"Play you shit bums" a guy on the sidewalk yells to our conductor Tony Barry. Tony is a tallish, skinny guy with fiery red hair. He leads our brass band for the feast of Santa Lucia through the streets of Boston's North End, the Italian section where he grew up. He plays the cymbals and prances around the front of the band. "Don't forget Cheryl, this is show biz," he tells me. He takes his performance very seriously. I adjust my oversized 20 year old band cap and continue to play.
My friend Tim got five of us this job. Tim, Paul, and me on trumpet, Elise on tuba and Walt on trombone all playing the feast. Tim even negotiated a pay raise for our "super group" we now get $35 per gig versus the $25 originally negotiated.
After many complaints about how much time these jobs take away from more serious music we decided we were worth more. The negotiations were tough we even had a competing offer from the Lou Amico Band. "What does that guy pay you? I will pay you $5 more," Lou Amico snarled. I think it's personal between Lou and Tony.
Tim went back to Tony with our counter offer and snap; we got a pay raise. We are a package deal and Tony doesn't want to lose all of us. Tim reasons that how often do you get a 40% pay raise? We agreed to the deal.
Antonio Bari became Tony Barry a first generation American and just like other children of immigrants he wanted to erase his heritage and became American, just like my biological parents.
It is a strange consequence of our great melting pot. The thing that Americans are the proudest of is contrary to thousands of years of history.
Our great society wants us to melt together into one ethnicity, American. But how do we discard the traditions passed down from the generations before us?
Traditions keep on going because there is a comfort in knowing where you come from. The rhythm of the street musicians rock us with the same melodies that have been felt for generations; passed down from parents to children, to their children and on and on and on.
I am a stranger to this world even though my family is Italian, that's not how I grew up.
I grew up with French traditions, French language, French holidays, and the French lullabies of my adopted family.
No one knows my history as I am greeted on the street with a nod or a familiar glance by the neighborhood people. I am startled by their recognition.
When you are adopted you search faces for familiarity, “are we related?" Runs through your mind. I don't know much about my heritage as I play for the festival I have only received my "non identifying" information about my birth parents from the Catholic Charities. That's the first step in finding my identity, I ask for non-identifying information from the church agency that placed me. The "keeper of secrets" sends a document and redacts the important information.
Black magic marker smudges out my name,
-------- -------- was born on April 17, 1958.
What's under the black mark, my name?
THEY GAVE ME A NAME?
I have a name, washes over me like a giant wave that drives me to the bottom of the ocean.
I waited for the document for weeks only to find the black marks across the top of the page. It's the actual document that was filled out at the time of my adoption with the information gathered through interviews with my parents. I twisted the page every way possible to see my name, I squinted and strained; closed one eye, then the other. I wished I was superman with X-ray vision.
But Sister Mary Bertha of Catholic Charities is my Kryptonite that prevents me from seeing through the thick black lines where my name is written.
She blacked out my family's names, the places they lived, my name, my history.
My family must be very important because why would the Catholic Church have the good sister take the time to black out the names and the places of my history like the FBI protecting the most secret of secrets?
Oh yeah, because they are assholes! That's why.
They don't evaluate the secret who it affects or who it hurts. The secret is the thing.
The document describes my parents’ physical qualities and their excuses for my adoption. It states that both my parents were 1st generation Americans and that their parents were from Italy. My paternal grandfather was described as a fruit rancher. What the hell is that? Fruit Rancher? We don't have that job in Massachusetts.
And there it is, a musician in the family; my father's sister was a musician. I immediately feel a connection to her. Just one sentence to explain something so important to me. No one in my adopted family is a musician. My father must have been proud of her, because he didn't describe his older brother's occupation.
The Feast of Santa Lucia is in full swing and our band marches down the winding colonial streets of Boston's North End. The streets formed by cow paths during British colonial times. The bass drum marks time while the snare drums fill in the cadence. We aren't the only band to play the feast at the end of August which begins with Saint Anthony and ends with Santa Lucia. Anthony gets three days Lucia one. Saint Anthony is sponsored by the men, Santa Lucia by the women. It's man's world.
Tony Barry doesn't get top billing for the feast of Saint Anthony that's Lou Amico's band. Tony gets top billing for Santa Lucia. Maybe we should have held out for a counter, counter offer.
We escort the statue of Santa Lucia through the streets of Boston as she sits atop the shoulders of the faithful young men. The young women by their side just like it has been done for generations. The immigrant families of Italy settled in Boston's North End in the late 1800's and kept the traditions of their homeland.
My future husband walks with us; I hear his beautiful laugh rising above the band. It feels like home.
I have always been uncomfortable; awkward; different until he accepted me. He is having a blast relishing in the ethnicity that's different than his. You see, my husband is Irish and for thousands of years his ancestors never mingled with another culture, they lived in Ireland, they married in Ireland, they moved to America and did the same thing, married other Irish. Except my husband and his brothers, they married foreigners.
He walks beside me giving me confidence.
He thinks I am beautiful.
It is a joke in Boston that the Italian girls marry Irish boys to shorten their names.
I lived with a short name, a French name that was given to me by my adopted parents. So it has to be more, I bet we have deeper roots, maybe the scientists can't go as far back as necessary to prove we have a deep connection. I know we are kindred spirits.
It's the end of August, the streets of the North End are steamy and you can smell the city.
Hmmm nothing like it, you can't buy a candle at Bath and Body Works that mimics this smell.
What would the marketing people call it?
"Fermented Rat Piss With Sausage and Peppers!" Probably not.
They would call it "Italian Festa" much more marketable.
My description is more accurate.
We played for the Feast of Saint Anthony days before and we didn't need to work as hard.
Santa Lucia is a task master!
The men of the neighborhood want to impress their wives, mothers, and girlfriends as they walk beside us and make sure every moment is filled with music and pyrotechnics. Take a break and they yell at you to play. Jeez, I’m tired.
How many times can you play Santa Lucia? As many times as it takes to get the statue safely to the neighborhood Catholic Church. That's how many times.
We continue to walk and end up on a dark, dead end street that you would never know existed. I bet Google Earth’s super telescope can’t penetrate the canopy of the two hundred year old oak trees that cover the neighborhood. The day is bright except on this street.
I am sure you can't get into this neighborhood unless invited. It's not like a gated community in California where you just wait for someone to punch in the gate code and you sneak in behind them like you belong.
People in this neighborhood know who belongs. No need to punch in a code, they know the code.
We stopped in front of the brick two story house of a man who must have been very important. An old world house built two centuries ago at the beginning of America. We begin to play Santa Lucia; he waves; the crowd cheers; he peels off a roll of money from his second story window to the street below.
I think the roll of cash will never stop; so much money for Santa Lucia. The crowd chants, Viva Santa Lucia! Viva Santa Lucia! I know they yell to impress this man. He rolls the dollar bills to the street. The statue of Santa Lucia becomes draped in rows of money.
Is this man trying to buy his redemption? Impress his neighbors? Or cover up his secrets?
Have you ever watched the Sopranos when Pauli Walnuts, a vicious thug, becomes sick and afraid to die? Pauli makes a complaint to his parish priest. "When you needed a new roof who came through? When you needed new habits for the nuns it was me who gave you the money. I shouldn't have to suffer this much." He couldn't understand why he wasn't getting special treatment when he followed the rules of the church. That somehow his money was going to buy his redemption.
There is no question that the parish priest knew what Pauli was, and where the money came from. The church kept his secret.
And, there is no question what this man was and where the money came from yet the church kept his secret.
So, if you know someone with a deep dark secret you can tell them where to go. Capiche?
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