I had never heard that word before, but I knew it was racist. Being in the marching band was one of the lowest orders on the high school social hierarchy, and I was at the bottom of that group. There were several reasons for that, but one had to do with uniformity. It had been made clear several times to me over the years that I hurt the uniform look. I stuck through it. I needed extra curriculars to make up for my “meh” GPA and I really liked playing music. And most of the kids weren’t like this. Just enough to make me not love it.  A couple of guys decided that being in the marching band wasn’t dorky enough, they wanted to give everyone nicknames. They went through the roster opining, arguing, laughing, and settling on names. I was sitting off to the side, eating my sandwich. I usually ate in the band room because it was less hectic and closer to my next class. But I also had to listen to them babble about how wonderful band was all the time. And I heard as they went through giving themselves “cool” sounding nicknames, giving girls nicknames based on their attributes or their weight, and finally they got to me. “What about Joslin?”  There was silence. I looked over at them. I had to hear this.  Maybe I would get a cool nickname.  But then I saw the sneers, heard the snickers, and felt their evil eyes on me. One of them said it. “Mulignan”. They all started laughing under their breath. I knew but still asked. “What does that mean?”  The reply, “nothing, just means a guy”.  I knew better.  I always did.

When my parents first forced me to take piano lessons, I had no idea that Mrs. Baldini would eventually become the grandparent I never really had. She was in her 80s, walked with a cane, and yelled and screamed if you made the simplest mistake. My sister was the one who wanted lessons. I was a “package deal” and had to take lessons as she gave my parents a special rate for two students. Over the years, my sister got better and better while I remained stuck on elementary Mozart. I got yelled at a lot but over time, I really bonded with her. It turned out that an Indian kid growing up in the 80s and 90s had a remarkably similar experience to an Italian kid in the 20s and 30s. So over time, our relationship changed from getting yelled at for not mastering Beethoven to learning Billy Joel and talking to her about things I wouldn’t even bring up to my parents or friends. The Friday after the incident, I was plucking away at “Uptown Girl” while she was pointing out all the sharp notes I was missing. I suddenly stopped and asked her, “Hey, what does mulignan mean?”  I got an immediate wack upside the head. “Where did you learn that word? Did you call someone that? I am going to whoop you and then tell your paren…”  I interjected quickly. “No!  I didn’t use that word.  I… uh… heard it”.  She understood immediately. Now I had talked to her about racism before. She told me to ignore it, be the bigger person, or walk away if it was words.  If it was physical, throw punches.  But this time, she sat back in her chair and looked pretty upset. She said she would call the school. I begged her not to. She talked about how bad Italians had it when she was a child and now their grandkids were acting like they owned the place. I asked her again what the word meant. “It comes from the Italian word for eggplant. It’s a slur used toward black people. It is like the n-word”.  My neck started burning. These mother fuckers….. She said “I know you don’t like to talk to your parents about this, but you should say something. These boys don’t realize how good they have it.”  I looked back at the sheet music. That was it, that as how I was going to fight back.

My parents had always taken a Jesus/Gandhi approach to racism which is why I didn’t bring it up to them anymore.  Just ignore it, move on, and don’t let it get to you. They were right.  I did view racists as mentally weak and shouldn’t have wasted my time wanting to fight them. But it also irked me I didn’t fight back. Maybe it was a macho Jersey thing. Maybe I was just an idiot. Maybe every teen boy is like this.

But, around that time, two figures came into my like. The first was Malcolm X. I stumbled across the Spike Lee joint by accident when it was on TV and became enamored. This was a guy who went thought way worse than me but fought back… with words. I tried to check out his autobiography from the library, but they told me it was inappropriate for a minor and called my mom. When the librarian explained the book would teach me to hate white people, my mom took me to Waldenbooks and bought me a copy. Not because she wanted me to hate white people, but because if it spooked someone that bad, there was probably truth in it.  I poured over it and learned how to speak up. Also, at the same time we started getting a random channel on our antenna tv called Classic Sports. And that’s how I learned about Muhammad Ali. They had to fill up time, so they just showed Ali highlights, but also interviews. He could knock you out with a punch but would kill you with his words. I was awestruck. The man was the greatest fighter in the world but was more devastating with his words. I learned a new way to fight back.

The following Monday that opportunity came fast. I was back in the band room during lunch chowing down on a sandwich and sipping my Arizona iced tea, when one of the guys in the group looked up from their huddle and yelled, “Hey mulignan, what are you eating?”  I took a breath and looked around. No one reacted, they had no idea what the word meant. Mr. Gordon, the band director, was working away at a marching drill, and didn’t hear. I looked back at the kid who said it. “Aren’t you trying to go to Rutgers next year? For music? And don’t you need a letter of recommendation?” He didn’t respond. I looked at Mr. Gordon.  “Mr. Gordon, can you help me with an Italian word?” Mr. Gordon looked up. The racists got even whiter. “Now you know I ain’t Italian”, Mr. Gordon said in his Arche Bunker cadence. “But Mr. Mannino is. Go ask him. He loves to talk Italian.” I smiled and looked back at the crew. Their collective waste of their future lives was passing in front of their eyes. Mr. Mannino was our new Vice Principal. “Thanks Mr. Gordon, I think he will love what I have to ask.”   I looked back. Their heads were down. “Please don’t.” One of them pleaded. “Please don’t what?” asked Mr. Gordon who was finally in tune that something had happened. I looked at the crew. This was the end. “Nothing”, I said.  “They just had a misunderstanding on who I am.”  Mr. Gordon stared for a minute and then let it go. He went back to his drills.  I looked back at the group. “Don’t ever fuck with me again.”  I would like to tell you they didn’t. But I still had senior year left to go.