Where Do You Come From?

The town I've lived in all my life has changed. It has gone from the bedroom community of my youth, (close to the NYC rail lines and buses for commuters) to a little village with many immigrants, mostly South American. The downtown strip of stores are now Spanish food stores and restaurants, places that teach ESL, and travel agents with store fronts full of little booths where people can pay by the minute to phone home.


Many have a problem with the new population. There is overcrowding in the schools, illegal housing problems, and that old common fear of people who are different. There has been "white flight" going on for years now, and I've been asked many times when I'm going to sell and get out. I would be dishonest if I didn't say that I'm not happy with the increase in my property taxes because of the need for more classrooms and services due to the changes. But for now, my family and friends are pretty much still within spittin' distance, this is my home, and I happen to like diversity.


Maybe it is the second or third generation that has conveniently forgotten how their grandparents or great-grandparents wound up here. Or maybe they don't have a story as I do, one that they just can't forget, about the settling in of their ancestors.


My mother's parents came from Sicily. They first lived in Brooklyn where my grandfather, a tailor, worked until they were able to save enough money to buy a house. They found one right here, a block from the spot where I'm writing this, and moved in sometime in the early 1930's. One of the neighbors was not happy about the family with the fig tree, grape arbor and chicken coop in the back yard. The man who lived directly across the street came to my grandfather and offered to buy his house if he would not buy another one close by. He made no apologies when he stated that he did not want Italians in his neighborhood. My grandfather was the gentlest soul I've ever known and I cannot imagine what his response could have been, but my understanding is that he just told the man that he did not want to sell his house.


As my mother told the story, this man also had a daughter who was my Mom’s age, and the little girls played together due to the kindness of his wife. My mother was allowed to play at her friend's house only when the father was not at home, but he would not allow his daughter to play with my Mom’s other friend, a little Jewish girl, at all.


My grandfather was successful and went on to own a tailoring factory nearby. He later bought a bigger house in town, but kept the one around the corner. It stayed in the family, from my grandfather to my uncle and to my cousin who finally sold it just a few years ago. My mother and uncles had wonderful memories of that house and the loving extended family that occupied it. It is where my father courted my mother.


My grandfather never told me about the incident, so I don’t know how he really felt about that discrimination. What I do know about him is that he was a kind and honest man, devoted to his family, and that I was the apple of his eye, "My sweet Leenduce," until he died in 1964.

My mother told the story many times, a first hand lesson for her children to remember, and I am grateful for the impression it made on me.


I often think about the unfortunate ending to the man across the street too. He died of a heart attack one Sunday morning. In church.