In the Arthur Avenue section of the Bronx, where I grew up, the months of June and July were the season of “le feste,” or “the feasts.” When the feasts were in full swing, several city blocks were closed to traffic, and the streets were transformed by carnival games, vendor booths, concession stands, rides, an open-air stage, and street-spanning lights in the red, white, and green of the Italian flag.
The feasts would take place around June 13, the Memorial of St. Anthony of Padua, and July 16, the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.
Unlike my peers whose prosperous papas owned pastry shops or carpentry businesses, I had no money of my own to spend at the feasts. But when I was still a child, it became an annual tradition for my dad – cash-strapped though he was – to take me to the feast and buy me two things: a small bag of candy-coated pistachios and a sparking wheel toy.
The palm-sized toy was operated by pushing a plunger, striking a piece of flint, and causing the wheel to spin and throw sparks. I was so taken by the wheel that, over a half-century later, I can still “see” the sparks whenever I catch a whiff of burned-out July 4th fireworks.
When I was older, I would visit the feasts with my friend Angela. The two of us were boy-crazy, so we’d pass up the games and food carts, and head right over to the display of flimsy chain necklaces and cheap heart-shaped charms that could be custom-engraved.
A few times, Angela and I each managed to scrape together enough loose change to buy a necklace and charm engraved with the name of her current crush. I clearly remember going home and placing the necklace under my pillow in the hopes that “Vinny” or “Robert” would appear in my dreams and sweep me away.
Of all the trinkets at the feasts, however, none captured my fancy as did the Kewpie dolls, with their coy expressions and frothy dresses. For a span of time between my childhood and teen years, I desperately wanted a Kewpie. But the dolls were expensive, so much so that my dad, who loved to indulge his only daughter, was compelled to reply “Not this time” when I, with uncharacteristic boldness, asked if he would buy me a Kewpie.
Oddly, I don’t recall when or how, but I do know that, at some point, I did indeed get my Kewpie. She was exquisite in a mix of cool and warm whites, sequined tulle and scalloped netting, and a feathered cap. But holding the doll in my hands, away from the carnival lights, I found that her dress wasn’t a dress at all, but only a circle of fabric strips gathered into a cloud-like billow.
“They are clouds without rain” (Jude 12:12). The Apostle Jude was referring to the false teachers who liked to display their knowledge to no one’s benefit, like an overcast sky promising rain, but not yielding a single drop.
My Kewpie doll appeared totally put together, and almost seamless, until I took a closer look. In our vanity, we ourselves may strive to appear picture-perfect, unwilling to let others see our loose threads and patchwork. We may go to great lengths to project a certain image, and even keep people at a distance so they don’t notice our flaws. But, as hard as it may be, we are called to be genuine at all times, both inside and out.
“Do nothing out of vain conceit” (Philippians 2:3), St. Paul exhorted. In other words, leave the razzle-dazzle to “le feste”!
By Celeste Behe, a parishioner of St. Theresa of the Child Jesus, Hellertown. Find her online at www.CelesteBehe.com.
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