The Trouble with Being Born: A Novel

Father

156 There they are, there they are. Look at them, all dressed up in their Indian costumes and Mexican hats. Show-offs. Beat that drum, beat that drum you sons of bitches. We’ve got our own orchestra, a small marching band. Columbus was a Killer . We Won’t Celebrate Genocide. Columbus is the Hitler of America! Fuck them, the Hitler of America. How stupid, how stupid. How’d they like it if we stopped them from celebrating Cinco de Mayo? What about Montezuma and human sacrifice ? I blame the Italians. I’ve been telling them for years, the Knights of Columbus, Sons of Italy, La Famiglia Italiana, we’ve got to pay attention, we’ve got to stand up for our rights. We’re not the “in” minority, we’re not the Mexicans, blacks or women, and so no one’s going to help us. We’ve got to stand up for ourselves. We’ve been discriminated against for hundreds of years, and nobody knows our story. We get The Godfather, The Sopranos and all that John Gotti crap, but nobody knows how we can’t get jobs, how we can’t be heard, how we’re stereotyped by the media. Look at Cuomo. He answered my letter once when he was governor of New York. He didn’t want to run for president because he knew all the mafia questions he’d have to answer. And this racist town of Pueblo Colorado, Father 157 father where I can’t even get my letter to the editor published. Ten years ago, fifteen years ago, they published my letter, and nothing since. I asked that editor, the city editor, that young punk from Harvard, and he said they couldn’t read my writing. But even when Frances copied it out carefully, they still didn’t print it. And now the publisher, Rawlings, wants to build a library, that bastard. A million dollars for a library, but he won’t print my goddamn articles. I hate that son of a bitch. You talk about freedom of the press in Russia or China, what about freedom of the press in Pueblo Colorado? What about our civil rights, the right to peaceful assembly? But I blame the Italians. They wouldn’t listen to me. And now here we are, fighting with a bunch of Indians and Mexicans who don’t even live here, trying to march down the street. It’s starting to rain. I’m glad I brought my hat. There’s Councilman Santarelli, a real phony. A phony Italian. An Uncle Tom Italian. I asked him to put me on the civil rights commission , I asked him to put me on the equal housing commission , I asked him to put me on the regional development commission, but he won’t put me on nothing. He’s worried that I might say something to upset the Anglo establishment. Hell yes I want to upset the Anglo establishment. I want to call attention to this racist town. He wouldn’t even nominate me for dogcatcher, that phony bastard. The orchestra starts playing Italian music, and we’re moving . About time. I guess Jo Jo ain’t coming. Seventy-five years old and he still works everyday, from noon until midnight, serving drinks and making macaroni. It keeps him young. He told me he probably wouldn’t come. “Frank, if I come, I’ll get so goddamn mad I’ll bust a couple of those knuckleheads with a baseball bat, and I’ll end up in Florence.” Listen to them yell. Why don’t you leave us alone? “Leave us alone, goddamn 158 father it. We’re not doing anything to you! Oh yeah, whatta about Montezuma? What about human sacrifice?” Read your history you stupid Mexican, or Indian, or whatever the fuck you are. “Hello there, Mr. Koncilja. How are you doing? Look at those mokes over there. I thought there’d be more of us, you know Mr. Koncilja? It’s raining, but it’s like I told the lodge, we’re a forgotten minority, we’re not the Mexicans, blacks or women, and we gotta stand up for our rights. You were there, you heard me. Yeah.” That Joe Koncilja’s a nice guy. He and his brother Jimmy, lawyers, bought up all of South Union and the train depot , turned it around. That’s where they work, and...