catholic easter

On Easter Sunday, Marta and I went to church. The last time we were in a church was during Anna's baptism in New York in January. But this was one of those special, father-daughter moments, like going to the cinema together.

We sat behind a friend of Marta's during the service. Marta attempted to entertain this friend, also called Anna, much to my annoyance. Because in church you are supposed to listen to the priest, right? Not make jokes in the pews. But why would Marta care about the Holy Trinity.

I have to confess, I am a bit out of the loop on religion. When the priest came out swinging that canister that gives off plumes of incense during the service, Marta asked, 'why is he doing that?' and I answered, "I have no idea.' Then he came around sprinkling us with holy water. Again, 'Issi, I'm wet, why did he do that?' My response: 'I don't know.'

The other attendees were more hip to Catholic rituals than I was. Nearly every time the priest mentioned 'Jeesus Kristus' they promptly crossed themselves, like God cares if you take an extra second to cross yourself. Every time someone exited or entered a pew, there was the perfunctory kneeling before God. I didn't do any of these things because I didn't feel like it, and I didn't feel like teaching them to Marta either.

Though Marta was testing my patience, I decided that her punishment for the day would be to sit through the whole Easter service. My prayer to 'Jeesus Kristus' on the commemoration of his resurrection would be to ask for more patience in dealing with my rambunctious 4-year-old daughter. Marta finally calmed down and said she wanted to sleep on my lap. "Thank you, God," I thought. "My prayers have been answered."

Marta lay across my lap. Then I heard a sucking sound. She was pretending to nurse from my chest. Slurp slurp slurp. "What are you doing?!" I whispered to her. "Issi," she said. "I'm a baby." I couldn't help but start to laugh. Are you allowed to laugh in church during an Easter service?

The service was in Estonian language. They key word was 'püha' which means 'holy' or 'clean'. Suddenly people were shaking my hands and saying 'Kristus on ülestõusnud' which, after thinking for a second, translates as 'Christ is risen.' Yes, yes, 'Kristus on ülestõusnud' right back at you.

During communion, which I attended, even though I am not officially Catholic anymore and I married a Lutheran, our funny girl daughter was too scared of the priest to even be blessed. I didn't like the idea of him placing the holy wafer in my mouth, so I put my hands out. But he didn't care, he just sort of pushed the 'Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven' in my face. Marta hid behind me all the way back to the pew.

Finally, he blessed us again and it was time to leave. I couldn't believe it. We had actually made it through a whole church service. Marta had managed not to irritate me into leaving early. And I have to say, even if I didn't know why he was tossing holy water on us, or why he was swinging around a smoke cannister, or why everyone abruptly crossed themselves at the mention of the name 'Jeesus Kristus', I felt good after the service. I felt more connected with my child, and I was glad that she got to experience an Easter mass for herself.

the north end

New Yorkers tend to think they've got the best of everything. That may be true in New York, but outside the city things can look a bit different. One example is Little Italy. It's famous in Manhattan, but having visited North Beach in San Francisco, South Street in Philadelphia, Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, and the North End in Boston, I'd have to say that the North End is my favorite of the US Italian-American meccas.

Why? I think one factor is that the North End still feels like a medium income neighborhood. There are a lot of young people around, there's a little litter on the sidewalks, there are old guys sitting around arguing in Italian, and there are plenty of affordable restaurants where a plate of fettuccine will cost you under $10.

This is in contrast to the New York and San Francisco neighborhoods where Italian ambiance really means shelling out the lire to buy simple pastries. When I go to an Italian neighborhood, I want to eat and eat for cheap. I don't need the expensive Italian restaurant treatment -- the world is full of pricey Italian restaurants. I want the corner restaurants called Mario's or Dino's where the guys behind the counter are right off the boat and they serve the good stuff.

I actually ate at Dino's in the North End last week. Inside the gentleman behind the counter was dictating orders to the Italians in the kitchen. I didn't know whether or not I should attempt Italian or just speak English. I decided that I would do everything in English and ordered fettuccine and a beer.

I sat in the corner, a bit exhausted and cold, and watched the procession of Irish guys in black coats walk in and out to pick up their sandwiches. I wondered how they felt about these places. How did they feel about their own pubs. Were all these places "ours" because we were "Americans"? Did I have any special connection to the guys in the kitchen because of a common, though truncated history?

It was after filling my guts with fettuccine and sausage in that I went to a shop that was blasting some really great music. Inside I stopped to look at the merchandise of hats and football jerseys and t-shirts. My current hat makes me look like Elmer Fudd, so I was looking for something simple in black that could keep me warm and not attract too many weird looks.

The woman behind the counter said, "What are you looking for?"

I said, "I am looking for a hat."

"Well, there are some hats over there," she said pointing. "You are Italian, right?" she said, sizing my origins up by looking at the length of my nose and thickness of my eyebrows. I thought for a second, then said "yes."

Unfortunately, the clothing intended for Italian-Americans is never simple. And all the neon blue hats had 'N' stitched on them for Napoli. The rest of the shirts were either for Neapolitans or Sicilians. I turned to the woman behind the counter and said:

"Boy, these Sicilians and Neapolitans really know how to market their t-shirts, huh?"

"That's because most people here are from Naples or Sicily," she said. "There are so many people from Naples in this neighborhood, I am surprised there's anybody even left in that town."

"Oh, there are people there," I said. "The camorra needs to be able to suspend picking up the garbage whenever they need to threaten the local government."

"Yeah, it's not a nice part of Italy," she said.

"You know," I responded, feeling kind of honest. "It sort of makes me a little angry that they can't get their act together." And it was true. I would be more proud to have an Italian connection if their leader wasn't Silvio Berlusconi.

She laughed and asked me where my family was from. When I was younger I wasn't sure of these answers, but some genealogical work allowed me to know exactly where they were from just for these moments when Italian people ask me, "Where is your family from?" They always ask; it's one of those conversation starters.

I told them that my father's side was from Calabria and mom's side was from Bari. She said there were a "few" of such people around, but unfortunately, the Barese and Calabrese aren't into selling t-shirts in the North End. Only the Neapolitans and the Sicilians. I finally picked out a generic "Italia" shirt and a onesey for Anna that said 'bella' on it. Together it was $40 -- a bit of an extortionate price, but she prints them herself, so, what the heck.

It's funny because Anna is only a quarter Italian. If she stood in the shop, no one would ask her if she was. Her nose is too small, her skin is too pale. She has blue eyes. My children are generic northern European babes. I am probably the only person in our little nuclear family that will ever feel "at home" in a place like the North End.

"Why don't you go get something to eat?" the woman asked.

"Are you kidding?" I said. "I just ate a plate of fettuccine at Dino's. I don't need anything else; I just need to walk."

She laughed again. "Go walk, run, swim." She said. The idea of diving into Boston harbor seemed unappealing, especially in early March. And I asked myself, "Why the hell would anyone leave southern Italy to come and freeze their butts off in New England?" Oh, well, I guess it's more hospitable in summer.

is three a crowd?

Three's company? Eight is enough? When do you say 'no' to a growing brood? This is a major question that's been on my mind -- our minds -- in recent weeks. To proliferate or to not proliferate, that is the question.

There are only two answers. Two or three. I have never envisioned myself as the patriarch of a clan of five or six children. I may have residual Catholic beliefs, and in some ways I am deeply conservative about marriage and family, but there is no way I'd go beyond three.

As with that idea, I was never a proponent of one. I always wanted Marta to have a sibling. But how many siblings? Anna loves Marta, laughs at all her jokes, thinks she is the greatest entertainer on earth. Isn't that what we so badly needed out of our younger child -- someone to complement Marta while her journalist parents typed out their assignments? If that was the case, then why is there a need for a third, other than to satiate our own desires to be surrounded by cute little pudgeballs?

Epp seems to think that there is a little Maria up there in the clouds that so badly wants to join our family. Maybe she is right. Or maybe, I joke, a little Frederico who would like to be subjected to the abuse of older sisters. It would be nice if we lived on a farm somewhere where we didn't spend our days hooked up to the Internet praying for extended periods of leisure time. But we don't. Children must fit in cars and on planes. Children must fit in bedrooms and at kitchen tables. Right now, our lives seem stuffed.

One should also factor into the debate the knowledge that I am the last male in my extended family capable of passing on the surname. For whatever reasons, Uncles Mike and Rick, along with cousins Pete and Bob, decided to pass the buck to me. Or they simply didn't give a shit. Contrast that with Epp's family. Out of one guy -- Johannes Saluveer -- came an overabundance of Saluveers. In Epp's generation there are Priit, Tommi, Aap, Lauri, and Ott alone. Tommi and Ott have sons as well. It's the gift that keeps on giving.

But does that even matter? Should it? Probably not. Is it all up to me? Maybe. I don't think it ever was though. I always wanted children, but I think my parents too always wanted grandchildren, and my wife as well always wanted children. So there are many different currents of wants and needs that flow into the creation of a new life. It's not just biological impulse or a lifestyle decision. Right now, all I can say is that I am tired, and two daughties seem to be quite enough.

drama queen

Tough

Ferocious

Sweety Pie