Growing up Italian
When my mother was 6 years old, her family left their home in Aquila, Italy and sailed to America on the Conte Biancamano. The family consisted of her father Gregorio, mother Antoniette, brother Tony, sister Maria Pugina, and my mother, Elisa.
They arrived with the hopes of starting a new life in a land of opportunity that welcomed them with open arms.
That is what Lady Liberty promised. And after passing through Ellis Island,
This is what happened…
Being a good “Italian” man, my uncle married a good “Italian” girl (who also came over on the boat).
However, my mother and my aunt both chose to marry men, “Made in America”.
And so it begins…
From the time I was very little, I knew I was Italian. My grandma was Italian, my mother was Italian, and we three kids were Italian. The same went for my aunt’s family. She and her two children were, Italian.
What happened to my father’s heritage was never really discussed. We were fed Italian food, listened to Italian music, and were yelled at in Italian.
I was always very proud of this. And so when I married a man of mostly Danish descent, my children, not surprisingly, were also Italian.
(The law of diminishing returns never applied to us).
Throughout the years, I have learned that being Italian requires a stronger than normal backbone.
On the down side, you must learn to act like all the Mafia jokes and Soprano episodes don’t phase you. You smile and laugh at the remarks. But then you ever so subtly give the Evil Eye.
Immediately, it is assumed that you are connected, (if only by a cousin once removed). That usually takes care of it.
And, because of our “gifted” ancestry, you must also be familiar with all the famous artisans born in the vicinity of Rome, their work, and the details of their tragic lives. Because for some reason, they all had tragic lives. And working for the Pope just added to the pressure!
But on the upside, we have the best food! Who doesn’t like spaghetti and meatballs? Note….must always spell “spaghetti” correctly, (otherwise you may be considered an imposter)
All women from the old country are known for being pleasingly plump and overly generous. These women had the desire to feed anyone who walked through their door, and they usually did.
Because for us, food was not just sustenance, but more of a “communication skill”.
It goes something like this….
Baked Lasagna} I love you.
Wedding Soup} This will make you feel better.
Homemade Pizza} You are like family.
Canolies} Well….Someone is sorry for something!
Growing up Italian also required special learning skills. It was a priority that we all spoke English as our first language, but equally important (if not a survival tool) was the capability to understand every command and hand gesture given to us by our maternal grandmother (or by our mother lapsing into her native tongue when it applied).
But every one of us kids found out the hard way that the typical American child did not use the words Mangia, or Mapine!
The area in Italy from which our family originated, is known for their diverse attributes. So we range from blue-eyed blondes, to green eyed redheads, to saucer-eyed brownies. So physical assimilation has never been an issue for us. It is our hearts that remain loyal, our souls pure.
Eighty years have past since our family set foot in this country. And with all the generations that have followed the original five, we are still “Italian”.
Whether we are 100 percent or 1/8 percent, we will continue to eat fish on Christmas Eve, make pizzelles for every holiday, and name at least one son, Tony. And for that, I will remain eternally proud.
Ciao
