An old friend from Nebraska came to visit recently. I was telling him about this great Irish guy I work with. He asked, “What’s the difference if he’s Eye-rish or Eye-talian? Geez, we’re all Americans – this is the great melting pot.” Boy did this guy need a lesson about R.I.’s unique cultural history.

First, Rhode Island wasn’t a melting pot – a mixing bowl, maybe. Upon arrival in R.I. each ethnic group settled into it’s own distinct neighborhood, the borders and sectors as well defined as a Mondrian painting. These neighborhoods displayed all the integration of a 1940’s Mississippi lunch counter. You could walk blind folded through areas in Providence and know immediately the nationality of the neighborhood – simply by the savory smells emanating from the houses. Walking by a dwelling devoid of such scents meant either the house was abandoned – or occupied by an English family.

The English, long established in Rhode Island, viewed the new European arrivals with some mistrust. I believe my grandfather actually thought the French in Artic were plotting to align with Woonsocket and storm the State House (with financial and military backing from Quebec).

The various immigrant populations had differing views on most matters, but did share some commonality. First was their devotion to Catholicism, albeit with a distinct ethnic slant. My neighbor in Clyde, Mr. O’Malley, considered himself not a Catholic, but an Irish Catholic - and he would be more likely to visit a synagogue or mosque then ever step foot inside the ‘Italian Church’. Mr. O’Malley will be shocked if he reaches Heaven and finds God is a short, big busted lady adorned in a hair net with nylon stockings rolled down to her knees, baking manicotti in her oven.

Girls Sharing Umbrella Buy Humor Art Prints At AllPosters.com

Secondly, the diverse ethnic groups shared the opinion that WASP’s were a bunch of tight asses incapable of emotion or fun. They figured when an English couple had a baby it could only mean they’d BOTH gotten drunk one night nine months before. There are, however, exceptions to any rule. My grandfather sired ten children. I always wondered whether it was love and desire for my grandmother or my grandfather making a statement to the Canucks in West Warwick that resulted in such a full household. I see him rolling over in bed, smiling as he hums ‘God Save The Queen’ - as if to say “Whataya think of that Frenchy?” Grandpa Elijah was never timid about performing his duty for The Crown and accomplished that assignment as often as Grandma would permit. Judging by the number of offspring it appears Grandma Minnie had little objection to helping him carry out his obligation to the British monarchy.

Speaking of relationships, in towns like West Warwick a ‘mixed marriage’ was defined as an Irish boy marrying a Polish girl. The wedding of a Catholic to a Protestant was accurately labeled for what it was – pure blasphemy!

The offspring of this unholy union were condemned to spend eternity in Limbo. I always thought Limbo sounded like a place where you’d sip fruity concoctions from a coconut shell while Bob Marley records played in the background. For the older reader unfamiliar with Marley – just picture Harry Belafonte with a mop on his head.

The wicked and repugnant parents would justly suffer the eternal and sulfurous flames of Hades. Given that it is Hell, there will be no enticing libations in a coconut shell and Barry Manilow records play in the background.

Word of these unnatural relationships spread quickly through the neighborhood. The ‘housewife hotline’ was as efficient as any computer mainframe of today. And there was a cryptic code in their conversations no less effective than a CIA transmission. For example, my mother mentions to her friend that “Mrs. Treviano’s son is getting married to a nice Portuguese girl”. Translated this means Mrs. Treviano is absolutely heartbroken and cries herself to sleep at night as she sobs to her husband, “Where did we go wrong? If he wanted to hurt me why not just run me over with the Ford Fairlane?”

My Big Fat Greek Wedding Buy My Big Fat Greek Wedding Posters At AllPosters.com

I suppose it’s good that fifty years of “mixed marriages” has blended us into Americans. But the cost of conversion from a mosaic to monolith society can be, well – downright bland. I mean, when was the last time you had a really good French meat pie? Sure there are still places to buy authentic prosciuttini, hand made linguinie or Portuguese sweet bread - but they’re vanishing. I fear Little Rhody will some day be more like Nebraska than Naples. Think I’m over reacting? Just try to find a decent zeppole in Omaha on St. Joseph’s Day! I mentioned this to my Midwestern friend. He thought a zeppole was an Italian derigible – see what I mean.

About the author, J. Elijah Bray: J. Elijah Bray (probably not his real name) lives on The East Side but is most proud of being raised in Oakland Beach – go figure.

(Being of tightass English descent, Elijah fell in love with a buxom Italian girl. He was subsequently cut from his parents will. No Christmas cards from the family have been received for many years. Apparently the ‘melting pot’ is still a work in progress.)

Readers Comments About This Page:

Be the first! Add Your Comment!