Scalito’s Way
Writing by treason on Monday, 31 of October , 2005 at 8:22 pm
During the summer before I left for college, my stepfather volunteered me for a job. A friend of his mother needed a chauffeur/companion and my stepfather thought I would be perfect. His mother died in 1969 and he’d been putting up with her friend for years. He finally saw a break.
The woman had been a schoolteacher. Her plan was to leave her money to her alma mater - a college in Oregon - and every now and then the school’s president would invite her to the campus for a visit and butter her up. A good part of the summer was spent helping her prepare for her trip. I drove her car - a large American sedan - around town to get it out of the garage and moving so it wouldn’t die from neglect. I liked that part of the job. I enjoy older American cars that feel like yachts. Big, comfortable sedans. I think it was a Ford, but it was a long time ago.
Basically I drove her from bank to bank so she could transfer large amounts of money from one account to another. People at the banks were very nice to her and gave her a lot of attention. It was the least they could do. She gave them a lot of money.
She wanted to look nice for her trip. I spent a lot of time driving her to the Stanford Shopping Center. The stores we frequented aren’t there anymore…I’m thinking they were Saks and I. Magnin. She needed some suits. We sat in a room on beautiful sofas and she was brought things to look at and touch. She tried things on. Three or four coiffed women, all in stylish suits and accessories, helped her dress, then stood back and cooed. She soaked up the compliments but criticized everything. They cooed even more.
She picked out a few suits to be altered, then chose a handbag. I remember it. Black patent leather. It was so shiny…and so expensive. Even today I’d have to think long and hard before I spent that much on a purse. A few days later I drove her back to the mall to return it. She was high maintenance and unpleasant, but I liked the shopping trips. These were stores that looked good and smelled good: I figured there were worse ways to spend the summer.
At the end of the day, we’d pull into her garage and her neighbor would be there to greet us. He’d always try to engage her in conversation, but she’d cut him off. He pulled her weeds and clipped her hedges, always offering to look at the car or run errands or help with the yard. He’d bring her food (”The wife always cooks extra!”) and stop by with little gifts. I could tell that he kept an eye on her and her property. He was warm, friendly, kind. When I mentioned that he seemed like a good person, she bristled.
“That dumb dago?”
Then I bristled. I’m not black, so I don’t know what it’s like for a black person to hear words like “nigger” or “boy.” Which is worse? I’m a white female, but I hear “boy” and the hairs on my neck stand up. I feel heat in my cheeks and on the tops of my ears. Is that what they feel? Whatever that feeling is, I felt it when I heard her call her neighbor a dumb dago. Was it the dago part, or the dumb part that had me edgy?
“My mother’s Italian.”
She didn’t say anything. I figured she knew that already and I suspected that she resented the fact that my stepfather married her. Now that he was busy with a new family he had less time to spend on her. Okay, she’s spiteful. I can deal with that.
I suppose I could have refused to put up with her. I don’t think my parents would have forced me to continue working for her if I’d protested. But I decided instead to be patient and kind, and I was determined to be the best chauffeur/companion I could be, even though I really wanted to put a pillow over her face.
By the end of the summer I suspected she had developed a certain fondness for me. She asked me before I left if she could brush my hair. I let her, and wondered what it would be like if she had been kinder to her neighbor. The dumb dago.
As I’ve said a million times before, Italians were lynched when they showed up here and the only people who were happy to see them were the Irish. Every group has their crack at being kicked around and the Irish were happy to let the Italians take some of the abuse so they could have a break. Italians were Catholic and “not quite white” so they were fair game.
I think it’s interesting that I live in a state in which the Hispanics have had ancestors for centuries. A friend says she can trace her family’s roots back more than five hundred years. Yet she’s considered a minority and ethnic. My mother’s family, by comparison, are newbies. So my question is this: When did Italians stop being ethnic? I’ve wondered this for years, but it was Ann Coulter who finally asked. Everyone wants women and minorities on the Supreme Court. Why isn’t Antonin Scalia considered ethnic? After all, Nino’s dad was an immigrant. A dago.
Scalia. Charming, colorful, outrageous, and brilliant. One bio states:
“Once, after a long tirade concluding that affirmative action constituted the most evil fruit of a fundamentally bad seed, a slightly offended Sandra Day O’Connor expressed her displeasure with the comment: ‘But, Nino, if it weren’t for affirmative action, I wouldn’t be here.’”
Ah, now here we are virtually replacing O’Connor with a white male, prompting Chuck Schumer to complain that this court doesn’t “look like America.” Excuse me? The white male you’re referring to is one vowel away from a former San Francisco mayor. Sam Alito’s roots are Italian and you’re saying that Italian roots aren’t American? I know revisionists have rewritten the story of Columbus, but don’t tell me that the court now looks less like America because Alito’s (going to be) on it.
And then Chris Matthews charged Howard Dean and the Democrats for hinting that Alito - or “Scalito” as they like to refer to him - is soft on the mob and maybe even has mob connections. The Left is scurrying around now, slamming Matthews for his remarks. I’ve heard both sides. I just want to hear something from Geraldine Ferraro.
(Incidentally, good call on Alito. Bill Kristol had predicted the nomination and both he and Charles Krauthammer look like they just had the best martini of their lives. Charles even admitted to being “a pretty happy guy.” Watch out, Dems. The Right is ready for battle.)
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