As far as I know, all of my maternal Italian American ancestors survived the pandemic of 1918. My theory is that they beat the Spanish flu because they governed their lives by the hygienic principles of skeevy. The word skeevy is Italian American slang used to describe something that is physically or morally repulsive.

You can use the word in many ways. A baby’s diaper is skeevy, meaning disgusting. Uncle Guido, the loan shark, is skeevy, which means he’s morally sketchy. I could also say, “I skeevy you,” meaning I find you loathsome and would never touch anything you’ve touched or sit down to eat with you or even want to breathe the same air you breathe. My family also used the word skevvuseas a noun, as in, “Your American boyfriend is a skevuse. He coughs all over people and eats with his hands.”

My maternal great grandfather, Rosario DiMarco, thoroughly embraced the concept of skeevy. In fact, I’m sure if he lived today, he’d be an excellent infectious disease doctor. In terms of hygiene, Rosario was way ahead of his time. He carried two cloth handkerchiefs, one for his nose and one for his eyes. He didn’t want to risk transmitting germs from his nose to his eyes. He didn’t allow anyone to wash their hands at the kitchen sink. He feared that you could splash germy water onto counters, food and dishes. All handwashing had to occur in the bathroom or at a spigot outside of the kitchen.

Rosario insisted on head coverings in the kitchen. You’d want to make a quick exit if he ever found a strand of hair on food. He regarded the human hair as dangerous as diphtheria, no exaggeration. Rosario drilled into all twelve of his children the principle of Skeevy and Hyper-Vigilant Cleanliness. That way of life persisted through the generations.

When Rosario’s daughter, Aunt Angie set the table, she always re-washed the clean dishes she took from her cupboard. A great aunt, who will remain nameless, was such a germaphobe that she rarely ate anywhere other than her own home. If she happened to dine elsewhere, let’s just say that her body rejected the meal soon after. Even though the DiMarco family lived through the Depression, the Five-Second Rule did not apply. If a food item grazed the floor, it would get thrown out immediately.

My maternal grandfather, Gaetano, caused a delay at every Sunday dinner. At the exact moment we were told the food was ready, he’d head off to the bathroom to wash his hands. This man’s thoroughness would put surgeons to shame. He always said grace, so we had to wait for him. He scrubbed for ages as we watched the roast congeal or the spaghetti solidify.

The apple does not fall far from the tree. My mother’s approach to the world is governed by the concept of skeevy and she passed her beliefs on to us kids. Growing up, if we could help it, we avoided touching public doorknobs or stair rails with our bare hands. Instead, we’d use Kleenex on a knob, or would attempt to run through a door before it slammed in our face. We never shared a beverage or used anyone else’s utensils or wore anyone else’s hat. In public bathrooms, we papered toilet seats and turned on faucets with our wrists.

To this day, I cringe when a server lifts my water glass to refill it. I worry about the other germy glasses he’s handled. I routinely chastise my husband for washing his hands in the kitchen sink rather than the bathroom. When riding the subway, it takes all the inner fortitude I can muster to hang onto the grubby pole as I’m jostled around.  I die a thousand deaths when someone sneezes next to me in an elevator. The concept of skeevy still rules my life.

Back to my first claim—did Great Grandpa Rosario rescue the DiMarco clan from the Spanish Flu? We’ll never know. However, I promise you, I am attempting to adhere to the Rules of Skeevy to escape the current pandemic.