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December 25, 2008
At a friend’s house one night, the booze had taken its toll and we naturally turned to the karaoke machine. I had sung at least five Neil Diamond songs before my friend, a Jewish comedian, said, “You know, you are an ‘honorary Jew.’”
This “honorary Jew” grew up in Belleville, which at the time was predominately Italian and Catholic. There was a synagogue near the library and a Jewish man on the board of education. I met my first Jewish classmate in seventh grade. He moved from Russia and we called him Jupiter Head because of his massive cranium, not because we were neophyte anti-Semites.
In grammar school, I always felt bad for Jewish kids at Christmas. I found out they got eight gifts on Hanukka, but they only opened one per day. On Christmas Day, I tackled my presents with a frenzy that would make even Caligula proud. This was the first time I empathized with my peers. I must have been a pretty stupid kid because I hadn’t even thought of poor kids.
When I was 10, my family took a trip to the Pines, a resort in the Catskills. The year before, we attended Pine Springs, an Italian-American resort. My sister, my cousin, and I only noticed two subtle differences between the two. The Pines didn’t serve pasta every day, and Pine Springs did not have guests wearing Pilgrims’ hats and looking like Robby Benson from that movie that was always on HBO (The Chosen).
It wasn’t until freshman year at Rutgers that I met three friends who would serve as my guides to the Jewish world. On a road trip to Florida during my junior year, we stayed with a Jewish classmate’s family in Boca Raton. I awoke before the others and talked with two older women over fresh-squeezed orange juice. We spent a half hour discussing Yiddish words (or at least the ones I learned from Howard Stern. Not exactly William Safire, but Stern did turn me on to the word “yenta,” which is still one of the greatest words in any language).
At Rutgers, I also learned more about Jewish holidays. One time, I was stopped by someone on the way to class. He handed me a dreidel and wished me a Happy Hanukka. Little did I know that would start my dreidel-spinning career, one that would cause me to lose $60 one night and to accuse a friend of using a “loaded” dreidel.
The other holiday lesson I learned was that Jewish kids had to sacrifice a lot more than us Catholic kids. They actually had to fast during Yom Kippur. We just had to skip meat on Fridays during Lent, but even then were told we were exempt because we were students. Only out of deference to my pious mother, who actually knew how to operate rosary beads, did I observe a few meatless Fridays in college. Of course, there were no rules against drinking a 12-pack of cheap beer.
Catholics always had exceptions to the rules and our masses wrapped up in an hour or less. You heard horror stories from Jewish friends about three-hour ceremonies and having to rush home before dark on High Holy Days.
After college, I stayed close with my Jewish chums. One of them became active in all the Jewish dating services. For some reason, I always equated Catholic dating services with ultra-religious people, who, like Bobby in Saturday Night Fever, liked the taste of communion wafers. The Jewish sites seemed to be relatively free of zealots.
I attended a Jewish speed-dating event in New York City. We had eight minutes to impress 10 different dates. I had two things going against me right off the bat: I was from New Jersey, and I wasn’t Jewish. As for my own convictions about inter-dating, the only restrictions my mother had ever imposed on me was not to bring home any “hoochie mamas.” And even in that I disappointed her.
My Jewish friend finally met a wife through one of the J-dating services. At one of their first joint parties, she made latkes. I must confess latkes are one of the few Jewish foods I enjoy, along with pickles, bagels, and rye bread. True, I am no foodie, and despite being Italian-American I don’t even like tomatoes. But nothing repulses me more than gefilte fish, which looks like sardines soaked in milk. You can also keep your boiled meat. It’s said the Irish got the corned beef idea from their Jewish neighbors in New York, and the very smell makes me turn green every St. Patrick’s Day. And I won’t even discuss the Reuben, a sandwich, which, if my captors forced me to eat it, I would divulge all national secrets.
My other Jewish friend married a Catholic girl. Since I knew half of their wedding was Jewish, I gorged myself on pork during the cocktail hour. All the other buffet lines looked like the opening night of The Dark Knight. The wedding was supposed to start at seven, and I was the only one on time. During the ceremony, the rabbi explained the concept of Jewish time. This edgy rabbi really confirmed my love of Jewish comedians.
Speaking of comedians, I have often been compared to a middle-class Larry David. I empathize with the likes of David and Richard Lewis, comedians who could cull a negative out of winning the lottery. But my all-time favorite is Woody Allen, the greatest director, not just comedic auteur, in American cinema. Annie Hall is the perfect movie.
All of this flooded me as I researched a book I have written and hope to publish next year. I researched turn-of-the-century editions of The Brooklyn Eagle, histories of the Catskills resorts, Jewish boxing champs, and Jewish mobsters. All this reminds me of my own Italian-American heritage. My people lived next to Jews on the East Side, sported their own stable of boxing champs, and also included some colorful wise guys.
But then again, that shouldn’t be a surprise. Italians and Jews may not share a religion, but we have mothers who worship the same thing: their underfed, unappreciative children.
M.J. Jannicelli is a history teacher at Carteret High School.
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