The year was 1959. General Dwight D. Eisenhower, a true American hero, was completing his second term as President of the United States. His presidency presided over the ending of the "Korean Conflict" and the building of the country's interstate highway system. Americans were inspired by his leadership and believed in the American Dream as a reality that could be theirs. He was a Republican and he was admired for creating jobs and ending unnecessary wars. He was the last of a breed!

Anthony Benedetto was a third generation Italian American whose parents knew the benefits of hard work and the emotional drain of the Great Depression. To Anthony the values of his proud and caring parents could not explain the actions of the three boys who yelled to him as he walked home from his neighborhood school in South Boston. "There he is, that guinea that beat up my little brother. Let's get him!" At 11 years old Anthony had no idea what the boy was yelling about. He didn't know his accuser, never mind his "little brother," but he knew that he had to run as they crossed the street in pursuit. He had heard words like `guinea' and `wop' to describe his Italian heritage before, but he didn't understand why they would want to hurt him.

Although smaller than his seemingly barbaric pursuers, screaming out profanities as they chased after him, Tony was very fast. He bolted through the streets stretching the four blocks to his triple-decker home. As he turned the corner of the final block at Douglas Street, Tony felt a swift and jarring yank backwards bringing his mad dash to a sudden and painful halt. The tall lanky boy who had been leading the charge grasped him with brutal force, glaring at Tony with a mischievous smile and fire in his eyes.

"You little guinea bastard ... thought you could outrun us."

The first blow came to his stomach as the tall one held back his arms. He gasped as the air in his lungs escaped and the pain of the next punch from the third angry pursuer crushed his nose, the warm blood gushing from his face. Another blow to his head and he was on the ground feeling the boots of his aggressors. "How's that feel meatball?"

He heard someone, a woman, screaming at them, "Leave him alone, or I'll call the cops."

"Let's get out of here," ordered their `brave' leader, as they ran laughing like wild hyenas.

Tony's grandparents came to America during the first decade of the 20th Century seeking to better their lives and escape the poverty of their respective villages and cities. They soon realized that their dreams were shared by many, each bringing their strange and intimidating languages and customs to their newly adopted country. For many the opportunities would be a test of the survival of the fittest bringing Darwin's evolutionary theory to a very personal level.

Competition for jobs would pit ethnically diverse people in a struggle to better their lot and improve the lives of their families. The challenge was not fully realized when they first boarded the ships that were to take them to the "promised land."

Tony's father, Richie Benedetto, was born in the America in 1915. He left school during the Great Depression finding work in the government's CCC camps, planting trees on Cape Cod. He wanted to help his mother support her nine children after her husband had abandoned his family to pursue his own dreams of wealth in the mid-west.

Richie Benedetto, was a hard working guy who thought of working overtime as a bonus. He, like many of his generation, wanted only to provide a good life for his family. His wife Claudia believed that her three children were the purpose of her life and anyone in need was worthy of her efforts.

"Are you ok, Tony?" the familiar voice was Mrs. Hurley, a neighbor and friend of his mother's. She was armed with a broom handle. "Come inside and let me clean you up, your mother will have a conniption if she sees you like this." He didn't know what a "conniption" was but he didn't want his mom to see him like that. Mrs. Hurley washed his face, put a bag of ice on his nose and let him catch his breath.

"I think you need to go to the hospital. It looks like your nose is broken. Is your father home?"

"I don't think so," Tony said in a voice that was more nasal than vocal.

"Well we had better get you home. Your mother will be worried."

His mother was visibly upset and couldn't understand why he would be beaten up by three older kids that Tony didn't know. She put a fresh bag of ice on his nose and told him not to lie down. "The blood will rush to your head and it won't stop bleeding!"

"They're those fresh Irish kids from H Street, they like to beat up smaller kids especially Italians and Lithuanians," explained Mrs. Hurley.

"Richie won't be home until after midnight. He's working the three to eleven shift this week. I told him that we shouldn't move here. The Irish and Italians don't get along. We were better off in East Boston where there are mostly Italians."

"Well that's not true of all Irish. John and I are Irish and we are all friends in this neighborhood, aren't we?" said Mrs. Hurley.

"Yes, but why did they do this? Richie is going to be upset and he'll want to go see their parents and tell them off. You know that he has a hot temper," worried his mom.

Tony's mother knew her husband had his own troubles in Southie. He grew up in this part of the City. He knew the perils and the benefits when he decided to live back here. He loved the area, and wanted to raise his kids here. It was near one of the city's few beaches. It had parks and open spaces that made it feel like a suburb and it was closer to his work, a chocolate factory in Dorchester.

He recently experienced first-hand that not much had changed since his childhood. He had an encounter with the Irish tenant that he inherited when he bought this three-decker the previous year. The guy was a drunk and like so many alcoholics he took out his rage on his family. You could hear his loud, angry voice through the ceiling and the furniture crashing as he chased his wife in a drunken rage, beating her and sometimes his children.

One night the abused wife came to the Benedetto's door, bruised and crying trying to get away from her liquored up husband. Tony's father had her come into the sanctuary of their small four-room apartment and blocked the pursuing husband, hand on his chest. Tony's mom tended to her bruises and tried to console her as his father attempted to restrain the tall grizzly and highly intoxicated Irishman.

Tony stood behind his dad as the big red-haired, ruddy-nosed tormenter smacked his father's hand down and took a swing at him. He missed, but his dad didn't, knocking him down the stairs from their second floor apartment with a perfect uppercut to the jaw. His mom called the cops, who were quite familiar with the abusive guy. They took him to Police Station # 6 on West Broadway for a night of peace and tranquility.

The next night the big jerk lay in wait for Richie in an alley up the street from their home. He jumped him, only to find the previous night's result repeated. This time Richie broke his jaw. Although Tony's father had a hot temper, he had a sense of justice that guided his life. Once his antagonist was down he wouldn't continue his punishment.

Tony's father had only an eighth grade education, but was well-read and intelligent beyond his limited academic credentials. He was tough but he was also very creative. He was an excellent illustrative artist as evidenced by his elaborate battle-scene drawings of the World Wars that Tony discovered in an old chest in the basement. Although he only served briefly in the Coast Guard at the end of World War II, the letters that his younger brother Albert wrote to him while on the frontlines at the Battle of the Bulge inspired his art work.

He was so talented that when he decided to quit school to help his mother support him and his siblings that were still living at home, his teacher, Mr. Mahoney, a brawny Irishman, offered to pay his tuition to art school. Tony's father had too much pride and dedication to his family to accept the offer and now, 20 years later, he was working in a factory to support his own family.

Richie's father, who had gone to Detroit to gain his own wealth, wanted him to go with him. He recognized his seventh child's ambitious, hardworking attitude and wanted him and his older sons to join him. He declined the offer and had bitterness in his heart that lasted his entire life.

Tony didn't sleep for most of that night anticipating his father's reaction to his defeat at the hands of those Irish punks. He laid awake planning his revenge and imagining their brutal demise at his hands. He would put thorns facing out under his jacket so that the next time they hit him in the stomach they would be cut and bleed. He would hold a small metal rod in his hand to return a punishing blow if they attacked him. His dreams of revenge continued through the night.

At 7:00 AM his dad woke him for school and asked what happened. Tony told him and he asked, "What did you say to them?" Tony was shocked to hear those words. Did he think I started it?

"Dad, I don't know them, they're big kids, like 13 or 14!" Tony exclaimed, disheartened by his question and seeming lack of sympathy.

"Well, stay away from them!" He was stunned by his father's lack of understanding, not realizing that he had gone through similar experiences growing up. He left Tony's room saying, "Get up and get ready for school," without a hint of compassion in his voice.

At breakfast, after his dad had gone out to get the morning paper, Tony's mom tried to explain his father's seemingly unsympathetic behavior to her son, "Your father had to deal with prejudice and violence when he was growing up. He sometimes acts like he doesn't care, but he does. He loves you and he wants you to be able to survive in this world."

"But why does he always think I did something wrong? It isn't fair!" cried Tony.

"He doesn't! He acts tough with you because he knows he can't be with you every day to protect you from hurt," answered his mom, her soft hand on his cheek gently wiping away his tears. Someday you'll understand.

Tony learned later that year, after the attacks continued from the same antagonist, that his dad found out his name. He paid a visit to the punk's father, a big Irishman of considerable reputation as a hater of "guineas." His mom said his father told the man if there was another attack on his son, he would answer to him. Although it didn't improve Irish-Italian relations in the neighborhood, it worked. His father had a reputation for being a no nonsense guy and for keeping his promises.

Over the years, Tony would learn the lesson his father tried to convey with his shorthand response to his whining. He needed to learn to protect himself. The anti "WOP" sentiment was not just the work of the bullies that found safety in numbers. It was the fabric of a bigoted society, borne of fear and a response of the primitive need for survival. It was the 1950s and the class system was in full effect. In America, "the land of the free," the ethnic English hated the Irish, who despised the Italians, who feared the blacks, who had no use for the Hispanics. To Tony it seemed that each group had this need to look down on another in order to feel good about themselves. It didn't make sense and he would have no part of it.

At age 11, he was one of the smallest in his class and considered somewhat of a nerd, but like his father, he was also an artist and was favored by teachers for the school's creative projects. He befriended the toughest guy in his class who assisted him in holiday art-work for the various classrooms. It was his first experience in "it's not what you know but who you know that counts." It also helped that the school's Principal, Mr. Mahoney, had been his dad's eighth grade teacher.

Johnny Mackney was from an alcoholic, dysfunctional family. Looking at his scarred face, earned from beatings from his father, and his muscular physique, one would think that he was a bully. Tony never saw Johnny start a fight, but he did see that he would not hesitate to finish one when a wannabe bully challenged him. Tony knew that Mackney had a respect for art. He liked to draw to escape his tumultuous world but didn't think that he was good enough. He would look over Tony's shoulder when he was drawing a cartoon in class and smile. Johnny would attempt to do the same and show his work to Tony with pride.

Mackney was the obvious choice to be Tony's assistant when his teacher asked him to use his art to decorate the school's class rooms for the holidays. There were few that would risk challenging Tony, when they were doing their thing as the school artists.

Tony taught himself defensive techniques based on the martial art of jiu jitsu. He used his lack of height and good speed as advantages over bigger kids with less control over their balance. If chased, he would go full speed and, if their bigger strides gained on him, he would suddenly drop to the ground causing them to trip and fly over his curled-up body, often landing head first.

One of his friends said that he often over-did his retaliation, giving back three or four-fold what he got. Tony smiled at the thought that his pay-back tactic was becoming his reputation, as he hoped.

In his junior year of high school he decided not to work after school as he had since he was 11 years old. He and his friends sold newspapers during the afternoon rush hours at South Station in downtown Boston. He wanted to try out for the football team with a number of his friends. At 17 years old he was only 5 foot 5 Inches tall and weighed just 135 pounds. But he played sandlot sports with reckless abandon and wanted to be on the school team.

The School was Boston Technical High, a city school that was preparatory for college in the engineering fields. Although, well before the forced busing fiasco that was Boston's lowest point, Tech was a racially mixed school and it required the passing of an exam for entrance.

The Boston district and city schools played their games at White Stadium in the predominantly black area of the city known as Roxbury. Boston Tech wasn't playing on this brisk fall day, but some of the team came to watch Boston English High School play South Boston High. Midway through the game a riot broke out in the stands.

Tony was sitting next to a black teammate when both white and black students began battling in the stands, knives were flashing and fists were flying. They stayed out of this historic battle and used each other's presence to deflect violence from either of them. "He's with me," worked for both of them until the cops arrived. The Stadium was shut down for the rest of the year. One boy from Southie was stabbed near the heart but lived after a long recuperation. He became the poster boy for the anti-violence. Ironically, he was one of antagonists in the early days of Tony's "physical education."

Although, they were considered bigots in the national news scene, the people of Southie were very conservative in their lifestyle, but Democrats in their politics. Living in Southie was about being in the right Catholic Parish, ethnically, and if possible the right elementary school, of which there were several. Families wanted their kids to go to the school that they attended as a child. The church, whether Irish, Lithuanian or Polish was the center of social life in this blue collar community.

There was no Italian Parish but the Gate of Heaven Church was as ecumenical relative to ethnicity, as it could be. It was the childhood Parish of the sitting Bishop of Boston, Cardinal Richard Cushing. The Benedetto's considered it their Parish and made sure that, although their children went to public school, they followed the dogma of the church to a "T." Church, Sunday school and Religious classes on the first Thursday of the month were a routine that could not be varied.

For many, prejudice was indistinguishable from pride. It was enhanced by the competition for ethnic survival and for favored living areas. People had only their territory to make them feel special. The black element of society was excluded in what Judge Arthur Garretty called "de facto segregation" a term that served to exacerbate, rather than resolve, the problem of social injustice.