There’s street smarts. And then there’s Sicilian street smarts.
Thankfully my father was Sicilian, or I might not know how things work in the real world. Growing up in an Italian neighborhood in a New York suburb, you couldn’t help but be surrounded by people who knew that the rules of life weren’t written in a book. Luckily my dad, Nick Tatano, had a Ph.D. in street smarts.
Born on Staten Island in 1926, he was the youngest of five. His father, an immigrant known as Pop, was a shoemaker, while his mother raised the children and hordes of stray cats. My father’s nickname was Gig, since his sister Lena’s attempt to say “Nick” always came out as “Gig.” As a child of the Great Depression, he needed street smarts to survive.
And I needed them big time, since my parents split when I was five. Back then, there wasn’t any of that every-other-weekend custody thing divorced parents deal with today. Dad lived around the corner and came by anytime. He continued to do the “guy stuff” around the house, mowing the lawn, fixing the leaky faucet, installing an air conditioner. And I was always the apprentice.
You needed to be streetwise in our neighborhood, which was filled with somewhat shady characters who could get a “deal” on a TV set (without the box packaging) or would take a bet on a football game. Dad explained point spreads while I was in elementary school, because you needed to be able to talk about that stuff on the playground. On one occasion, a relative gave me some new shirts and I noted the labels were missing. Dad told me they had “fallen off a truck”—which meant they were stolen. “Just say thank you and take ’em.” Don’t insult the Mob guys.
In the third grade, I joined a Saturday morning bowling league, but it was way across town and Dad was working. So he showed me how to ride the bus, ask for a transfer, get off downtown at City Hall, cross the street, then take a second bus using the transfer. I’m 8 years old riding mass transit by myself. Back then, it was no big deal.
He taught me how to drive a stick shift, and a really cool life skill: “If this car won’t start, you don’t need a mechanic. Just push it and when it’s rolling put it in second gear and pop the clutch.” Amazingly, the car started.
Dad owned a delicatessen. The place was my common sense classroom during high school and college. I learned how to order stock, figure out markup, cook for a hundred people, make bank deposits. Never be political, or you’ll lose half your business.
He had a quirky sense of humor that the customers enjoyed. My cousin Pat would stop by for lunch, but Dad wouldn’t let his nephew pay. Pat told me, “I kept trying to pay your father, and he says, ‘Don’t worry, the guy in line behind you is paying.’” And I’m sure the guy behind him laughed.
Once there was a recall of canned soup because it was tainted with botulism. We had a few cans that were all bulged out. As a gag, Dad piled them up on the checkout counter with a sign reading, “50% off.”
Street smarts taught me that everything is negotiable. Paying cash often gets you a cheaper price. (Just don’t ask for a receipt because the cash is going straight into the vendor’s pocket.)
Dad’s passion was horse racing, and his buddy Frank owned a harness horse. He’d take me to the track, which was filled with real-life Damon Runyon characters, who, he explained, sometimes fixed races. “Let’s say there are 10 horses running. Whoever is going to win buys winning tickets for the other nine drivers.” I learned that sometimes, handicapping (a term meaning to analyze statistics to predict which horse will win a race) is useless.
But when Connecticut opened a dog track, I figured things were legit. No humans involved. Dad shook his head. “They fix those too. Eight dogs running, they feed seven right before the race so they don’t want to run. The hungry dog wins.”
So simple it’s scary. But that’s what street smarts teaches you. Common sense is king.
Out of college, I was looking for my first television news job. A new company offered a foot in the door, but I turned it down. My father was very upset. “Why didn’t you take the job?”
Of course, I had a college degree and he didn’t, so I knew what I was doing. “Dad, no one’s gonna watch cable news 24 hours a day. They’ll be out of business in a year.” The company was CNN. Ouch.
Dad didn’t say, “I was right.” He didn’t have to, since I’d learned street smarts trumps book smarts.
At a family wedding last fall, I ended up at the “kids table” with my cousins Raymond and Gary. Raymond told me how much my dad had an effect on the family. I noted there were a bunch of young relatives named Nick at the reception. Even the bride was named Nicole. He was apparently everybody’s favorite uncle.
Cousin Linda, grandmother of the bride, told me she still “talks” to my late father when she needs help, saying, “Come on, Gig.”
Dad passed away in 1993. The years of smoking non-filtered cigarettes caught up to him. But his street logic and unique way of looking at things never faded. He once mentioned he was really impressed with one of his new physicians.
“What kind of doctor is he?” I asked.
Dad shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think he might be Irish.”
This article was originally published in American Essence magazine.
