Our block was mostly Italian, but there were Irish, Germans, Greeks, and Albanians, too. We generally got along; despite rivalries and the occasional fight, there was a quiet respect and community bond that came from living shoulder to shoulder.
One evening, a drunk staggered into our open doorway—back when people in New York City still left their doors unlocked. His eyes were glazed, his speech slurred. He kept demanding to see a “guinea!” That was the first time I heard that slur.
My father stayed calm. He didn’t shout or threaten. He simply said, evenly, “I’ll get one for you.” Then he called for King, our German Shepherd.
To us kids, King was more than a dog; he was a protector and friend. To my father, he was a weapon kept in reserve. At the sound of his name, King surged forward, all muscle and teeth, growling with a ferocity no man could fake. The intruder’s bravado vanished. He staggered back, wide-eyed, as King lunged at him with terrifying force.
His screams, rivaling my mother’s frightened cries, turned from mockery to panic. He tried to flee, but King had him. My father wrestled to pull the dog off, straining at the collar. For a moment, I thought King might kill him. Finally, the drunk tore free and scurried into the night—bloodied, clothes ripped, reeking of fear (and worse).
That night, I learned two things: hatred can come to your doorstep without warning. And we weren't defenseless—not with King, and not with my father, whose quiet authority stood guard over us.
~ By Giovanni di Napoli, September 2nd, Feast of the Holy Martyrs of September
