I met Rose Stanley summer of sixty-nine while working my way thru college bartending at The Ginger Kitty, a show lounge and gentleman’s club nestled in the heart of Chicago’s famed Rush Street nightlife strip. Rose and her sisters, Tinka and Lola, often stood in a recessed doorway of a vacant storefront next to Ginger Kitty (which they had taken over and turned into an “ofisa,” or fortune telling parlor, without landlord knowledge or consent). Laughing, chatting, they would solicit passers by for fortune telling. Whenever they got a live one, they would hustle him or her swiftly past beaded curtains they had draped across the storefront’s pried-open doorway — after which, what went on, I couldn’t say.
Sometimes, people who had had their fortunes told would come around next day, accompanied by police, asking questions. They never got anything out of me. Who was I to judge? Although, as a bartender, I was not really part of whatever questionable goings on took place in Ginger Kitty’s “private” rooms, I was still working for a business straddling that fine line between show lounge and house of ill repute. I knew darn well our girls were not earning all those big tips just for prancing around half naked sipping champagne mocktails with our exclusively male clientele. I also knew students supporting themselves through college, especially those with non-marketable majors, such as Anthropology, needed, like Chicago politicians, to occasionally “look the other way” when money was too good to pass on. “Live and let live,” was my motto.
Sometimes, when I stepped outside on break to catch a breath of fresh air, I would chitchat with the Stanley sisters. In this way, I learned a lot about their lives and about Rom Gypsy culture which, my being an Anthropology major, was of interest to me.
The Stanleys lived upstairs, above Ginger Kitty, in a sprawling, rickety old apartment. Besides the sisters, their mother, father, and a married brother with his wife and child, there was a cousin and, sometimes, a grandfather, living up there. When I remarked, once, how this seemed like a lot of people, I was told it couldn’t be helped because: “Lot’s of people are prejudiced and won’t rent to Gypsies.” Plus “Gypsies believe in keeping family together.” And, most interestingly, “It’s not easy to find apartments where no one lives above you.”
I later learned Nomadic Gypsies have certain unique ideas about the human body – probably, I was told, dating back to their caravan days. Back then, when organizing a new campsite, the high point on a riverbank was designated for human drinking water, further down areas were for bathing and such with the lowest area being reserved for bowel and bladder chores. From this habit an idea evolved that the lower part of the human anatomy is impure and should never be placed above the upper part (head and shoulders). So strong was this taboo that in olden days, a woman could “curse” a man (literally rendering him “marime” (or polluted) and in need of ritual cleansing) by simply touching the hem of her skirt to his shoulder. Even today, many Gypsies favor using separate bars of soap for washing their upper and lower bodies. This is also why Gypsies prefer to live in one story, ranch-style homes or apartments located on top floors of older flats. That way no upstairs neighbor’s lower body is ever above your upper body.
One sunny afternoon, a shiny, black limo pulled up in front of The Ginger Kitty. Dancers strutted into our front lounge, g-strings trailing, adjusting pasties — eagerly anticipating entertaining a few high rollers. Imagine our surprise when the limo door opened and a single short, swarthy old gentleman popped out and strolled right past The Ginger Kitty into the alcove doorway leading upstairs to the Stanley apartment.
Later I found out. The old man was Steven Bilko. He was looking for a wife for his son, Ronnie, and an offer of Marriage had been made for Tinka. Not surprising. The youngest Stanley daughter, Tinka looked like your prototypical Gypsy. Waist length, wavy, jet-black hair, prominent cheekbones, huge, dark, almond shaped eyes, a dancer’s lilth body, Tinka was gorgeous. And she knew it. Lola, her older sister, was almost Tinka’s twin. But Lola’s black hair was just a little shorter and less glossy, her face slightly fuller and her body a tiny bit thicker. She was very attractive but lacked Tinka’s edge. Rose, with her pale skin, oddly blueish eyes and “American” features looked nothing like either sister. She looked more like living proof off an old saying: “Keep a close watch on your children or Gypsys will steal them.”
Tinka’s marriage proposal was not well received. Not by Tinka, anyway. “Ronnie Bilko is a dirty old man,” she later told me flatly. “Fifteen years older than me at least. I won’t marry him no matter what my parents say.”
“Than what will you do,” I asked knowing enough about Gypsy culture, by then, to realize Gypsy marriages usually are arranged between elders who often don’t take into account preferences of prospective mates or someone’s desire for a “love” match.
“I’ll get a job,” Tinka informed me, flashing perfectly even white teeth in that confident way of very beautiful young women in every culture. “You guys need any new dancers?”
I smiled back knowing she was joking. Although any one of the Stanley girls could have easily gotten hired as a dancer at The Ginger Kitty, none would lasted even a day. Contrary to their public image as free-wheeling, sensual and uninhibited, Gypsy women are actually rather prudish. Raised to value chastity, they’re closely guarded by fathers, brothers, uncles and husbands, expected to be unblemished before marriage and faithful thereafter. In Rom Gypsy culture, old women still check for blood stained sheets after the first night of a honeymoon.
“Seriously, Tinka,” I asked again, “what will you do?”
Tinka’s eyes began to tear up.
I understood. Her choices were really very limited. Like most Gypsy girls, Tinka had been deliberately kept illiterate. Since she could neither read nor write she could not cross over into the “American” world – the world of “Gadjos”(or non-Gypsies). She was a skilled fortune teller. But for that, she needed an ofisa and a reliable Gypsy support system – neither of which would be available to her if she fled. Bottom line: She could either proceed with her betrothal, trying to make the best of it, or she could attempt to convince her father to reject the Bilko family’s proposal. Not likely in the male dominated Rom Gypsy world.
“Seriously, Tinka,” I repeated. “What are you going to do.”
Tinka sniffed back tears and without commenting turned around and headed back upstairs.
Later that night, I took another air break and saw Lola and Rose out front.
“Tinka’s agreed to the proposal,” Lola announced cheerfully.
“But she is bugging my father about what a disrespect it was for them to come for her while Lola and I are still single,” muttered Rose, the only Stanley sister with rudimentary literacy skills. Sensing some tension between the two women, I waited for further explanation.
It turned out that each Stanley girl had different hopes and dreams when it came to marriage. I say “dreams” because for Gypsy women, your future reality is pretty clear. Young women are expected to enter into arranged marriages sanctioned by Gypsy elders (under our laws, “common law” marriages). A bride price is paid by the husband’s family to the wife’s and, after marriage, a wife is expected to live with her husband’s family – cooking and cleaning for them and taking care of any children in the household. Only after many years of “paying dues” and bearing children will a woman finally be permitted to establish her own home. Meanwhile, if she tries to escape, she will forfeit her children – who, under Gypsy law, are considered to belong, legally, to her husband’s family.
Lola was a “good,” conservative, Gypsy girl, ready to obey Gypsy laws and customs. For her, Tinka’s wedding was a positive thing because it would unite two powerful Gypsy families –- Bilkos and Stanleys — increasing Lola’s chances of making a desirable match, herself. For Rose, however, who with her “Americanized” ideas viewed traditional Gypsy marriage as, basically, enforced servitude for women, a scandal over unmarried elder daughters was dangerous. It threatened her ability to remain single. Tinka’s way, if she could have it, would have been to willingly enter into a traditional Gypsy marriage but one based on a love match.
Later, after much drama and hesitation, Tinka finally admitted she was already “in love” with a young Gypsy man who shared her feelings. They knew each other from various Gypsy weddings and social events — though, of course, they had never been on a date or spent time alone together. Unfortunately, there was some sort of feud between their respective families. So it was unlikely Tinka and the boy, Harv, would ever be allowed to marry unless they ran away together – a dangerous practice sometimes resorted to by desperate young Gypsy lovers.
A few days later, I was in the basement inventorying beer and whisky in preparation for placing an order with our liquor wholesaler, when Fat Eddy, The Ginger Kitty’s manager, yelled down: “Hey college girl, you got a visitor up here.”
I crept curiously up the stairs and was surprised to find Rose Stanley staring slack-mouthed at floor to ceiling, oil paintings of naked, Rubenesque females who, in their ornately gilded frames, graced our dimly lit front show lounge’s walls. With her short, blond, preppy haircut and navy linen shirtwaist, embellished with white collar and cuffs, Rose looked as totally out of place in The Ginger Kitty as she did around her sisters’ ofisa on fortune telling nights. When she saw me she ran over and gave me a quick little hug while Fat Eddie’s eyes, blinking behind thick black-framed glasses, watched disapprovingly from over the top of a racing form he was pretending to read.
“Do me a favor,” Rose whispered, “take this and hold onto it for me.” She pushed a tangled clump of heavy gold jewelry at me.
“What’s this,” I asked.
“Just keep it for me, please,” she said, her darting eyes fixing momentarily on my own. “I’ll come for it later.” Then she whirled around quickly and strode back out into bright afternoon sunlight.
“With Fat Eddie’s grudging consent, I placed Rose’s bundle, and several others she brought later, into our hidden wall safe. I never had a chance to ask Rose what was going on because suddenly all three Stanley girls made themselves scarce. Their usually laughter-filled alcove was empty and their fortune telling parlor dark.
I wasn’t even sure the Stanleys were still living upstairs until one afternoon I came late to work by cab. Looking up from paying my driver I saw Tinka, in a lipstick red fitted suit, her hair imprisoned in a neat chignon, a black, veiled, pillbox hat atop her head at a rakish angle. Without offering so much as a nod of acknowledgement, she tottered right past me on five-inch, stiletto heals, her carefully outlined red lips fixed in a grim line. As she slid into the back seat of a waiting limo, I glimpsed a dark skinned man and a much older, fashionably attired, woman who I later learned was an elder sister of Tinka’s fiancée. Perhaps, I surmised, the soon-to-be bride and groom were having some sort of chaperoned get acquainted “date.”
Though I rarely saw the Stanley sisters after Tinka’s engagement was announced, there was a new addition to out front. Sometimes, standing outside on a fresh air break, I would notice a nice looking young man loitering across the street, staring intently towards The Ginger Kitty. Stage door “Johnnies” were nothing new. So I didn’t give him too much thought – except to notice he looked younger, more awkward and, somehow, different than our usual clientele. (Was it his straw fedora, dark sunglasses at night, suits in fabrics with a sheen? I don’t know. But, somehow, he was exotic looking.)
Then one evening Rose popped her head in the front door and waved me to step out front for a minute.
“What’s up,” I asked, smiling slightly at her prim beige suit spectator pumps and matching handbag.
“See that guy over there,” she said lifting her chin slightly to coax my gaze across the street where the young loiterer stood watching us.
“Sure,” I agreed. “He’s there all the time.”
She grabbed me in a quick hug and whispered: “He’s going to come by later this week to pick up those packages I left with you.”
As she released me I saw the young man touch his finger quickly to the brim of his hat. Then turning swiftly he walked away.
“Thanks for everything,” Rose called back at me as, she too, spun on her heal and hurried off.
Sure enough, a couple of days later, the youth did come in asking for “Rose’s stuff.”
Shaking his massive, lionesque head the entire time, Fat Eddie waddled over to our safe, extracted several bundles and handed them over to me — his lips pulled into a tight line of censure.
There was no sign of the Stanley sisters again for the next two days. Then, early one evening, we saw a group of men hauling musical instrument cases up the stairs. Probably an engagement party, I thought. Fat Eddie gave a disgusted shake of his head, worried, I supposed, loud Gypsy music might interfere with our own entertainment. But, surprisingly, as the evening wore on, we heard no music.
Customers were happily guzzling overpriced drinks and stuffing folded bills down dancers’ garter belts when, suddenly, a loud uproar erupted outside. Crowding up before a large picture window in our front lounge, we saw old Mr. Stanley arguing with another elderly gentleman who I later realized was the father of Tinka’s fiancé.
Although a lot of their shouting was in Romany (a spoken language known only to Rom Gypsies) we caught occasional words and phrases in English: (“thief,” “liar,” “stole my money,” “broke my kid’s heart,”). We heard entreats to God to “look, see what this gangster has done to me.” There was much chest thumping, clutching of hands over the heart and hollering: “Yoy, yoy, yoy.” It was quite a spectacle.
Finally, old Mr. Stanley shouted: “Enough. I can’t stand it no more,” and turning his back on his adversary he started to trudge slowly towards the stairs to his apartment. But the other old man doggedly pursued him still screaming about God, justice and the “Kris” (which I later found out is a court of Gypsy elders who pass upon disputes within the Gypsy community).
After the old men disappeared back upstairs, things quieted down. So, I climbed back behind the bar and watched Betty – a pretty blond from Quincy Illinois with huge blue eyes and a perennially vacant expression – glide onstage behind her giant, pink, feathered fan. She was just peaking coyly out at her audience when there was a loud “pop” and an overhead stage light exploded.
Then: “pop, pop, pop,” bottles behind the bar began shattering.
“Someone’s shooting,” screamed Fat Eddy, flinging his full girth floor-ward.
Looking shocked, Betty dropped her fan and fled off stage. I slid under an overhanging section of the bar while customers dove for cover under tiny, round cocktail tables. Shots seemed to be coming from upstairs through our ceiling. So we all laid low till they stopped. Then, we slowly crawled out of our hiding places wondering what to do next.
Although we, ourselves, existed on the fringes of law, that day we were actually relieved to see several CPD squad cars pull up, sirens wailing. A group of Chicago’s finest spilled out guns drawn and rushed up the stairway towards the Stanley apartment shouting stereotypic things like: “Police,” “Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up,” etc. Interestingly, however, no one from the Stanley apartment ever came outside. It just got very quiet for a while and then we saw cops clamoring back downstairs talking, laughing and pocketing what looked like big wads of money.
After everything calmed down, Fat Eddy (whose skin was still shining a sort of greenish color, although neither he nor any of our employees or customers had actually been hurt) handed remaining customers coupons for a “free fifteen minute private dance” on a “later visit” and sent everyone home for the rest of the night.
The next time I saw any of the Stanley girls was several weeks later when Rose sauntered casually into The Ginger Kitty one afternoon as though nothing unusual had ever transpired upstairs. She looked crisp and clean in a white, raw silk, suit, low healed, white pumps and a wide brim, white, straw hat with a bunch of colorful flowers on one side.
“I know you said you study all kinds of people at those college classes you’re taking,” she said smiling shyly. “So I thought you might like to come see a real Gypsy wedding. This Saturday, eight o’clock at Majestic Banquet Hall on West Irving Park Road.”
Before I could inquire what had gone on at her house that night the police came, she handed me a heavy cream-colored envelope, turned on her little, kitten heals and clicked across our faux marble floor and right out the door. Whatever it was that had gone on, I thought, it apparently hadn’t interfered with plans for Tinka’s wedding.
It was a busy night and I promptly lost my invitation. But when Saturday came, I happened to be off work. Remembering the name of the banquet hall, I decided I’d take a bus out there and observe the wedding. At the very least, I figured, I could use my observations to write a term paper coming due in my Cultural Anthropology Independent Study class.
As I approached Majestic Banquet Hall’s ornate front entrance, a group of dark, handsome, tuxedo clad youths, standing around smoking and joking, smoothly closed ranks to block my entry.
“Sorry, miss, private party,” one said politely.
Just then I spotted Larry, the married Stanley brother who lived above The Ginger Kitty, hurrying across the parking lot toward us.
“Hey, aren’t you that girl from “Ginger Kitty,” he asked, smiling and grasping my hand warmly. “Welcome, glad you could make it.”
“It’s o.k. guys. She’s o.k..” he told the youths who immediately parted way and held open a door for us. After escorting me in, Larry handed me a drink then rushed off to attend to other guests.
I stood alone, Guests swirling around me. Some were dressed in high fashion “American” style clothing. Others, especially older women, wore elaborate turbans, embroidered, fringed shawls, exotic, floor length gowns laced through with metallic threads, sequins and beads (fabrics one might expect to see done up in a fancy Indian sari). Many women were adorned with “galbe” heavy gold-coin jewelry (which was used, in traditional Nomadic Gypsy culture, to guard and transport wealth).
I finally spotted the bride, her back to me, in a backless, floor length, classic, white lace gown with a train so long it took three little, giggling girls to keep it up off the floor. Standing next to her was the groom, who I immediately recognized as the man from the back seat of the limo that day, his arm proprietarily draped across her shoulder. Her hair had been pulled up under a massive lace mantilla and veil, only a few wispy tendrils escaping. Gorgeous. But no surprise. I had always known Tinka would make a picture perfect bride.
As I made my way through the crowd to offer my congratulations, I was cut off by a group of very old women, holding a red flag high atop a wooden pole, closing ranks to form a circle around the bridal couple. The band, which had been playing “American” popular music, suddenly switched to a lively foreign sounding tune. Moving in time to the music, the old women began dancing vigorously around the bride and groom waiving the red flag and chanting.
“That’s the actual wedding ceremony,” a tall, rail thin, blond woman in “American” dress offered helpfully – apparently recognizing me as an outsider. “After this, they will be husband and wife.” I smiled gratefully, wondering if this woman, who looked decidedly “American,” might be a wife from one of those rare but not unheard of “American”/Gypsy marriage unions which occur infrequently (accompanied by great resistance from Gypsy elders).
Before I could inquire, however, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. Turning around I was completely flabbergasted to confront, face to face, Tinka Stanley, in a lavender lace suit with matching pumps and hat, hand in hand with none other than the young fellow who used to loiter across the street from The Ginger Kitty.
“I want you to meet my husband, Harv, she said – flashing her dazzling smile.
The youth grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down warmly.
“But, I thought you…,” I babbled lamely, pointing towards the bride and groom.
“No. No. No.,” Tinka laughed. “I married Harv,” she waved a a diamond encrusted hand past me. We used that jewelry Rose put aside for us to finance our marriage. We ran away and made a civil ceremony, “American” style.” She smiled at Harv who gazed back at her, obviously besotted. “So once our parents found out what we done, the families started talking again and settled their differences. They didn’t even need a Kris. So now I’m living on the South Side with Harv’s family. And guess what,” she added smiling shyly. “I’m pregnant.”
“Than who…,” I asked pointing to the bride.
“Don’t you recognize Lola,” Tinka asked, laughing gaily. “Turns out her and Ronnie are a better match then him and me were. Anyway, Ronnie’s dad had already paid a bride price. So instead of gangstering each other, the families decided to just let Ronnie and Lola get married.
Aaaah, I thought. So that was what all that shouting and shooting had been about. A Bride price dispute. In fact such incidents are not really so unusual in Nomadic Gypsy culture. But they’re more for show than anything else. People are rarely injured unless it’s by accident.
Nevertheless, I felt a twinge of uneasiness as a group of men came in, just then, lugging musical instrument cases. Soon, however, they joined the band on stage and I was relieved to see those cases really did contain musical instruments. So I relaxed, ate, drank and danced the night away, Gypsy style, then got up next morning to write a term paper that later became a part of my doctoral thesis.
That was almost forty years ago. Now, I’m a Professor of Cultural Anthropology at a university here in Chicago. My specialty is American Gypsy studies. Of course I am still in touch with my adopted Gypsy family – though old Mr. and Mrs. Stanley died years ago. I am happy to report that Lola and Ronnie Bilko are still happily married, own their own home now and have several lively children. “Arranged marriages are better,” oldsters say – pointing out couples like Lola and Ronnie Bilko to prove their point.
Sadly, Tinka and Harv did not make it. Tinka’s version: Harv’s family was too hard on her, mistreated her and forced her out. Harv’s version: Tinka was a prima donna who was not a properly dedicated Gypsy wife. Rose, for her part, believes there was so much drama surrounding their marriage that “those kids never had a chance.” Their break up came as no surprise to old timers advocating for traditional arranged marriages. “Love matches don’t last good,” they say. Tinka’s second marriage –- not a love match – has lasted better in part because she was allowed to keep her daughter from Harv as part of her “divorce” and both mother and daughter are shamelessly doted upon by Tinka’s much, much, older second husband.
Rose Stanley is still single. Her choice. I introduced her around at some funding agencies while I was working on my Ph.D. in Anthropology. After learning to read and write, she got herself set up into a not-for-profit corporation. She now runs a Gypsy literacy project sending volunteers out to encourage Gypsy parents to send their children to school. For those who are too frightened or stubborn, tutors for home schooling can sometimes be arranged. Of course, as Rose admits, there’s still a long way to go before Gypsy women enjoy parity with their American counterparts, if such freedoms are ever achieved. But it’s a start.
Old timers opposing literacy and assimilation are quick to point out how crime ridden and sexually promiscuous American culture is despite people being literate. “We don’t want no part of all that,” they will tell you. To them, Rose Stanley, who is tolerated mainly due to her ties with the powerful Bilko/Stanley clan, is a sad eccentric “turned crazy from not being married.” Indifferent to those who judge her, Rose soldiers on bringing reading and writing skills and information about options to Gypsy girls when and where she is able. She loves her work and appears to be genuinely happy.