A feast of faith in Williamsburg
By Lauren Johnston
amNY.com
June 1, 2007
The smells and sounds are the ones familiar to Italian street fairs:
sizzling hot sausage and sweet, doughy Zeppole. There are brass bands,
calliope tunes, and bells and honks as hopeful gamblers win or lose the
ring toss or dart throw.
Kids tug at their parents' hands, desperate to take home any one of the
giant plush toy prizes and old timers sit back and take in the scene
from the comfort of sidewalk folding chairs.
But
what sets this festival apart is the sight of 120 burly men, struggling
beneath the weight of a five-ton, 80-foot steeple – complete with
parish priest and a 12-man band poised on its platform – as they weave
their way through the heart of Williamsburg in a stunning show of brawn
and faith.
This is the annual feast of the giglio – and for the Italian families
who've grown up near the corner of Havemeyer and North 8th streets –
it's the event of the year. "We say here we got three holidays –
Christmas, Easter and the feast," says Phil Manna, 63, who was born and
raised in the neighborhood and will direct this year's procession – or
as the locals call it, the dance.
The feast of the giglio began in the southern Italian village of Nola,
in the early fifth century, when North African pirates invaded the town
and kidnapped its young men into slavery. Nola's bishop, Paolino, went
along with them into captivity, and when, finally, the men returned
home, the people of Nola celebrated, flooding the streets and waving
lilies – called gigli in Italian.
Over the centuries, the tradition grew more elaborate; hulking wooden
towers decorated with gigli honored Paolino, who was finally canonized.
When Nolani immigrants landed in Williamsburg, Brooklyn in the late
1880s, the feast came with them.
According to Father Joseph Fonti, pastor at Our Lady of Mount Carmel,
the church that runs the festival, the local people have made the
festival an important part of their lives for more than a century, and
in doing so have helped hold the community together. "They've stayed
loyal to this parish and the neighborhood," he says. "They have
rightful claim to this place because their ancestors walked these
streets, built these homes and in truth built this church."
Once, the steeple towered well above the roofs of the neighborhood's
low-rise buildings, but not anymore. Williamsburg has become the city's
epicenter of high-rise real estate and block-by-block the single-family
houses and old warehouses are being replaced by iron skeletons that
will soon grow into luxury condos.
"The landscape has certainly changed in our community," says Joanne
Manna, 53, whose family has lived in the neighborhood for five
generations. "When we put the giglio up before, what we'd see behind
was blue sky and clouds, and now we see big buildings."
As the neighborhood changes, some worry about the future of the feast,
which runs this year from July 5 - 16. "It fills us with a sense of
uncertainty," Fonti says. "Given the development here, we know it's
going to be a whole new experience of life in this part of Brooklyn."
Sal Mazzatenda, 43, will follow in the footsteps of his father and
grandfather when he lifts the giglio this year. "It's in your blood,"
he says. "It's not just a carnival. There's real Catholic meaning
behind this. It would kill me to lose this feast."
And the health of the parish depends largely on the festival. Fonti
says it pulls in about a third of the church's yearly budget --$250,000
from donations and proceeds.
"Most festivals that weren't anchored by a parish have gone by the
wayside," says Joe Peluso, 57, another life-long resident. "The church
thought this would keep the parish together and it's also kept this
neighborhood together."
The house where Peluso grew up sits on Havemeyer Street within sight of
the church. He's worked on the feast nearly every year of his life, and
he wears a t-shirt with the slogan "Giglio Junkie." He worries that the
area is losing its sense of neighborhood. "The people coming in don't
have that inside them. They aren't here for neighborhood."
Still, the local people hope the feast can co-exist with the legions of
the young and hip a few blocks up on Bedford Avenue. After all, Peluso
says, Williamsburg has always been pretty hip – and all those
transplants are just a bit late to the party. "I like the fact that
they call us hip, because I think we are," he says. "And I think this
feast is the hippest thing going."
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