Milestones

Boys growing up experience certain rites of passage on the road to manhood. Movies such as Diner, Last Picture Show, American Graffiti and Cinema Paradiso are some good examples of this genre. My son Matt's talented friend and former intern, Chris Galleta, wrote a movie about his rites of passage growing up on Staten Island. The film, "Toy's House" made a splash at the Sundance Film Festival this year, and was sold to CBS for distribution in May 2013 under the new title: "Kings of Summer". When I was growing up, the rites were somewhat different than they are for boys today, but afforded the same sense of having passed an important milestone in life.

Smoking was considered cool back in the Fifties. Movie stars, athletes, nearly everyone lit 'em up. There were even cigarette ads with doctors endorsing one brand or other for its healthful, relaxing benefits. It was only natural then that kids would become curious about smoking and want to emulate the adults around them. My Dad smoked Luckies before filtered cigarettes hit the market. I was probably around 10 when I first snuck one out of his pack. We would usually go off to Callahan-Kelly Park for our clandestine puffs, far away from the prying eyes of the "block watchers"...older women who would rat us out to our own parents for any indiscretion. By age 12 we were buying our own. My Dad knew I smoked and would sometimes bum one from me...sadly, they proved to be his undoing, dying of lung cancer at age 72.

For a lot of kids, their first alcoholic drink was a big deal. Usually it was beer since the store owners would sell a kid anything if they had the money. For Italian kids though, drinking alcohol was something we knew from an early age. Teething infants had their gums rubbed with whiskey, and sometimes toothaches in older kids were treated the same way. At family dinners we were given homemade red wine mixed with Coke or cream soda, which encouraged naps so the grownups would have a chance to talk in peace. And most Italian grandfathers had a hidden stash of cherries soaked in moonshine that they fed their grandsons to put hair on their chests. The real step up the ladder came when we were allowed to drink undiluted wine with the men in the family; that was special.

A rite of passage for both boys and girls is that first kiss. Mine came around the seventh grade when we would play games like Spin the Bottle at basement birthday parties with our friends. There was no "date" pressure and no need to worry about the build-up, i.e., will she kiss me back if I dare make a move. It was a simple matter of spinning the bottle and whatever couple the bottle pointed to went off into a darkened corner and commenced smooching. There was no guilt, no phone call the day after, no permanent attachments, just a chance to practice your kissing with no risks. When I think about it, for boys and girls just getting into the game, it was a socially acceptable way of getting to know the opposite sex using training wheels. 

Kids today have somewhat different rites that move them along the line to adulthood like their first cellphone, first experiment with drugs and first visit to their psychoanalyst. It's not easy growing up in any age, but the world is a scarier place to do it in than the one I remember.

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Dropping the Dime

When I tried to locate the origin of the phrase "dropping the dime", I found out that surprisingly, it has many meanings. The definition that most closely corresponds to my understanding of the term was found in the Slang Dictionary: To inform on or betray someone as in “No one can cheat in this class, someone’s bound to drop the dime.” This expression, alluding to the ten cent coin long used in pay phones for making a telephone call, originated as underworld slang for phoning the police to inform on a criminal, and occasionally is used to describe any kind of betrayal. 

In the Brooklyn street culture of the 1950s, snitching on anyone about anything was frowned upon. The code was followed by any kid who wanted to belong...you just didn't drop the dime on a comrade if you wanted to retain their trust. Any kid who betrayed the code and ratted someone out was likely to be shunned by the group and maybe even retaliated against with the administration of a schoolyard beating to remind him of the rules. One possible origin for the rule of silence might be the Sicilian code of "omertà" as described below by Mafia researcher Antonio Cutrera.

"The basic principle of omertà is that it is not "manly" to seek the aid of legal authorities to settle personal grievances. The suspicion of being a “stool pigeon” (an informant), constituted the blackest mark against manhood. Each wronged individual had the obligation of looking out for his own interests by either avenging himself, or finding a patron who will see to it that the job is done." We who grew up under this code were tested often by authorities including police, teachers, military and most frequent of all, parents. Often, refusing to squeal meant suffering consequences one did not deserve.

At school in the classrooms at Our Lady of Lourdes, we were many boys in a confined space, a situation that created serious potential for mischief, and this was in the day when mischief was simply not tolerated. The teachers and Franciscan Brothers ruled with an iron fist and misbehaving boys did not go unpunished. So when a restless student imitated the sound of a fart, or when an blackboard eraser flew across the room, Brother would turn around slowly and ask the guilty party to step forward. Fat chance since the offender knew this meant the ruler across the hands. And so we all had to write 500 times for homework: "I shall not misbehave in class". If the culprit was known to us he was in for a dose of frontier justice in the cloakroom, but nobody ever ratted him out.

When I was in the army, we had what was called a "Day Room" with a TV set, pool table and writing stations for soldiers who wanted to send letters home. They also had coffee, loose cigarettes and candy, all paid for on the honor system by dropping change in a jar. One day our Sargeant announced that the contents of the jar had been stolen. We had our suspicions, but nobody shared them. Furious, Sargeant Brown had us all dress in full field uniforms including rifles and backpacks, and stand at attention in the hot afternoon sun until the culprit came forward. After someone fainted, our Lieutenant called off the inquisition. He later remarked that he secretly admired our loyalty to one another, which he thought not a bad quality in a soldier.

At my old firm, they had a policy that required any employee who knew about wrongdoing by another to report it under penalty of suspension or termination. The policy was pretty much ignored; like good soldiers and mobsters everywhere, nobody wanted to drop the dime.

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“SPALDEEN DREAMS” POSTS.

ALSO, READ MY OTHER BLOG, BRAINDROPS:  http://jpantaleno.blogspot.com/

LOOKING FOR A WORTHY CHARITY? TRY THESE FOLKS: 

Children's Craniofacial Association   http://www.ccakids.com/