Shoulda Married the Jew

My parents met. Well, of course my parents met. Otherwise I wouldn't be writing this. Start over. It was 1955. My mother was a good girl from the West Side - not the surly West Side, but the nice part between Elmwood and Delaware. Near Nardin. She had a poodle skirt, saddle shoes and and was in the choir at two churches. She had a voice like an angel and could play the piano. Her name was Kathy and she almost always had her little sister, Nancy with her. She was dating a Jewish boy whose name is not spoken. He Who Must Not Be Named was the love of her life. He took her on boat rides and treated her like a queen.

My father, Eugene, was a Fonzi-type guy from the East Side - Lovejoy area to be exact. He drove a candy apple red convertible , wore his hair in a DA and rolled his Lucky Strike cigarettes up in his sleeve. He was every mother's nightmare. Devilishly good looking, smooth talking, well traveled and broke. He was back from serving in the Marines (Korean War) and was scoping the action in the "rich" part of town. He and his brother, Bob were driving down Elmwood on a warm spring day, cruising for some hot babes.

Elmwood, to this day, is a great place to meet people. It has an artsy feel to it. It is a tree lined street with generous sidewalks and lots of places to stop for coffee, drinks, whatever the occasion calls for. On this spring day in 1955 it also had Kathy and Nancy, walking home from choir practice.

They didn't stand a chance these two girls. OK, to be fair, Kathy was 19 and technically a woman. She had a job as a copy girl at the Courier Express Daily Newspaper. But her sheltered upbringing had left her more of a girl than a woman. So when Mr Fabulous rolled up in his shiny convertible and offered the young ladies a ride to wherever they were going, they did the only thing they knew how to do. They said No. Over the next few weeks Eugene made himself a visable presence in their lives. Today it would be called stalking. Then it was persistence and good timing. It was only a matter of time before they were having coffee, going to the Erie County Fair and making out in the back of his car.

When it became clear by June that Kathy was "spending time" with Gene, her parents requested a meeting. He came over to the house with flowers for my Grandmother (who was NOT impressed) and made the hello's in record time. After his departure, my grandmother turned on her heel, looked at Kathy and asked,"No white boys left?" and walked away. Now, my grandmother was not racist. Her husband, Kathy's father, was not white either. He was Native American. They had been raised in the same orphanage and married as soon as they were both released at age 18. But in 1955 Polish people were not considered white either. They were dirty immigrant laborers who were beneath the social standings of a young, gifted Presbyterian girl.

4th of July, 1955. Candy apple red convertible, fireworks, beer. You guessed it.

A small wedding ceremony took place in the side chapel at St. Paul's Cathedral. See, pregnant girls couldn't get married in the main Sanctuary. Gene took a job repairing television sets and they got a small apartment in Lovejoy. That's where I was born.

Grandma was heard to say, many years later, and under her breath, "Shoulda married the Jew".