In Praise of Attitude by Rosette Capotorto Everyone from the
Bronx has attitude because everyone from the Bronx has balls. Especially the
women. The women’s balls are often much larger than the men’s. Let me explain. Balls
are not those unround things that hang from between men’s legs. No, that is
definitely not what we mean when we say up here, “She’s got some pair.” We
may even put our hands on our crotches and with a rude but precise gesture
indicate just where the pair goes. But do not make the mistake of limiting
balls to body parts. In the Bronx, when we
say balls we mean attitude and when we say attitude we mean balls. But
listen, there are many other parts involved in this attitude thing. The
mouth, of course, is number one. As Jo-Jo always says, “My mouth is my
weapon.” If you can’t shoot off your mouth, let the word bullets fly, you
don’t have balls. “Sticks and stones
can hurt my bones but words can never harm me,” the mothers told us, but
every kid from the Bronx knows this is a crock. Of course words can and do
harm. What we have to learn is that words can also protect. There are
passwords, buzzwords, codewords, and, of course, cursewords. The trick is to
know the right ones and use them appropriately. Then there are
curses, not just curse words, but curses. Attitude voodoo Jo-Jo calls it.
Curses can follow you and mess you up for good. One girl I know put a curse
on her ex two years ago and he’s still reeling. His car breaks down every
other day, his grandparents died within a week of each other, his sister ran
off with a Marine, a no-count Marine from Alabama. No girl from the
neighborhood will go out with him. We know better. I asked her how she did it
but she wouldn’t tell me. She got him good and she wasn’t even from the
neighborhood. The hands have a
language of their own. Something like reading between the lines. The hands
can be hammers to nail the words in. Or they can be gentle as angels dancing
on clouds. Hands add depth and detail, make the finer points that cannot be
spoken. Attitude, that
beautiful thing, includes staying up til all hours. It comes with the
territory. Someone who goes to bed at ten o’clock doesn’t have much in the
way of coglioni. My Bronx friends
are nightbirds, party people. We love New York. We own this city. We are the
people who make Saturday nights turn into Sunday mornings. I am wide awake at
five a.m. and thrilled as
always to break dawn. It is my finest hour. I drive North up the FDR, Jo-Jo
at my side, to the Willis Avenue Bridge. I never think of the Willis Avenue
as a bridge. It sure doesn’t look like a bridge but more like the gateway
into some old fortress. It’s an old thing that Willis Avenue and it shows. They’ve been fixing
that road since my mom used to drive downtown in her dad’s car on Saturday
night. That was twenty-some years ago and still the metal sheets cover the
curve as you exit the Willis to get to the Bruckner. It’s a wild road, great
skill required. It’s a wild road, the kind that makes driving driving. Steve
McQueen never had it so good. New York changes,
yes, but she changes ever so slowly. The things that don’t work never worked;
the things that do work, like the elevator in the Empire State Building, are
used by tourists. We natives know the truth. Know what to take for granted
and what not to. We know what boundaries to cross and that we cross them at
our peril. New York is
integrated in a segregated kind of way. We have some of everyone but we do
not necessarily cross over. We honor neighborhoods. Most of the time.
Terrible things can happen when we do not. If you read the Daily News you know what I mean.
There’s a reason for boundaries. Crossing
neighborhoods is tough but crossing boroughs is ten times worse. When the
Bronx and Brooklyn get together, watch out. Danger fills the air. Can’t play
a simple game of poker without a problem. Can’t have dinner in peace. Oil and
vinegar, the Bronx and Brooklyn. Put them together and you’d better toss that
salad. And these are paisanos I’m
talking about. You mix in color and it gets stickier quicker. I have a cousin from
the South. Yeah, there are a few Italians down there, though it’s never been
made clear to me how they got there. It has something to do with the war,
World War II, I guess. We’ve never been there to visit. There seems to be an
unspoken agreement in the family. They come to visit us but we do not go
there. From what I know of the South I’m not sorry. It sounds pretty weird to
me. I guess we seem strange to them, too, but they don’t quite let on.
They’re much too polite for that. I do admit that for
all their manners those Southern women have some balls, too. They do all
right when they come to the Bronx. My cousin Sis, short for Sissi, is no
lightweight. I’ve seen her in action. Seen her stare down a schoolyard full
of Bronx females, no easy task. She’s cute, Sis, and she knows it. Women
from the South have a big ‘D’ for different stamped on their foreheads. The
Bronx boys go crazy for Sis. Her southern ways, her accent, her clothes, her
hair, her whole look stands out and makes them stupider than usual. No big
hair and hard make-up for her. She has style Sis and it’s way different. The
guys go nuts and the females get riled. They can smell challenge a long way
off. Scent is definitely a part of attitude. Sis can face off with
the best of them And can she drive a car. It’s got to be seen to be believed.
She says it’s because she’s been driving since she was nine years old. They
let them drive really young down there. When she could barely reach the gas
pedal she was driving her granny’s big old Plymouth on dirt roads out in the
middle of nowhere. City streets don’t bother her. She has total control of
any vehicle at all times. Sis makes it clear
that she has no interest in any of these guys. “They can keep them,” she says
to me privately. She’d never say anything like that outside the house. She
has a yen for black men, more beautiful and soulful than any white woman’s
son. That’s what Sis says. Now that takes balls. We’ve talked about this at
length over the years. Our talk gets deep after midnight when the shadows of
the streetlights and the occasional screech of burning rubber fills my small
bedroom. The South is
prejudiced all right but it’s a different system than we have up here. I’ve
asked her to explain it and I’ve certainly put in my two cents but we can’t
quite put our finger on the differences. Certain things stand out. For one thing,
southerners, black and white, eat the same foods. You know. Corn bread and
ribs and collard greens and black-eyed peas. Even the Italians eat this way.
It’s weird. They don’t know how to make cavatelli
or what cippolini are. Southern towns tend
to be small so people know each other even across color lines. It’s more
natural to say hello, even if they don’t much like each other. Sis tells me about
her current boyfriend. He is beautiful, the sexiest man she’s ever met. He’s
not the one for her but it hasn’t dampened their affections, as she puts it.
He’s keeping it playful, nothing serious and she says that’s just fine. Sis
is not looking for a husband. “Not for a long time,” she says with that drawl
and it sounds like she never will get tied down. She respects that
about this guy she’s seeing. His honesty, his not giving her a line. She says
she tried to like the white boys but they’re just so full of it. They believe
themselves, believe the bologna (her word, not mine; no one in the Bronx
would be caught dead using a word like bologna),that comes out their mouths.
She has a point there. She tells me she just can’t handle living life that
small-minded way. She likes a guy with a lot more to give. She says she
doesn’t mind bull but it’s got to be sweet as sugar and easy on the ears. She
says it’s like swimming in one of those swimming holes they have down there.
You know it’s not the best water for swimming in but on a hot day it’s just
fine. Sis says she only
dates men who are not afraid to talk, not even to a woman. She says it’s
their handle on language that hooks her every time. So few men learn the
value of words. She says that black men have it all over white boys. She
attributes this to their upbringing. Their mothers, she says, are the
strongest women in the world. If they have a good thing with their mothers
they can handle any woman. I don’t know. Myself,
I’d have a hard time going out with someone on the basis of the way they
speak. Give me looks any day. Clear and simple. As Jo-Jo says, “You may get
sick of him. But if he’s good looking it’ll take a lot longer.” Sis had a date last
night. Because she is a brazen hussy with good sized coglioni she had him come pick her up on the corner by my house.
This was not a good move though I respect her principles. To bring a black
man into the neighborhood is not a good idea. To bring a black man into the
neighborhood and then go out with him in full view of the schoolyard, is even
less of a good idea. Hours later, maybe
one or two in the morning, the girls, having sent the guys to cool off, wait
for her return. They sit on the curb a little way up the block from my house,
not exactly hiding, but screened by the tall hedges along the sidewalk. When
Sis arrives she senses something is about to happen. She sees the girls and
sees them make a move toward her. Words come from their mouths sharp as
bullets. Vicious words make great ammo. Sis does not panic though she feels
fear. She’s come up against this kind of thing before. She puts the keys
between the fingers of her right hand, making a brass knuckle. She doesn’t
want to use it but if she has to she will. She may go down but she’ll go down
fighting. “We want to talk to
you,” the ringleader, Donna, hisses. “Yeah,” says Sis
exaggerating her southern drawl. “Where did you go
tonight?” “It’s nice of you to
ask but it’s none of your business where I go or with whom.” “We make it our
business.” Donna is tense and her earrings tinkle. “You went out with a
mooli tonight,” chimes in Patty, a soft looking blonde with nails of steel. “Excuse me?” “A mooli, a nigger, a
black guy.” Sis keeps silent. “We don’t allow them
in our neighborhood. And we don’t allow our friends to go out with one.” “And you consider me
your friend?” says Sis cool as a cucumber. “While you’re in our
neighborhood you have to follow our rules. You may think you’re in New York,
land of anything goes, but you’re not. You’re in the Bronx.” My cousin is no fool.
She stood still and listened. “We didn’t let the
boys handle this. They wanted to but they were too hot. We don’t want the
Daily News up here. We like peace and quiet.” “I second that
emotion,” says Sis. “There will be no more
of this then?” says Donna, gold rings shining in the dark. “This is your
neighborhood, not mine. I’ll respect your rules. I won’t bring anyone here.
Not because you have me scared. Not because you’re threatening me
. . .” Patty took a step
toward her but Donna stopped her with a look. Donna is a natural born leader. Donna nodded and Sis,
with a deep breath, continued. “We southerners have our rules, too. I don’t
want to see anyone get hurt. I don’t want to make trouble for my cousin. Or
for any of you for that matter.” Donna stood her
ground in her white leather jacket. Sis did not back
down. “Look. Let me say my
piece. I know where you’re coming from. You girls think you’re tough. And you
are, you are. But let me tell you something. It’s hell to follow the rules
and it’s hell to break them.” Patty made another
move as if to grab Sis but Donna said, “Let the bitch talk.” “Did you ever hear
anyone say, ‘Question authority?’” There is a group
murmur, “Nooo.” They don’t like where this is going. They don’t want a head
trip. “She doesn’t look
like the hippie peacenik type does she?” Donna said and faced her friends. “I’ll respect your
rules,” Sis said. She did not want to go back to square one. “But do one
thing for me. Think about it. Think about why you feel the way you do.” “We don’t have to
think about nothing,” Donna said. “True,” said Sissi. I don’t think Sis can
change the world. I don’t think she can even change Donna. But that doesn’t
mean she doesn’t have a point. I’m not sure if I’d
date a black guy. I doubt it though it hasn’t really come up. We don’t hang
in the same circles. They have their space and we have ours. That’s cool with
me and it seems to be cool with them. I don’t have any particular beef it’s
just that oil and vinegar thing. My grandfather always
told me, “Life ain’t easy. It’s what you make of it all that tells what kind
of person you are.” Everyone runs into problems. But imagine if you have to
deal with the skin thing on top of everything else. The everyday problems escalate
to the nth degree. Sis got me thinking
about it anyway. I’m no politician and I’ll never be a civil rights leader
but I will say this. It all comes down to attitude. We can use our attitude
to swing things one way or another. If we have enough of it. Think about it. If we
used our attitude to whack the rules out, make territory less important, or
not important at all, things would change fast. Fights would drop down to
almost nothing since that’s what most of the fights are about. If we used our
coglioni to clear the boundaries
and turf lines, we might be able to change the world. We’d definitely change
the Bronx. If we could cross over, walk anywhere we wanted day or night, that
would certainly be progress. We would still all have to struggle in this dogfight
of a world but things would ease up. Where would that
leave us? With our balls hanging low. But maybe that would be a good thing. |