Who Can Get Paul

by Daniel DiPrinzio

My arrival in the seventh grade at Body and Blood Catholic elementary school was talked about for weeks beforehand, but my departure was discussed for years after.

Before I came, parents slipped the subject in during cell phone conversations as they walked through the supermarket or drove home from work, wondering how their pre-pubescent sons and daughters would get along with "the new boy; you know, the black one." Teachers spoke excitedly in the lounge and empty classrooms after school at the prospect of diversity seeping into the Zeitgeist of their lessons.

"I can finally do Hughes and be able to connect with somebody," Brother Joe said.

"I can teach Roots, and we all know how much time those movies take up," Sister Rita said.

I wasn't the only minority in the school—this was the suburbs of Philadelphia in the early 'nineties, remember. Joining me were another black girl in the grade ahead of me, and the three incumbents—two Vietnamese girls and a third-grade boy from Brazil with the biggest forehead I'd ever seen. He could bounce a soccer ball off of it and at you so hard that it'd leave a mark.

I thought the first couple of weeks would be the toughest. Leaving The Real Deal Public grade school—newly renamed from Iron Mike after Holyfield stopped Tyson in their first bout—after spending my first six years there wasn't easy, but we had to accept both the advantages and drawbacks of my father's new job as an illegal cockfight raider for the SPCA. All my friends, my teachers, and my beloved football team, the one which I'd finally be able to excel at the varsity level and lead to the Philadelphia city championship, played at Veteran's Stadium. Even though the junior varsity squad, led by myself and our star quarterback Don Vittorio, the son of a Sicilian immigrant who was dark enough to pass for a light-skinned brother, would cream the varsity team during our weekly scrimmages, the j.v. team could only beat up on the younger city schoolchildren and watch as our pathetic varsity team fought to break through the paper covering the tunnel through which they had to run out before the games.

There weren't stories or pointed fingers or whispers from schoolmates—not to my face, at least. I came at perhaps a good time, as the hip-hop movement was reaching more and more middle-class white kids, but wasn't yet turning them into the pimp culture it is now. So we were cool.

What seemed to fascinate most schoolmates was my Wesley Snipes two-inch faded hair. Apparently, they never saw a black person's hair up close, and sitting in confined classroom quarters or lining up for recess and fire drills gave my fellow students opportunities to study it as if they were viewing the coat of some exotic animal.

"What does it feel like?" was the question I heard asked by some of the more daring kids.

"Like regular Afroturf," I'd say. And even if I said that in front of teachers, they did nothing but nod their heads nervously and change the subject. The kids thought I was cooler than the Fresh Prince for making such a taboo joke in a Catholic grade school.

The arrival of the first male black student did provide some memorable moments that, if I hadn't shrugged off, could have caused an early ulcer or a lot of backtalk.

When discussing evolution, I said, innocuously, "Black people must have been here first, because the first people were found in Africa." Our teacher, Miss DePoint, speaking out of what I hope was incompetence and ignorance rather than meanness, replied, "You might have something there, Paul. Some evolutionists believe humans are descended from apes, so it's easy to see how black people came first."

I even overheard the principal, on the phone to his colleague from St. Dominos—recently renamed during the corporate takeover of the 'nineties that affected many sporting stadiums and college bowl games—remark that we had the football team to beat now, with the player who put the "blood" in Body and Blood elementary school.

Coincidentally or not, I excelled at the only organized sport Body and Blood excelled in, the aforementioned football. With me taking over in the backfield and running behind our oversized and dull twin guards, Michael and Anthony Moronelli, we began making quick work of all opponents. But that was on a lined field with referees, helmets, and our school's four extremely covered-up cheerleaders, who jumped around in what looked like nun's habits. On an open field with no boundaries was where my legend blossomed.

During recess or after school, we'd play Kill the Man with the Ball, with whoever got caught receiving nuggies. Well, it began as Kill the Man with the Ball, but soon morphed into "See Who Can Get Paul", with all the other kids dying to catch me so they could get a chance to nuggie me, to rub against my exotic hair. Since I was by far the fastest boy not only in my school but probably the entire county, I'd be a black blur running across our football field, down by the creek, through the basketball courts, and around the water ice stand. I can only imagine what must have gone through people's minds who drove by the park, seeing forty-plus grade-school-age white children chasing after the lone black boy while two Vietnamese girls watched and a young Brazilian bounced a soccer ball off his head. At times, it even drew crowds. Some of the, uh, less tolerant parents would watch, biting their nails as they prayed that their little Johnny, Tommy or other Abercrombie foxes would catch the jungle bunny racing all around. I, though, was never caught, leaving many white schoolmates out of breath and impressed, and a few middle-aged white parents very disappointed.

In July, my father's job transferred us to yet another part of Pennsylvania to infiltrate a Johnstown farm where a hillbilly cock trainer was giving his roosters Viagra in the hope of increasing endurance and tenacity. But even though I only spent one year at B and B, I was still able to cement my legend. In fact, I'd lay even money that my stay there was the most memorable year in the school's 43-year history. My mythical performance during Kill the Man dominated lunchtime conversations and teacher lounge reminiscences. For years to come, teachers would remind each new black student—especially the football players—that they all had large shoes to fill, because the one before him could not, would not, get caught. The prowess of my legend is evident in that it even brought Michael Dinomaur fame, as he was the only person ever to lay a hand on my head, right after I slipped in mud, though I quickly recovered to leave him hugging the ground and me nuggie-free.

And what did everybody want to know? What my hair felt like.

"Oh, it was something else," he'd say. "With the thin coat of sweat on it, it was regular rain-slicked Afroturf."

Copyright © Daniel DiPrinzio 2004