Discriminating Times

Growing up in rural Connecticut, I led a pretty sheltered life. The first blacks I ever saw were on a trip to Florida. But, the first taste I got of discrimination was, oddly enough, when we moved to Watch Hill, RI in 1962.

The nearby city of Westerly had been a town of textile mills and granite quarries. Labor for those enterprises was largely Italian, who were treated as second class citizens. The first indication I had was when I got on the school bus and took the first empty seat I found. In short order, someone came from the back of the bus and pulled me back there, explaining that I “didn’t want to sit up front with the Waps”. I had no idea what he was talking about, but being the new kid in town, went along with him.

The “white” seats were at the back of the bus – a situation which led to great confusion when I heard about Blacks being forced to the “back of the bus”. There, I learned new slurs like “guinny”, “paisan”, “grease ball”, “goomba”  and ”Idee”. The words were spoken with relish and slightly louder than normal conversation, so the Italian kids would hear them. There was much talk about how stupid and lazy “they” were. And, of course, many crude and rude jokes.

What made the situation quite puzzling to me was the fact that my neighbor and new friend, Vinny Gacionne was Italian. Vinny wasn’t stupid. He was funny and quick and knew more dirty jokes than anyone on the planet. He was also my source for sexual knowledge, but that’s a whole ‘nuther story. He ate and played at our house often. I really enjoyed visiting his house, since he had three sisters who sometimes walked around in their underwear. I remember one time on the bus that Vinny turned around to get my attention and one of the big kids went up a slapped the back of his head. I felt some outrage, but Vinny seemed resigned to his position. We never talked about it.

We moved to Florida a few years later and I only saw Vinny in the summer when we came north. He had fallen in with a party crowd and I didn’t have much interest in that, so we drifted apart. The last time I saw Vinny was the summer he came home after Army basic training. The irony was that in the Army, he was considered “white” and now discriminated against the “Niggers, Jews and Spics”. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but in retrospect I find it puzzling. How could a guy who knew – first hand – how bad it felt to be put-down, then do it to others ?

Vinny left for Vietnam that summer. He died there. I found his name on the Memorial Wall in Washington, DC and shed tears. For a couple of reasons.