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Chase Bates
English2005
Section3
3/8/15
Moustaches
My family is made up of the finest Italians to ever come off the boat to Ellis Island.
My grandpa, Giovanni Liotta, and grandma, Lucilla Cannoli both came to the U.S. in 1915,
trying to escape what had become of their homeland. The turmoil Italy was facing at the time
was too much for them, allowing for diaspora to affect their lives forever. On their way to
leave Italy, for search of the “American Dream”, each made their way to the ships headed for
New York. They met in line for the journey they were about to encounter, now together. She
had dropped her passport earlier while running to get on the boat, Giovanni noticed and
immediately jolted towards it to pick it up.
“Signorina!” he yells, but the sound of his voice is too muffled. He sprints after her,
observing her attire closely just in case he can’t catch up to her in time. Her long, barely
white dress that seemed worn from the dirt, floated with her as she held her bonnet tight to
her head. Nose bigger than most, he made sure to know, and hair dark enough to catch all the
sun rays. This hair perfectly complimented by the deepest brown eyes he’s ever seen on an
Italian woman. Worried he may lose her, he pushes harder through the crowd and speeds up
to catch her. She is stopped by a yank at her shoulder, she turns around and is immediately
astonished. Not by her passport that he presents to her, but by his moustache. Grandma would
always explain to me how beautiful, thick, and luscious my grandpa’s moustache was the first
time she laid eyes on it.
“It was everything I didn’t expect and everything I wanted at the same time,” she told
me. I haven’t really seen her around since she died last April. Or grandpa for that matter.

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As soon as they arrived on American soil, they got married. They always claim that
the moustache provided some sort of “Power of Love” that made them think so irrationally
that day, which wouldn’t surprise me at all. Even today, my grandpa’s moustache is beyond
gorgeous. Or at least that is what Pa says. I don’t know what he means by this, beings as
though my grandpa is dead. This only makes me curious to how it looked back then. In
person of course, I have seen pictures of this man and his facial creation. There is a picture of
it in my dad’s office, and it looks just as grandma described it. The date on the picture was
1923, 5 years after they married each other. This picture looks completely different from their
wedding picture, where they do not look as fierce. I guess that 5 years in America really had
some history, it is a shame they never got to tell me any stories about those years. My ma
always said I was too young for those kinds of stories. I didn’t know what she meant by
“those kinds of stories”, but I’m sure my pa has told me a few of them without her knowing.
Now I have my own book of those stories, and I have the moustache to thank.
Ever since my grandpa, the Liotta moustache trait has been passed down from
generation to generation. All the men in our family suffer from a mild hormone disorder that
disables us to grow facial hair anywhere else but our upper lips. This trend is what started our
family mob, which my father is currently the Don of, following his father’s steps. Grandpa
Giovanni was one of the only few mobsters to die of natural causes. Cancer. Of the lungs. If
was told differently, they were reminded of the truth by the Mustache Riders. We don’t really
like being called “mustache riders”, but it is what the Americans first started calling the
family. It was in newspapers reading, “Mustache Riders Responsible for the Death of . . .”
whoever had died. Although we don’t like the name given to us, we use it in conversations
with each other. Only we can use it.
Once Pa dies, probably from getting wacked, I am the only Liotta to fill in the spot as
Don. This I am not looking forward to doing. I never wanted to be in this business, and he

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knows it. Pa supports me in every way he can, but I don’t think he gets that I don’t want to
become the Don of this family. It’s not my dream.
Ever since I was a kid, I dreamt of being a Broadway Ballerina. There were always
broadcast of the local ballets on channel 3, and it caught my interest every time. But being as
how I have this wonderful, thick, man-stache attached to my face, everybody expects me to
be a man and do man shit. Man shit such as being the Don of the Liotta Family Mob.
“What are you watching?” My Pa walked in my house without me knowing, the wife
must have let him in.
I flip the channel immediately from channel 2 to channel 3. Horse racing was on.
“Horse Racing.”
“Horses huh? You got some bets goin’ on aye, Raymond? Me too.” He plops down in
the Lazy-Boy, the closest seat next to where I was sitting on the sofa. Pa loves to get right in
your personal space whenever he is talking to you. His moustache almost touching mine, he
whispers “I bet you got Fairy Feet.” Here he is, betting about a bet.
“Yeah,” I answer extremely unsure.
“Well he just won, congrats! How much did you win, boy?”
“Uh,” still unsure. “$679,” this number couldn’t be any more random.
“C’mon! Why do you gotta lie to your old man? I saw you watching some ballet when
I walked in here. What’s with that? You want to talk with me?” I didn’t know which question
to answer first, so I answered none.

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He broke and finally asked, “Why aren’t you talking to me?”
“Alright Pa, I do have to tell you something. You know how I am not really looking
forward to being Don right?” As I start to explain, I already feel the disappointment shooting
from his aged, brown eyes. The grey hairs of his moustache seemed to be getting greyer and
over-powering his thick black hairs.
“Right.” Last time I heard him talk in this tone was whenever I told him Scarlett and I
did not want to have any more kids after we had Lilly. Our first, our only, child. Without a
man to take over as Don in the family, there will be no Don, and there will be no family.
“Well, I have been thinking, and for a while now, that instead of going in that path I
could try another. Scarlett and I have been talking about it for years, and I have the training . .
.” I couldn’t finish.
He cuts me off “. . . A ballet Dancer?” This is the loudest I have heard Pa speak in his
old age. It wasn’t said in the same attitude I expected though. This attitude sounded assuring,
and I don’t know how he knew I was going to say ballet dancer. Something is up.
“Yeah.” I raise one eyebrow. “How did you know I was going to say that Pa?
“Son, I don’t know how to tell you this, but . . .” he started to say. “When I was your
age, I too wanted to be a ballet dancer.”
“You’re kidding, pop. How come you never told me this? Or anyone for that matter. I
mean, you’ve been the Don of this Family for 20 years now, did you not want to be Don
either?” The confusion had just kicked in. I never knew this, how was I to know? These past
20 years now seem unreal, “the family” was just an illusion over the years. Ran by a man
who doesn’t want to be Don.
“What? No. Of course I wanted to be the Don.” Never mind. The illusion is no
illusion. It’s real. “But what I am trying to say is, be what you want to be.” I was so happy to

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hear my pa say this to me. The emotions ran through my body like “. . . You still gotta be the
Don though. There is no working around that.
“What?” What is this man trying to tell me? He is supportive of my dream in being in
a ballet (or maybe even ballets), but I still have to be Don. “So, you don’t want me to be a
ballerina and follow my dreams?”
“Not quite,” he says, seeming to have a plan. “I have a plan.”
“Okay, well what is it?”
“There is a possible way to do both.”
“Really? How do you think I can manage that? People will not take me seriously, or
be intimidated by me as a Don if I am also a Broadway Ballerina. They will obviously
recognize me with this Liotta moustache, there is no way around it.” This moustache has got
me pointed out multiple times while walking through the streets of New York. What made
him think I wouldn’t get acknowledged on stage, as a Liotta, in front of multiple crowds?
“You will shave it.” The entire living room got quiet, the A/C turned off as soon as he
finished his sentence. We could hear each other’s breaths, heartbeats, and swallows. The
maroon walls appeared to be brighter today, the ceiling seemed to be higher as well. This
could be due to the fact that I have been working on this 1923 bottle of “La Fata”, a whiskey
company my grandpa used to “do business” with. I never asked what business it was because
I already knew. There was no way Pa wasn’t drinking either, Scarlett knows as soon as he
walks in, he is going to want a drink.
“Shave? That doesn’t seem like an option Pa. How will I be the Don without a
moustache?
Standing up, slowly and holding on to everything he could to get up, he heads over to
the framed picture of Grandpa Giovanni. The same picture Pa has in his office. Pa grabs each
side of the frame, lifts it, and then walks backwards with it. In return, revealing a safe that has

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been behind that old picture of grandpa. How he knew about a safe I didn’t know about inside
MY house, is beyond my knowledge. Pa always had weird items hidden in weird places. He
hides his food ma won’t let him eat, because of his diabetes, inside of a tree out behind his
place. The man hallowed out a portion of a tree just to eat some snacks he was not supposed
to eat. “Open this safe. The combination is 3-14-10.”
Upon opening the safe, I see a furry something on a suede pillow. I pull the pillow out
carefully to expose one of the finest grey moustaches I have ever seen. “Is this. . .” I begin to
ask, but Pa already has the answer.
“Yes, your grandpa’s moustache. Whenever he died, we all decided to keep his
memory through his face. So we hired some guy to glue the hairs together perfectly, and can
now be used and a faux moustache. Are you ready, my boy?” Grabbing the stache carefully
by both ends, he puts it up to my face. As if to see the resemblance I shared with Giovanni,
the man who raised my pa. The adhesive’s plastic covering had to come off in order to stick
to my face, but this was okay because I have not yet shaven.
Within the next hour, Pa accompanied me to the bathroom, where I would shave the
problem away. Started off with an electric razor to the moustache, then plopped some shaving
cream on for the real razor. It was hard to keep the shaving cream on with my tears running
down my face. The only reason I was crying was because Pa was crying, and I have never
seen this man perform any emotion. When the blades hit my face, it was done. No turning
back now. One swipe, halfway gone. Two swipes, no more moustache. We both agreed I look
more handsome without it anyways.
Now two days after, and my audition for the Broadway Ballerinas has finally come.
Only my pa came with me for support, but that is all of who I wanted to be present. Walking
always been proud of you though. Just this once.” Did not think he was going to say how un-

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proud of me he has always been, but I’ll take it as something. We hugged and he nudged me
into the direction of the audition.
Not even 3 minutes after I walked in, I walked out. Pa looked so in suspense, yet this
is the happiest I have ever seen this man. “I didn’t make it.”
“What? What do you mean you didn’t make it? I thought this was your dream! You
seem pretty well kept together for not making it as a ballerina. Especially for knowing that
your dream has died along with your dignity.” All these words seemed harsh, but true.
“I mean, it’s not like I ever really had any lessons.” The audition was a disaster, as it
should have been. I walked in, told them my name, popped in my cassette of Salt-n-Pepa’s
“Push it” into the boom-box I brought with me, and danced my heart out. It looked more like
a choreographed seizure than it did a ballet routine. Needless to say, I didn’t get the part as
Broadway Ballerina #3. But hey, I’m still a fucking Don.