Hustle, pt. 1: Jiddo

My favorite second-hand furniture dealer, Hank of Hank's Alley in Tarrytown, looked me dead in the eye a few weeks ago and gruffed, "Honey, you got hustle."

The occasion was no more significant than a wander through the Alley, which resulted in my sorta baffling decision to buy this pair of salt and pepper shakers.

But Hank knows me well for selling my finds at rates that slowly add to my family's travel fund and give him plenty of room for profitable resale.

I accepted Hank's Rat Pack era observation appropriately, I thought, with a pouty smile and cartoonish eyelash flutter.

"Uh, I meant that as a compliment, Honey."

I waved my hand dismissively. "I take it as one, Hank. I come from a long line of hustlers."





I don't feel any hustle today. None. I need to get past my terror of eBay and Etsy and post these wares (and I don't mean the suitcases; I mean everything in these suitcases).

But um, I don't wanna. Maybe if I tell a story about my ancestors, veterans of the hustle, I'll motivate.

Jiddo

Yousef Moun-aye-er (an alternative transliteration of the Arabic name that captures the sound a bit better than the Frenchy looking "Monier"; roughly translated, the name means "Human Lighthouse") was raised in Qatana, an Ottoman garrison and dust-dry village some 20 miles west of Damascus. Talk about a dead-end existence. Yousef, a Catholic, was built like a Grizzly, which made him a target for threats and abuse from the local Muslim forces. Aged 12, Yousef and a few Christian friends decided to take what I like to call "One Big Risk" and run away to make their fortunes in "Amreeka."

Their journey--which crossed the Mediterranean Sea, France, and the Atlantic ocean--took years. They stowed away on an ocean liner, and when discovered, cleaned and hauled stuff around the ship for their food.

What no one told these boys, however, is that "Amreeka" is a big place, two continents actually. Their ship docked smack between both.

Yousef decided to head north to his Land of Freedom. His friends decided to stay in Spanish-speaking countries. As the joke goes, had Yousef stayed with his friends, we'd probably be millionaires and presidents of Central American countries.

Instead, teenage Yousef crossed into this country illegally, working for a traveling Mexican circus. I used to pretend that this meant he was a performer. My dad had to convince me that his dad had not swung from the flying trapeze as the circus paraded across the U.S. border.

Yousef had been behind the parade, sweeping up the animals' droppings. Especially memorable were the elephants.

In a fit of racist, disillusioned pique, thirteen-year-old me once shot back at my dad, "So, we didn't come through Ellis Island or anything? I'm the granddaughter of a towelhead wetback?"

My dad stared me down so that I held my breath. Then he released a rueful little chuckle. "Yes, I guess your Jiddo was a towelhead wetback. And he had hustle."

 

That's my daddy on Jiddo's lap, giving the world the reverse finger.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier