Necco Wafers

Growing up in the projects in the East New York section of Brooklyn in the fifties and sixties, was a truly unique experience. I could go on and on about the socialist form of living that was really beneficial in so many ways. When you were assigned one of the three huge city projects to live in, placement was made according to your total family income level. Thus, you either lived in low, middle, or high income housing. My family of Irish and Hungarian descent, lived in Boulevard Houses because we were a middle income family. My Irish Catholic father was a parking meter collector at the time, working for the City of New York. My raving atheist Hungarian mother stayed at home and spent much time "on the bench" with the other moms. This was group therapy or at the very least a support group, long before those terms were the vernacular.

The families who lived in the projects and for that matter, most of East New York (ENY) were almost all Jewish. I was being raised Roman Catholic. I was in fact "the other." When there was a Jewish holiday, I would often be the only student in my class to come to school and I would delight in helping my teacher clean out closets, rearrange classrooms, etc. Oddly, all the teachers were Jewish too, but did not get the privilege of a day off. I was the "shiksa girl" or "goyim" and several parents of my friends, did not encourage my presence around their children. I did not realize this at first, but as I became a more conscious age, I often had this feeling that I was "dirty."

On Wednesdays at 2:00, I would leave school to head for St. Gabriel's Church, well over a mile away for what was called either "Religious Instruction" or "Released Time." Either way, I hated it and was embarrassed to leave. The walk was long and kind of scary and amongst the few other non-Jewish kids, I don't remember any others walking along to St. Gabriel's. I was alone. At the time, there was Hannah Shea, Patrick Manetta, Diane Grinage, Gino Dinolfo and a few others who were not Jewish, but they must have either been in another grade, or not been forced to attend this Wednesday ritual, so I never saw them.

I was always very intrigued and in awe of receiving communion. Part of me, was particularly confused because my Catholic dad never received along side of me as other families did. Years later I came to find out that this good, honest, faithful guy had a divorce in his past which rendered him excommunicated from such last suppers. I was angry about that for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, each week, I would go into that dark scary booth to confess my sins to the priest on Saturdays, say my penance, and receive communion on Sundays. Sister Martin Joseph (why the male names always?) said, "Never chew Jesus, let him melt in your mouth." One of my biggest fears became the dread that perhaps Jesus would get stuck in my teeth or palate and I would be damned forever, as I suppose, would He!

Growing up in the projects meant that you always had lots of friend so play with. No matter what the day or season, there was someone around to dress Ginny dolls with, to go sledding with, to set up a neighborhood carnival with, or to ride bikes and roller skate with. Great fun. When it was too cold or rainy to play outside, we would either meet in the hallways of the building or visit each others apartments to play. So an assortment of friends like Nadine, Susan, Audrey, Paula, and others would come to play. They were all Jewish, of course. I would take them into my room and say, "Okay, I am the priest. Kneel down." I have no idea why, but they would heed my commands. It is often like that with children -- someone becomes the director and others follow suit. I was in fact, often labeled as "bossy." Once they kneeled, I would have them fold their hands in prayer, and close their eyes. Then, I would carefully peel one Necco wafer out of my pack, demand that they stick out their tongues and place the wafer there. "DON"T CHEW!" I would command, "Let Jesus melt in your mouth. You cannot chew Jesus!"

Although they seemed obedient time and time again, when we played this game, it was in fact, upsetting enough to them, to cause them to report to their parents. Some of these parents were Holocaust survivors, but even those who were not, found this less than amusing. The parents would come banging on our apartment 4A door, report to my father what was happening and I would be told to stop at once. At the time, I couldn't really understand why, but I sure do now.