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“In your circle, I'm sure you got all kinds of gays and trans-whatevers of all stripes. But not where I come from… This guy that got outed, uh, look the guys who work for me are asking for head—his head. Something inside me says, ‘God Bless, salud! Who gives a shit?' I had a second chance, why shouldn't he?”
— Tony Soprano (James Gandolfini) to his therapist, Dr. Jennifer Melfi (Lorraine Bracco), in the April 13th episode of The Sopranos.
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If you ask my mother about the first words I ever spoke, she's proudly tell you that they were Jesus, mama and dada, in that order. But she wouldn't be so quick to admit that the word “goombah” was probably in the top 100.
What can I say? It is what it is, and Tony Soprano might echo that sentiment.
I'm not complaining, and I'm certainly not embarrassed by my roots—or my entertainment tastes. Sure, there are some Italian-Americans who are disgusted by HBO's The Sopranos and feel that the writers have taken the Italian family/mobster stereotypes too far, but I'm not one of them. I absolutely love the show. I think the writers keep fresh an old and bloody tale, seasoning it episode after episode with dialogue that's nothing short of brilliant — not to mention ridiculously authentic.
When Paulie Walnuts (Tony Sirico) speaks he takes me back to every Italian wedding and funeral I've ever attended. I've met at least ten Paulie Walnuts and have been amused by them all.
As an Italian-American, I feel a kinship with the characters on The Sopranos that goes beyond the fact that my name, too, ends in a vowel. Now that there's a gay character—however brief poor Vito Spatafore's (Joe Gannascoli) stay might be—I feel more connected than ever, because if there's one thing I know about, it's being gay in an Italian family.
There are easier paths for an Italian-American to take in life than the pink one. Although I came out to my parents (so to speak…the story will not be told here) at sixteen, and survived, I don't know if I would have led as vocal and as published a queer life as I lead now if I knew my father would live to witness it and, more importantly, be forced to defend his honor and his name from his “goombahs.” My name was his first, after all.
Don't get me wrong; my father was no “wiseguy.” The only person he ever whack ed was me—in the non-fatal sense, obviously. But even as a kid I knew that no one in his right mind should ever mess with an Italian man's honor.
Now that Vito Spatafore's leather chaps are the talk of the Bada Bing, it's common knowledge that he's smeared the family's honor. But even though he, like just about every character on The Sopranos, is a less than stellar human being, I feel for him. His fate now lies in the boss's hands. Tony must decide if he's going to forgive Vito—his “best earner…a come from behind kinda guy,” or track him down in New Hampshire and send him to the big, gay antique store at the bottom of the Hudson.
But, surprisingly, it's not an easy decision for Tony to make.
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