Life in the South After the Civil War For Papist, Eyetalian Yankees

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      Mid-January rolled around, and my Uncle Antonio and Aunt Angie left to go back to their home in Pennsylvania. My family was now in our new home. We were enrolled in Beulaville Elementary School, and I was to finish up fifth grade there. My mother and Aunt Trudie took us to the school to meet our new teachers. The teachers seemed as though they were very sweet and nice.

The first day of school, my fifth grade homeroom teacher asked me to stand up so she could introduce me to the rest of the class.

      She said, "This is Vincent Lazarus Chimera, he is from the North. " (She put a lot of emphasis on the word "North"). “What part of the north are you from?”

“We’re from Pennsylvania.”

“Pencilvainya? That’s not too far north of the Mason - Dixon line, She crooned.

I had grown increasingly uneasy for reasons that I didn't understand.

"Would you like to tell us which name you would like to be called?" she asked sweetly, "And, could you tell us what kind of name "Chimera" is?"

Despite my nervousness and my natural shyness, I wanted to please her and make a good impression on the other kids. 

      I said, "Chimera is an Italian name. My father is Italian."

      "So you’re half Eyetalian?"

      For some reason, the way she said it sounded like she was hinting that I had a dark and embarrassing family secret. Something about me being half Italian seemed to bother her.

      She asked, "Eyetalians are Papists, aren't they?"

Her tongue lingered on the word "Papists," as if she found the word oddly distasteful.

I told her I didn't know what a Papist was and that we were just Catholic. She smiled and seemed like she was kind of nice. Yet, I still felt uneasy.

      She said to the class, "You know, boys and girls, just one hundred years ago, Lazarus would have been called a Yankee, and we here would have been called Rebels. A lot of people around here still say "Yankee" and "Rebels." What do the folks up in Pencilvainya call us down here in the South?"

      I said, "My Mother is from North Carolina, and she calls herself a Reb, but most people would call you a southerner."

      "Yes," she said, "Your mother seems such a sweet little thing." Her words seem to be a little too slow and emphatic when she said "sweet little thing."

Even though she didn't say it, I felt like I was being tested, and I was obviously flunking. Anyway, I didn't like it one bit.

      "You just go ahead, Lazarus, and just sit yourself down! Now kids, just because Lazarus is different, being Eyetalian and Catholic and all, I want y’all to treat him like he is welcome here. Y’all hear me now?" The kids shook their heads, quiet yet curious about me. 

      The first few weeks were uneventful, even a bit pleasant. I was treated as a bit of a curiosity, being, as I was, from a land far, far away. Most of the kids were descendants of Northern European stock, the majority being Irish, English, Scottish, and German. One kid in my class was an African American, he was small and skinny for his age with a small, elfish face and large dark eyes; he was very shy and meek. There was one small white kid that everyone called mouse; he too was very shy and meek. And then, there was me, the Eyetalian Papist Yankee.

      The pleasantries ended before the month was up. Some of the bigger more aggressive kids started to make accusations that were meant to hurt, humiliate, and provoke. 

Some of them would say, "You Yankees should have never won the war. If the Civil War were to happen today, we'd whup yer Yankee Asses."

I couldn't believe that anyone still thought about the Civil War.

      Other kids would say, "My papa told me that Eyetalians are related to black folk."

They would say this as if it was a bad thing. I was always speechless on that one.

(Years later, I would use that argument myself to provoke a few racist Italians

I knew).

I hate racism.

      More than a few of the kids said other things like, "My papa (or some other adult in their sphere of influence) said you Papists are pagans, or heathens, wit’ funny notions of God and Jesus." Or, "My daddy sez that y’all make like you eat the body of Jesus and drink his blood."

Then, when these insults didn't provoke me, out came the old traditional taunts

I was so familiar with.

      "Yur just a little sissy, aren't ya?"

      This still would not provoke me. Eventually, and this was novel, instead of just one of the bullies picking a fight with me, I would be double-, triple-, or quadruple-ganged.

You know, one guy in front to push me with the other kneeling on the ground for me to fall backwards over. Often, there was one guy in front with a guy on each side just pushing me around, ending up with three guys pushing me over the fourth kid kneeling behind me, then one or more of them jumping me and beating on me.

      It was like I was in their own special version of Lord of the Flies and I was their Piggy.

       Initially, it was more humiliation than real pain, but that was to change over time. Right before I left Pennsylvania, I was determined to stand up to any bully that went beyond verbal threats. Aside from that freakish beating by the junior high kids, I had never known any kid to be shameless enough as to enlist the help of others when facing a lone opponent. These kids had no sense of fair play. Even the cowards I had faced in the past (whether bullies or not) would never have thought of calling in friends to help them.

These kids operated on a mob mentality.