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The Parrot, the Pierogies, and August Wilson

The Parrot, the Pierogies, and August Wilson

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 I felt like I was twenty again, introducing my boyfriend Matt to my parents in a rush of hope they would like him. But this time, Matt was my spouse of 40 years and I was introducing him to Pittsburgh. From our Airbnb on Mt. Washington, the whole city lay at our feet—426 bridges, mostly yellow, strung across rivers like necklaces, glass towers glinting where smokestacks once stood, and of course Point Park, headwaters of the Ohio River. We boarded the Duquesne Incline, its wooden car polished by a century of hands and dungaree work pants. The pressed-tin ceiling gleamed like a copper penny, and an old lantern swung overhead as if it remembered gaslight. Even the lettering on the sign—Duquesne Incline Car #2 seemed to whisper history. We rattled down the hillside toward the city, then hoofed it to PNC Park to watch the Pirates play the Reds in a river rivalry. The closer we got to the Clemente Bridge, the more fans we saw in yellow gear. Matt struck up a conversation with a couple wearing shirts that looked Hawaiian at first glance, but instead of hibiscus and palm fronds, the fabric was scattered with Pittsburgh’s own icons—bridges, skyline, maybe even a pierogi or two. It was the perfect welcome: playful, civic-proud, and just a little kitschy. The woman tipped us off that it was Bucket Hat Night at the stadium, and I felt a silly rush of adrenaline at the thought of scoring fanwear just for walking through the gate.This was my first night at a professional baseball game, and I suspect someone alerted the whole stadium staff because our section usher even finagled a photo opp for me with the Pirate Parrot. I don’t know much about baseball, but I do know about people watching, and I got more than I bargained for that night. Little kids with their scorecards and ball mitts, camera kisses, and of course the “Great Pittsburgh Pierogy Race” sponsored by Mrs. T’s Pierogies.Matt had to ask what a pierogi really is, since they were human-sized on the track surrounding the field. If you’re also in need of the information, it’s an Eastern European dumpling, usually stuffed with potatoes, cheese, or sauerkraut—comfort food carried here by the waves of Polish, Slovak, and Ukrainian immigrants who once poured into the mills and mines. In Pittsburgh, it’s been elevated from kitchen staple to cultural mascot, and nowhere is that clearer than in the delirious spectacle of grown adults racing around the diamond in dumpling suits.But not every story in Pittsburgh that week brought pep to my step. On August 7, ICE agents raided Emiliano’s, a Mexican restaurant chain, detaining 16 workers, leaving broken doors, trashed kitchens, and fear in their wake. Here’s an update on that story.The ICE raid at Emiliano’s echoed an old Pittsburgh story. A century ago, the “new” immigrants bringing their dumplings from Poland, Slovakia, and Italy were branded as dangerous or unfit, their strikes met with state militias and Pinkertons, their very presence resented by nativists and the Ku Klux Klan. Roughly a hundred years ago, nativist tensions boiled over in Carnegie, just a few miles from where Matt and I were staying. On August 25, 1923, thirty thousand Klansmen gathered in nearby Scott Township to initiate new members, then—against the warnings of local officials—marched into Carnegie, a borough known for its proud Irish Catholic community. As they crossed the Glendale Bridge, residents met them with rocks and clubs. Shots followed, leaving more than a hundred people injured and one Klansman dead.In the aftermath Carnegie residents were charged, Klansmen were not, and the national Klan leader, Hiram Wesley Evans, used the death as propaganda to lure even more recruits. Yesterday’s “foreign” Catholics and Slavs, today’s Mexican restaurant workers—the names and cuisines change, but the scapegoating machinery looks hauntingly familiar.Yet even in those dark chapters, people found ways to knit themselves together—through churches, clubs, and often through sport. Pittsburgh has long used games as a kind of glue, binding neighborhoods that outsiders tried to divide (as you learned in August Trivia). I saw it again when Matt and I visited the Western Pennsylvania Sports Museum inside the Heinz History Center, where the displays trace everything from mill league softball to the Steelers’ dynasty years. If the Sports Museum showed how games helped Pittsburghers find belonging, the city’s native son and playwright August Wilson revealed the same search playing out in living rooms and backyards.Not yet a subscriber? Let’s fix that!I’m not a theatah person, but everyone I know from Pittsburgh insisted I visit the August Wilson African American Cultural Center, which honors the city’s most famous playwright. Their pride was unmistakable: to Pittsburghers, Wilson is both neighbor and national treasure, their own Shakespeare whose words have traveled far beyond the Hill District ...
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