My Godparents

A saint and a sinner.

When you’re raised Catholic, picking godparents for a child is a very long and serious process. There is great honor and respect bestowed upon these chosen ones. Italians regard the godparents even higher than blood relatives. This may be why siblings or beloved aunts and uncles are often chosen. Godparents, after all, are the ones responsible for a child’s religious education should the parents die.

The sacrament of baptism is an elaborate one. Boys and girls wear a long white silk or lace dress during a church ceremony where godparents hold the child while a priest pours holy water over his or her head and gives the infant a supernatural rebirth. It is the first of seven sacraments, and if the child is not baptized, none of the other six sacraments can be received. After the Mass is over, family members gather at the parent’s home to eat massive amounts of food including a very sweet cake with thick frosting and a candy cross on top, and of course wine.

My father was Italian and Catholic and my mother converted from Protestant so she could represent him to God in a good light. Someone had to. Dad only stepped foot into church when forced to which usually meant weddings, funerals, and kid’s sacraments.

So considering my father’s strong Italian-Catholic roots, you would think he would pick someone as his child’s godfather who would stick around and make sure his daughter would not be led astray should something happen to him or my mother. Instead, he chose Tony C., an Italian mobster who looked like a cross between Joe Pesci and Ricky Ricardo.

As I grew up, I never thought much about my godfather because I had not met him, well, not that I can remember. I have a photo of him holding me as an infant alongside my godmother on my baptismal day but that’s about it.

My parents were smart enough, however, to choose my Aunt Madeline, my father’s sister, as my godmother. My aunt was practically a saint. She never married, never missed church, and was as close to God as a mortal can get. Her room was filled with religious statues and dolls. She was kind and warm and she never missed my birthday or holidays. Even when we moved away, I could always count on a box filled with her homemade cookies and a present. She was there for me.

But Tony was a different story. Whenever I asked about him, my mother gave my father a dirty look. Mom didn’t want this mobster to be my godfather. But dad picked him.

I guess when someone does you a favor, you pick them as godfather to your first born daughter. At least that what happened to me. Tony did my father a favor, and in turn, he was chosen as my godfather.

I never understood why my godfather never visited or brought me presents. I was about six when I first asked about him.

“Your godfather is out of the country a lot, on business,” my dad said.

Shorty after that first inquiry, I remember getting a very large doll that came in an even larger box. It was wrapped with a giant ribbon and bow. Dad handed it to me and said it was from my godfather. The doll had a porcelain face and eerie blue eyes that opened and closed. I remember the doll to be almost as tall as I was. It wore a Victorian era dress with a slew of tiny nacre buttons, a pair of pantaloons, and was adorned with long blonde curls.

I was terrified of that doll and kept it in my closet. At night, I’d prop up a chair against the door to protect me from the doll. I never told my parents about my fear. I just lived with it. If I knew the real story of my godfather, I may have been even more terrified of the doll.

It would take years for me to learn more about this character.

It was the late 1950s and dad was working security for Sammy Davis Jr. while he was on tour at nightclubs in Miami and Cuba. Dad was also working for a connected family who had ties to the casino and gambling business. He traveled back and forth from Miami to Cuba and mom was home pregnant with me.

We stayed in Miami until 1962 when the Cuban Missile Crisis hit. I was attending Catholic School at the time and it had gotten scary. Every time a plane went over the school, the nuns would make us get under our desks and pray. We moved away from Miami and back to New Haven, Connecticut where we didn’t have to worry about being bombed.

In New Haven, I would be exposed to all my Italian aunts, uncles, and cousins. All of them had two godparents except me. I just had a godmother.

I was around 12 when I asked about my godfather again.

“Well, I never really wanted your dad to pick him,” Mom said.

After some prying, I asked what had happened.

“Well, your dad needed a favor and he took care of it,” she said.

“Took care of what, mom, I asked?

“Well, all I know is it involved a stool pigeon,” she said.

A stool pigeon? My godfather was chosen because he took care of a stool pigeon? And I was his reward?

Well, mobster or not, he could have visited. Maybe he still would one of these days. After all, he sent me a doll once. Surely there were more gifts to be given. And so I inquired again.

“Mom, I was wondering if my godfather might ever visit me some time?”

“You’ll be waiting a very long time, honey,” she answered.

She was right. Apparently, my godfather was found face down in a pool of blood on the streets of Miami.