy in the Bronx' in name only...people aren't as 'loyal' to apartments as they are to a private home.

Oh, the merchants are still there, keeping the name alive, but for me it's a haunting ghost town I can no longer visit, it hurts that much to look around and remember. Every time I did visit, I left with a lump in my throat, my heart heavy with unshed tears for days or even weeks after. Seems the older I get, the harder it is to let go of what used to be.

Many stories have been written about this neighborhood, including Chazz Palmintieri's "A Bronx Tale" which presented the harsher side of living in a tough but lovable neighborhood. Was Chazz's representation of our neighborhood accurate? Absolutely, no question about it.

But there were other aspects of living in 'Little Italy in the Bronx,' particularly in the 1940s-50s that were as sweet and charming as any episode of Life With Father or Leave it to Beaver. 

If there is a heaven, all I ask is that I can return to my old neighborhood, as it was when I was a child, and remain there for all eternity. That's how much it meant, and still means, to me.

Yeah, I have those homesick blues all right...but I've nowhere to go to alleviate them, except in my memories.

"Sweet memories are the paradise of the mind" 

THE RUNAWAY GUEST

You've heard of "The Runaway Bride"? Well, I'm the runaway guest.

I've been attending weddings since I was 7 years old. I may have enjoyed them as a kid, but as an adult? Please...save yourself a stamp and don't send me an invitation. I won't be offended, I promise.

As my erudite and hilariously funny friend Bill pointed out, just how many times can one hear "And now, for the first time as Mister and Missus, Angela and Frankie will dance to their special song..." along with "And the bride cuts the cake...." before your eyeballs look like glazed doughnuts from sheer boredom? (Excuse me, waiter, where is the exit sign again...?)

So, somewhere in my 30s, I simply decided to stop attending these ridiculous, and expensive, "celebrations" (let me know when the divorce papers are filed) and saved myself a lot of time, money and empty, redundant, forced conversations with people I either don't know, don't care about, or only see at weddings and funerals. And now that I've eliminated funerals too, I guess I'll never see them again.

Just the planning of a full-blown wedding requires the strategic skills of the Pentagon. Seating arrangements? "Don't put me next to Uncle Joe, Cousin Francine, Aunt Rosie, the band or the kitchen!!" 

How about sitting outside in the hallway, that okay with you? Or the parking lot? Then  you can talk with only cars!

Then there are those pictures. Oh, the poses...so REAL...newlyweds lovingly gazing at each other, the entire brand-new melded smiling family, the bride's family, the groom's family, the bride and her parents, the groom and his parents ~ why not take one of all the waiters too, so they can be included in the inevitable fat white album of boring pictures?

These absurdly excessive days, there are also pre-reception cocktail hours, where guests kiss the air, SO happy to see each other they don't want to mess up their make-up, stuff their faces on every kind of hors d'oeuvre imaginable and drink themselves into a pink state of pure happiness, after which they are escorted into the main reception area, and then the real fun begins...the afore-mentioned grand introduction of bride & groom, their "special song and dance" (as everyone cries or applauds) the irritating clinking of glasses, calling for the cake-toppers to kiss... Wait, it gets worse!

As soon as the appetizer, soup and main course #1 are over, the MUSIC begins! Depending on the taste (and budget) of the darling couple, it will either be a mediocre live band or those tacky "DJs" who mix their own music, volume set to blow your eardrums out.

"Hi, could you please play something from the Sixties?" and then you hear all of your favorite songs, CUT OFF in the middle to segue into your next favorite song, until you're so frustrated, you just want to jump the guy. Hey, I want to hear ALL of Dion's "Runaround Sue" not HALF of it! And those stupid "chicken/electric slide" or whatever the hell dances they're doing these days...it helps if you're drunk, I guess.

After main course #2, the silliness begins. The inevitable "conga line" and "YOU PUT YOUR RIGHT FOOT IN, YOU PUT YOUR RIGHT FOOT OUT ... YOU DO THE HOKEY POKEY, THAT'S WHAT IT'S ALL ABOUT!" More like Hokey Pukey to me.

Another new thing ~ "Venetian Hour" ~ coffee, enough desserts to feed a herd of elephants, the bride & groom cutting the 17-layer cake (more pictures) the line-up of guests (and gifts), the 'favors' ~ used to be white-coated almonds in a white mesh bag, two silver rings and a ribbon, "Frankie and Angela" with the date in scrolling gold writing. Now I hear that a bag of bagels and the next day's newspaper are given out; far more practical. And that breathtaking moment when someone (drum roll) announces the winner of each table's floral centerpiece to take home with them! As if I need more crap at home.

And, of course, the grand finale: The throwing of the bouquet/garter to determine who will be the next lucky person to be married?!! And the placing of the garter on the bouquet-catcher's leg..."HIGHER, HIGHER!" O.M.G.....

Sounds like fun, doesn't it? Try going to a few dozen (or hundreds) of 'em, and then let me know what you think.

Give me a good old Justice of the Peace any day of the week.