the godless commies





by Tommi Avicolli Mecca

I’m at Temple University now--the school Papa swears is run by godless commies to corrupt the decent youth
of the West. Papa says I’m the product of those godless commies--and the personification of all evil: A hippie. Hair too long, clothing too wild, attitudes too liberal.

For papa, life is an Italian opera. If you can’t exaggerate something, if you can’t break the sound barrier every time you speak, then don’t bother. He baits me into arguments at family gatherings. Mama, the United Nations of our family, always winds up refereeing--“you know the neighbors two blocks down do not need to know this.”

So, one day I’m sitting in the lunchroom at school reading the student paper when this ad literally leaps out of the page at me: Gay Liberation Coffeehour. That Friday at 1:30pm, after chickening out about six million times and circling the Student Activities Center enough times to wear out the sidewalk, I finally go up to the third
floor. Feeling as if my stomach is being attacked by guided missiles, I start toward room 307. A few feet from the door, I hear the Supremes. They were singing from a scratchy 45 on an old phono, the kind you got in the local five and dime for under ten bucks. “Stop in the name of love--” I stepped into the room.

Everything stopped. “Hey, aren’t you the guy who works at the Sunoco station at 18th and Passyunk?” Oh shit, should’ve worn dark glasses or at least a dress.

But nothing to worry about. Turns out the guy lives near the station but isn’t about to blab to anyone in my family because he isn’t out to his folks either. Safe for now.

Within weeks I’m secretary of the group, then vice president. Before long there’s an election and--how the hell does this happen?--I’m elected president.

An issue falls into our laps. Aversion therapy on homosexuals at this psych unit funded by the college.
Aversion therapy is where they put electrodes on the dicks of homo men, show them slides of cute naked guys and zap them with electricity to make sure they aren’t attracted to guys anymore. Trouble is, it doesn’t work.
No shit. If things like that worked, every straight woman in the world would be a lesbian after two dates with a straight guy.

We organize protests that get lots of media coverage. No problem. I stay out of the range of the cameras--and
I use a fake name for the print interviews. Then this talk show host calls. “We wanna coupla ho-mo-sexuals for
a show about aversion therapy.”

Being president, I’m the natural spokesperson for the group. In a moment of complete insanity, I agree. What can happen? The show airs at 1 am. Who in the family’s gonna see it? If it ain’t either a soap opera or a
cowboy show, forget it. But I decide to tell mama anyway.

I rehearse all the way home. “Mama, I think I’m homosexual. Nah. Mama, I think I’m gay. Think? Mama, I’m gay.”

She’s down in the basement ironing when I arrive home. “Mama, there’s something I gotta tell you. No, I’m not in any kinda trouble. God, this ain’t easy. Mama, I think I’m a homosexual. No, I’m sure. I’m sure.” Good, she hasn’t passed out. So I trudge on. “Mama, I’m gonna be on TV talking about being gay. Tonight. It’s already taped.” Now she has passed out. She has only one concern. “You gotta tell your papa." I can’t. You have to. I can’t. You have to. I can’t.

I don’t.

The show airs. My uncle the cop sees it and calls papa--in the middle of the night. The libretto please for the scene between me and papa the next day.

Papa: (singing to the tune of Puccini’s “Un Bel Dei”) Who made you do this? Those people at Temple University?

Me:  (also singing) No one made me do this. I decided to do this.

Papa: Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve disgraced la famigila.

Disgraced la famiglia?

The worst sin any Italiano commits against the entire Italiano population of the universe, living or dead. We’re talking back to the Romans. Back to the stone age, back to that first dago standing over a pot of hot salsa, yelling in operatic hysterics: “Va fan culo, whaddaya mean you’re notta gonna live-a two-a caves-a down when you getta married? Whaddaya wanna do--disgrace-a la famiglia?”

 
Life is hell around the house now. Papa either doesn’t talk to me--or he grunts when I go by. The relatives, all
of whom live next door, start a daily campaign of harassing me. Little old ladies come up to me on the street, “Hey, Tommaso, don’tcha you know you’re killing your mama?”

The kids on the block call me names and threaten to beat me up everytime I leave the house. Finally, papa gives me the ultimatum: give up the “gay shit” or don’t come home no more.

Addio, Papa.