Marian told us stories about the early Christian martyrs who were willing, sometimes even eager, to die for their faith when put to the test by the evil Roman emperor, Nero. After a great fire destroyed much of Rome six decades after Christ, Nero’s people began to suspect that he had started the fire himself to clear a site for his proposed “Golden House” and had celebrated the conflagration on his fiddle. To deflect the people’s wrath, he made the Christians of Rome his scapegoats, sending them into the jaws of lions if they insisted on professing their Christian faith. Many a night I lay awake worrying whether I might lack courage to die for my faith, fearing that when the test came I would choose instead to live. Lions began populating my dreams, until visits to the Bronx Zoo found me standing in front of the lion’s cage, whispering frantically to the somnolent, tawny beast behind the bars in hopes that, if ever I were sent as a martyr to the lions’ den, my new friend would testify to his fellow lions that I was a good person. Evading the terrible choice, I could exhibit courage, affirm my faith, and still manage to survive.
· ·
S o RICH were the traditions and the liturgy of my church that I could not imagine being anything other than Catholic. Though there were Jews and Protestants on our block—the Lubars and the Barthas were Jewish, the Friedles and the Greenes Protestant—I knew almost nothing about these other religions. I could not describe what distinguished an Orthodox Jew from a Reform Jew, or say what made someone a Methodist rather than a Presbyterian or Episcopalian. I understood that our neighbors were devoted to their religions, lighting Sabbath candles on Friday or attending services Saturday or Sunday. Their church or synagogue was central to their social lives. The Friedles were very active in the Mr. and Mrs. Club at the Congregational church, which sponsored dances, pot-luck dinners, and card-playing evenings, and their children attended Sunday school every week. I knew that the Lubars were active in their temple and that the Greenes, who had been the Greenbergs before converting to Protestantism, were equally involved in their church. Indeed, in my neighborhood, everyone seemed to be deeply involved in one religion or another. Although I observed the fellowship that other religions provided, I had no inkling of what beliefs they inculcated in their followers. We were taught only that these people were non-Catholics and that we should not read their literature or inquire about their beliefs. Furthermore, it was, we thought, a grievous sin for us to set foot in one of their churches or synagogues.
It was this last admonition that produced my first spiritual crisis. In early February 1950, our newspaper, the
Long Island News and Owl
, reported that Dodger catcher Roy Campanella was coming to Rockville Centre. He planned to speak at a benefit for the local black church, then under construction, the Shiloh Baptist Church. The program wasto be held in the Church of the Ascension, an Episcopal church one block from St. Agnes.
The son of an Italian American father and an African American mother, Campanella had joined the Baltimore Elite Giants, one of the great teams in the Negro League, when he was only fifteen. In short order, his skill in calling pitches, his ability to fathom the vulnerability of an opposing hitter, his strong arm, his prowess at the plate, and his endurance became legendary. He once caught four games in a single day: a twin bill in Cincinnati on a Sunday afternoon, followed by a bus ride to Middletown, Ohio, and another doubleheader that evening. Unlike Jackie Robinson, who considered his experience in the Negro League demeaning, Campanella claimed to have thoroughly enjoyed his years in black baseball. Less combative and more conciliatory than Robinson, Campanella repeatedly said that he thought of himself as a ballplayer, not a pioneer; that, when he was
· ·
S o RICH were the traditions and the liturgy of my church that I could not imagine being anything other than Catholic. Though there were Jews and Protestants on our block—the Lubars and the Barthas were Jewish, the Friedles and the Greenes Protestant—I knew almost nothing about these other religions. I could not describe what distinguished an Orthodox Jew from a Reform Jew, or say what made someone a Methodist rather than a Presbyterian or Episcopalian. I understood that our neighbors were devoted to their religions, lighting Sabbath candles on Friday or attending services Saturday or Sunday. Their church or synagogue was central to their social lives. The Friedles were very active in the Mr. and Mrs. Club at the Congregational church, which sponsored dances, pot-luck dinners, and card-playing evenings, and their children attended Sunday school every week. I knew that the Lubars were active in their temple and that the Greenes, who had been the Greenbergs before converting to Protestantism, were equally involved in their church. Indeed, in my neighborhood, everyone seemed to be deeply involved in one religion or another. Although I observed the fellowship that other religions provided, I had no inkling of what beliefs they inculcated in their followers. We were taught only that these people were non-Catholics and that we should not read their literature or inquire about their beliefs. Furthermore, it was, we thought, a grievous sin for us to set foot in one of their churches or synagogues.
It was this last admonition that produced my first spiritual crisis. In early February 1950, our newspaper, the
Long Island News and Owl
, reported that Dodger catcher Roy Campanella was coming to Rockville Centre. He planned to speak at a benefit for the local black church, then under construction, the Shiloh Baptist Church. The program wasto be held in the Church of the Ascension, an Episcopal church one block from St. Agnes.
The son of an Italian American father and an African American mother, Campanella had joined the Baltimore Elite Giants, one of the great teams in the Negro League, when he was only fifteen. In short order, his skill in calling pitches, his ability to fathom the vulnerability of an opposing hitter, his strong arm, his prowess at the plate, and his endurance became legendary. He once caught four games in a single day: a twin bill in Cincinnati on a Sunday afternoon, followed by a bus ride to Middletown, Ohio, and another doubleheader that evening. Unlike Jackie Robinson, who considered his experience in the Negro League demeaning, Campanella claimed to have thoroughly enjoyed his years in black baseball. Less combative and more conciliatory than Robinson, Campanella repeatedly said that he thought of himself as a ballplayer, not a pioneer; that, when he was
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