Nuns, Jews and Negroes

My understanding of big things at age 5

The first time I was suspended from school, I was in kindergarten and got suspended for two weeks from St. Aloysius Catholic School for knocking my teacher, Sister Mary Virgilius, unconscious. And though I got punished, talked to and yelled at, it wasn’t knocking out Sister Virgilius that embarrassed me…
Being raised Catholic, I had a heightened sense of right and wrong; crime and punishment.

So, there I was in the kindergarten classroom building a horse-racetrack out of wooden blocks, complete with grandstands, racing rails and finish line. (I was very much into gambling and horseracing at an early age, but that’s a story for another time.) I couldn’t wait for Sister Virgilius to see my racetrack. She was coming down the aisle, inspecting the creative projects of her students. I was the last one. But just as she was to get to my racetrack, a little boy’s crying diverted her attention and Sr. Virgilius turned in the direction of the distress.

In those days, nuns wore a full “habit” — like in Bing Crosby movies and when she twirled around, her floor-length, full-pleated skirt swept ALL OVER my little racetrack. That was bad enough. What was worse was that Sr. Virgilius didn’t say she was sorry. I waited and waited, but after the crying boy was smiling again, Sr. Virgilius went and sat at her desk.

Heartbroken, I dismantled the track and put all the wooden blocks back into the 60-pound orange mesh bag we used in those days. The bag was almost as big as me so it took great effort to lug the bag up to Sr. Virgilius’ desk. She was intently doing something I knew nothing about. I was angry and decided Sr. Virgilius needed to pay for her crime.

I slowly started dragging the bag around in a circle, slowly picking up speed until centrifugal force gave me lift off and boom! I let ‘er fly. The bag of blocks hit Sister Virgilius in the chest and she fell backwards in her chair and hit the floor! Concetta Tenorio screamed, “Joanna killed Sr. Virgilius.” I didn’t; I had just knocked the wind out of her but moments later, several nuns were escorting me to the Principal’s office where they called my mom. They were telling me how ashamed I should be…how awful I was. I truly felt awful. Ashamed. Embarrassed, but not because of what I’d done. But rather the fact that when she fell back, her nun skirt flew up and I SAW HER UNDERWEAR! (By the way, for those who are curious, the underpants were black wool knitted affairs that looked like scratchy Bermuda shorts.) Still, it was her UNDERWEAR and even so many decades later, I am embarrassed.

Suspended for two weeks, my mom decides to put me in “prison”. Eat, do chores, and spend time alone in the backyard to contemplate my crime. Worst of all, I am to spend NO time with my closest friend, Rhonda.

Rhonda and I were born within months of each other in Great Neck, Long Island, and we were confident we interpreted the world with great accuracy and intellect. For example: When I, a Catholic, asked Rhonda why Great Neck was a predominantly Jewish community, Rhonda said her mom had told her that Jews suffered in Europe during WWII because of Hitler and they didn’t want to stay there. “So, all the Jews then moved to Great Neck?” I asked. “Yup,” responded Rhonda. Case closed; world understood.

Now sitting on the back stoop, with images of Sr. Mary Virgilius’ underwear stuck squarely in my head, I was caught by the vision of a young girl with cookie-dough colored skin as she walked along the backyard fence. Briefly, she looked up. I smiled but she quickly lowered her head. She was unlike any creature I had ever seen. About seven years old, she was unusually tall, skinny, with pigtails that reached down to her waist. She was so graceful…a most exotic creature. I knew she was a Negro, although I had very little experience with Negroes…and had NEVER met a Negro child. She disappeared through the back door into my neighbor’s house.

I could barely wait to get to the backyard the next day. Around the same time, the girl appeared. This time, I ran to the backyard fence. “HELLO!” I startled her. But she smiled. Her eyes were like golden-brown marbles and her teeth, brilliantly white. She kept walking toward the back door of Mrs. Stine’s home.

“What’s your name? I’m Joanna. What’s your name? ”

“Nadine” and she disappeared into the house. She was the first Negro I had every spoken to. There was no Black or African-Americans in those days — just Negros and “coloreds” and Nadine was beautiful.

I waited each day for her to arrive and gradually, we talked. I told her why I wasn’t in school and she was both horrified and intrigued. She would sit on the other side of my prison fence and teach me how to read and write my letters. My mom saw this but decided not to bust out her inner warden, mostly because she realized how harsh the punishment had been. So, she conveniently ignored Nadine and me. Nadine’s aunt was Mrs. Stine’s housekeeper. The aunt was dark-skinned and stout and nothing like Nadine. Yet, I adored her for bringing her smart and gentle niece into my world.

My kindergarten suspension flew by, as did Thanksgiving vacation. And, I went back in school. And got to play with Rhonda again. And I had a question. Nadine had asked me if it was true that Jews had tails. Tails?! “Oh my, I don’t know” and promptly asked Rhonda. Her face scrunched up, she turned, dropped trou, stuck her butt in my face and yelled, “See, no tail. That’s an anti-Semitic remark and you should be ashamed!” I stared at her butt. No tail duly noted. I didn’t feel embarrassed and I didn’t even know what Anti-Semitic meant. I had only wanted information. And frankly, I was kinda disappointed that Rhonda didn’t have a tail. THAT would have been so cool! Nadine wasn’t coming to meet up with her aunt anymore and while I missed her, I accepted her absence as part of the vagaries of life as a child.

Then in a blink, summer arrived. Like most kids in Great Neck, Rhonda left for “sleep away” camp. Not being Jewish, I stayed home. Much to my delight, Nadine reappeared, coming to work with her aunt each day. We spent each day together, which was approved by my mom (so she didn’t have to entertain me) and by Nadine’s aunt (so she could work).

And that’s when I learned what life was like for Nadine — what it meant to be Negro and more importantly, how tough it was to be her kind of Negro…a “mulatto”, mixed race. She was born in the South to a teenage white girl who got pregnant by a Negro boy. The baby was sent away — to her aunt, who was raising her. She never met her mother. In the South in those days, a “mulatto”, wasn’t welcome.

I asked my mom why being Mulatto was so bad. “Miscegenation”, my mother explained. “Mixing races can lead to all sorts of genetic defects and problems.” She said this like she even knew what she was talking about. She said that people should stick to their own kind.

“But, Mom, you are blonde, blue-eyed and your parents are from Prague, and Dad’s Sicilian with black hair, black eyes, and dark skin. Isn’t that miss-uh-begation?”

“Miscegenation”, she corrected. “No, it’s different. You’ll understand when you get older.” Even at 5, I knew that was a bullshit answer.

The next time I saw Nadine, would be my last. She waved to me as she went into Mrs. Stine’s house but only a few minutes later, Nadine was at my back door, crying and shaking. Mrs. Stine had accused her of stealing.

That was crazy, and I headed out the door to tell Mrs. Stine that. My mother put her hand on my shoulder. “This isn’t your business,” she said closing the door on the crying Nadine. “We don’t know. These aren’t our people.”
But I did know. I knew that Nadine would never steal. I knew that it was probably Mrs. Stine’s delinquent teenage son. But I did nothing.
I watched as Nadine’s aunt grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the door. I did nothing. I did not defend my friend. I never, ever saw Nadine again.

How is it a child who could knock out a nun was not brave enough to defend her friend? The answer is an ugly one. No matter how close Nadine and I were, she was still “the other.” Unlike Rhonda, whose Jewishness did not distance us, Nadine’s race separated her from me.

So many years later, all I can say is: “Nadine, I am sorry. I am so embarrassed.”