{"id":103632,"date":"2016-10-12T15:10:23","date_gmt":"2016-10-12T19:10:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=103632"},"modified":"2016-10-12T17:35:04","modified_gmt":"2016-10-12T21:35:04","slug":"father-art-bronx-mother-art-nowhere","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/10\/12\/father-art-bronx-mother-art-nowhere\/","title":{"rendered":"Our Father Who Art in the Bronx, Our Mother Who Art Nowhere"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a>

Photo: Quinn Dombrowski, via Flickr.<\/p><\/div>\n

I\u2019m standing inside the refrigerator door, playing three-card monte with the ketchup, the mustard, and one of those midget jars of tartar sauce. It\u2019s an unoriginal con among seven-year-olds\u2014pretending to rummage the fridge in order to eavesdrop\u2014but it works, right up until the cold gets to be too much to bear.<\/p>\n

In a last ditch effort to buy myself more time, I try to warm up by bouncing on the balls of my feet, leaving my hands free to continue the condiment-shuffle, but eventually I have no choice: I break down and start using my goose-bumped arms to rub my goose-bumped legs, even though I know that\u2019ll be the tip-off.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

On the other side of the refrigerator door, it\u2019s summertime in Queens, and my father and his brothers (two cops and a fireman) are sitting around a splayed box of Entenmann\u2019s, an exploding ashtray, and an ever-growing pyramid of empty Coors cans, telling stories. I\u2019ve hung in there long enough to hear my uncle Dennis tap a Pall Mall up and out of the soft pack in his shirt pocket, and start in …<\/p>\n

\u201c \u2019Member that night you, Jackie, Tommy and \u2019em were drinkin\u2019 down by the bridge and none a\u2019yuhs could figure out how yuh got so lit\u2014\u201d\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n

\u201cDO I?\u201d my father says, \u201cMommy damn near killed me for dat stunt!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cChar-lie Ret-in-ger,\u201d drawls my Uncle Thomas, proud the name finally came to him.<\/p>\n

\u201cYup! Little shit had been slippin\u2019 vodka into the beers! I crawled home \u2014EH! WHO\u2019S IN THERE?! C\u2019MERE!!\u201d<\/p>\n

And that was it. Dad caught me.<\/p>\n

\u201cBack outside to play, you! Go on now. This stuff ain\u2019t for young ears.\u201d<\/p>\n

Like always, I drag-assed out of the kitchen, desperate to hear the rest of that story, knowing that as the beer flowed and the ashtrays filled there would be even better, raunchier ones. Of course, I\u2019d try to eavesdrop a million more times in my young life, but I can\u2019t remember a single one when I wasn\u2019t eventually busted and shooed off.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Satisfaction wouldn\u2019t be mine for a good twenty more years, and when it did come, it wasn\u2019t at all how I figured it might. By age eighteen, when I was conceivably old enough to have been offered an invite to the table, the crew had split up\u2014like so many of the families I grew up with, all three brothers left Queens for cheaper real estate in the South. My uncle Thomas and uncle Dennis wound up a few hours apart from one another, in central Florida, while my father headed to Georgia. And that marked the end of the epic kitchen-storytelling sessions.<\/p>\n

College and a bartending job at a local bar owned by my mom\u2019s side of the family brought me from Queens to Manhattan in 1998, around the same time as the Clancy brothers\u2019 southern migration. A decade later, I was still living on the Lower East Side (God bless rent stabilization), still tending bar, long since graduated, but not exactly sure what all else I should be doing with myself. Until I read Richard Price\u2019s The Wanderers.<\/em><\/p>\n

I wasn\u2019t the world\u2019s biggest fiction reader, but as a birthday gift that year, I got a copy of what was then Price\u2019s most recent novel, Lush Life<\/em>, on the grounds that I might like it because it was set in my neighborhood and featured the seventh precinct, where my father was assigned in the early eighties. A day after I finished it, I headed to the Strand to snatch up anything else I could find written by Price. I walked out with an armful of his novels, including a seven-buck, beat-up copy of The Wanderers<\/em>.<\/p>\n

I took it with me to work the next morning on what I figured would be a slow-as-hell day shift. Lucky I guessed right, because once I started, I couldn\u2019t stop. For the few poor customers that did come in that day looking for beers and a bit of chitchat, I offered up little more than a \u201cwhat\u2019ll it be?\u201d before popping the caps and sliding the bottles over the bar with my right hand, all the while one-handing the book in my left.<\/p>\n

The novel, Price\u2019s very first, is partially an autobiographical coming-of-age story about a group of teenage boys growing up in the Bronx in the 1960s. And, for better or worse (the worse being that the book makes no bones about the serious violence and racism these guys both perpetrated and were victims of), reading it was like finally getting the full story from the dozens of tidbits I\u2019d overheard eavesdropping on my father and my uncles as a kid. This was dialogue that could have come from their mouths, and it wasn\u2019t stereotyping\u00a0King of Queens<\/em> fluff. At just twenty pages in, I had been transported right back to the inside of that refrigerator door. Only this time, I got to stay.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Over the following days, as much as I loved that book for what was in it, I was equally struck by what wasn\u2019t: the voices or stories of New York\u2019s working-class women. Straight away, I called friends and polled bar regulars who read way more than I did, presuming I\u2019d be given a litany of recommendations. I even went back to ask a clerk at the Strand. No luck. As far as anyone could figure, the last notable book written about women like me, by a woman like me, was Betty Smith\u2019s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn <\/em><\/a>\u2026 seventy-three years ago.<\/p>\n

In the coming weeks, I went around relaying this bonkers\/bullshit\/infuriating fact to anyone who\u2019d listen, eventually adding the joke, \u201cSo, looks like I\u2019m gonna have to write a book about us borough girls my damn self! I\u2019ll call it, A Tree GREW in Brooklyn\u2014a Long Fucking Time Ago!<\/em>\u201d Until finally, shocking no one more than myself, it started to occur to me that maybe this wasn\u2019t just a joke after all, maybe I should actually give it a shot. So, I did.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n

And, if nothing else, I hope a year from now maybe a Vietnamese American woman born and raised in Louisiana will pick up a copy of The Clancys of Queens<\/em>, read it in a day, and say, \u201cIt was pretty good. But what I really want to read next is something more like The Nguyens of New Orleans <\/em>\u2026 Well, shoot, maybe I\u2019ll have to write it.\u201d And she\u2019ll do just that.<\/p>\n

Tara Clancy<\/a>\u2019s memoir\u00a0<\/em>The Clancys of Queens<\/a>\u00a0is out now.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I\u2019m standing inside the refrigerator door, playing three-card monte with the ketchup, the mustard, and one of those midget jars of tartar sauce. It\u2019s an unoriginal con among seven-year-olds\u2014pretending to rummage the fridge in order to eavesdrop\u2014but it works, right up until the cold gets to be too much to bear. In a last ditch […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":566,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[18706,23997,8892,1328,8226,25104,10368,124,5798,2594,25106,25105,25107],"class_list":["post-103632","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-a-tree-grows-in-brooklyn","tag-bartending","tag-childhood","tag-drinking","tag-family","tag-grown-ups","tag-memoirs","tag-new-york","tag-queens","tag-richard-price","tag-the-clancys-of-queens","tag-the-wanderers","tag-working-class"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nOur Father Who Art in the Bronx, Our Mother Who Art Nowhere by Tara Clancy<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"October 12, 2016 \u2013 I\u2019m standing inside the refrigerator door, playing three-card monte with the ketchup, the mustard, and one of those midget jars of tartar sauce. 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