The Joy of La Familia

As a white, semi-poor, Catholic boy growing up in Trenton in the late 50s and early 60s, I had many Spanish friends. At the time we didn't know or use the more correct term Latino as we do today, nor Hispanic. Actually, during those times, my Spanish friends did not identify themselves as Hispanic or Latino, or Guatemalan or Mexican or from any country at all, to me or to my friends. Essentially we white kids learned that anyone who spoke any form of the Spanish language was Spanish and nothing else. 

I attended 8th grade at Sacred Heart Elementary School on S. Broad St., a few blocks from the exact center of town at State and Broad. Sister Florence, or Flossie as we called her behind her back, taught Geography, which I loved. We had a globe in class and large maps of the world she would pull down in front of the chalkboards. The main Mercator map showed the U.S. as the center of the world, naturally. 

To us, Latin America at that time consisted of the countries between the U.S. southern border and the continent of South America. South America was a separate entity with its own countries like Bolivia, Columbia, Brazil, Chile etc. That's what we were taught.

I don't know where my dark-skinned "girlfriend" Dominica was originally from. To me she was American and Spanish was her heritage, like mine was Italian and Irish.  In the mixed neighborhoods where I had grown up, there were no class or ethnic distinctions except for those who were prejudiced against "blacks." That was the universal word used by teachers, parents and others for African-Americans who lived in the U.S.  But on Centre Street next to school, there was a large Spanish population, and generally we respected each other. 

Oh, I did have a fight in front of church with an older Spanish boy who kinda ruled the roost when he was around, but the fight was declared a draw after we circled and slashed at each other with our four-inch knives for half-an-hour. I don't think he was as exhausted as I, but he was kind, and just let me skulk away to our apartment three blocks away. He was also an excellent pool player at the CYO third floor lounge where I and friends hung out, which was right next to church. The altercation probably started over that.

But to me he was just one person, with his own personality and quirks. I hadn't been taught by Mom to stereotype and group a class of people as bad or good, or this or that, regardless of the terms I overheard. And the nuns refrained from doing that in most cases. Yes, there was prejudice in some, but only a few that I recall, and the intensity always varied. I was never around an extreme racist. Since we all had to live in these neighborhoods close to each other, it paid to get along.

I had just turned 14 when I met Dominica. I met her on the stoop of her apartment on the corner of Lamberton and Centre, one block from school. She was free, expressive, energetic and a terrific flirt. The f word punctuated her speech just as it did mine. She never introduced me formally to her parents. She may easily have had other "boyfriends." 

But when I was with her, she treated me royally, introduced me to her neighbors and friends, and she would cuddle in my lap as we went about our teenage dance. She was two years older, and to me she was a woman of the world and I was very proud and pleased to be in her presence. I can recall her pretty face, framed by thick long brown hair, high cheekbones and deep-set brown eyes. And her voice lilted when she spoke . . . .

I would have to leave her by 10 p.m. to catch the Parkway Ave bus back home to Ewing where we lived by then. Our "fling" hadn't lasted long, only two months until July, when I became preoccupied with other sexual explorations.