Daily News, April 1, 1998

Little Italy in the Bronx
The Power of Roots

As Easter draws families together, Arthur Avenue the Belmont area celebrate with passion and purpose

The Neighborhood

Yes Dorothy, there's no place like home

Roots. You can travel thousands of miles, live in four different states, and watch the years start piling up into neat little stacks called decades. But if you're from a very special place in the heart of the Bronx, your own heart will never let you forget your roots. Like little ET, you'll always hear the seductive, irresistible call to "go home." Home to The Neighborhood.

How do you describe the power of such roots to people who weren't part of the almost indescribable experience of growing up in a neighborhood like this? How do you define a shared adventure that still evokes enormous feelings of love, loyalty and some of the happiest memories of your life? How can you convey the depth of friendships formed in childhood that have stood firm for a lifetime?

One melancholy Saturday afternoon not long ago, I found myself living out in the boondocks of Illinois. I was in a make-believe I950s diner, jukebox playing in the background. Already homesick, I knew I was a goner when a too-familiar song suddenly filled the air. "I wonder why-y-y I love you like I do..." It was Dion & The Belmonts. That did it. My heart was on the down side of the Palisades roller coaster.

What the hell was I doing in Illinois, so far from the place where my roots go so deep and strong they can reach me anywhere in the world and pull me home?

At that precise moment, I knew I had to get back – back to New York City, back to the Bronx, especially back to the The Neighborhood. I longed for the gritty honesty of the place, the colorful, wacky sense of humor of the people, the familiarity, camaraderie, and raw love of an eccentric, feisty little community known as Belmont. Overflowing with culture and tradition, so vibrantly alive, always interesting, always fun.

There are no Arthur Avenues in the heartland of America. No screwball storeowners, no clam stands on the streets, no multitudes of people peacefully living side by side. There are no 6O-year old retail markets teeming with the joy and passion of life. No Belmont Italian American Playhouses, abounding with sheer talent and tenacity. Not too many shared memories of tar-melting hot city streets and the mischievous opening of the hydrants (Johnny pumps) to cool off 30 or 40 kids. These are just some of the things that take root in your soul and never let go.

We've been called many different names in the hundred years we've been around: Fordham, Arthur Avenue and "a hun-87th" Street, Little Italy in the Bronx, and our current moniker, Belmont. But to the vast legions of children past and present, young and old - who still consider it home, it is and always will be, simply The Neighborhood.