"THE JOY OF GROWING UP ITALIAN"

I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was an American. Of course I had lived here all my life, but, somehow it never occurred to me that just being a citizen of the United States meant I was an American. Americans were people who ate peanut butter and jelly on mushy white bread that came in plastic packages.

Me? I was Italian.

For me, as I am sure for most second-generation Italian American children who grew up in the '40s or '50s and even early 60's, there was a definite distinction drawn between US and THEM. We were Italians. Everybody else - the Irish, German, Polish, Jewish -they were the "MER-RE-CANS". There was no animosity involved in that distinction, no prejudice, and no hard feelings. Just - well - we were sure ours was the better way. For instance we had a bread man, a coal and iceman, a fruit and vegetable man, a watermelon man, and a fish man. We even had a man who sharpened knives and scissors that came right to our homes or at least right outside our homes. They were the many peddlers who plied the Italian neighborhoods. We would wait for their call, their yell, and their individual distinctive sound. We knew them all and they knew us, Americans went to the stores for most of their foods – what a waste.

Truly I pitied their loss. They never knew the pleasure of waking up to find a hot crisp loaf of Italian bread waiting behind a screen door. Instead of being able to climb up on back of the peddler's, truck a couple of times a week just to hitch a ride, most of my "MER-RE-CANS" friends had to be satisfied going to the A&P. When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends or classmates only ate turkey on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Or rather that they ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce. Now we Italians - we also had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce but - only after we had finished the antipasta, soup, lasagna, meatballs, salad and whatever else Mama thought might be appropriate for that particular holiday.

The turkey was usually accompanied by a roast of some kind (just in case somebody walked in who didn't like the turkey) and was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries, cake and, of course, homemade cookies. No holiday was complete without some home baking; none of that store bought stuff for us. This is where you learned to eat a seven-course meal between noon and 4 p.m., how to handle hot chestnuts and put wedges in red wine, I truly believe Italians live a romance with food.

Speaking of food - Sunday was truly the big day of the food week! That was the day you'd wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in olive oil. As you laid in bed, you could hear the hiss as tomatoes were dropped into the pan. Sunday we always had GRAVY (the "MER-RE-CANS" called it sauce) and MACARONI (they called it pasta). Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Mass; of course you couldn't eat before going to communion. But the best part was knowing when we got home we'd find hot meatballs frying and nothing tastes better than newly fried meatballs and bread dipped into the pot of Gravy. There is another difference between US and THEM. We had gardens, not just flower gardens, but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoes, and more tomatoes. We ate them, cooked them, and jarred them. Of course we grew peppers, basil, lettuce and squash. Everybody had a grapevine and a fig tree. In the fall everybody made homemade wine, lots of it, and covered the fig tree, in case of an early frost. Of course, those gardens thrived so because we also had something else it seemed our American friends (the "MER-RE-CANS" didn't have. We had a grandfather! It's not that they did not have grandfathers, it's just that they didn't live in the same house, or on the same block. They visited their grandfathers. We ate with ours and God forbid we didn't see them at least once a day. I can still remember my grandfather telling me about how he came to America as a young man '”on the boat". How the family lived in a rented tenement, the establishing of the bakeries, the endless hours of delivering bread from roof top to roof top, avoiding the protection racketeers, and how he decided he didn't want his children, to grow up in that environment.

He would speak of the strength, loyalty, and respect of La Familia (the family). All of this, of course, in his own version of Italian/English, which I soon learned to understand quite, well.

So, when he saved enough, and he could never figure out how, he bought a house. That served as the family headquarters for the next forty years. I remember how he hated to leave; he would rather sit on the handmade patio under his grapevine and watch his garden grow. When he did leave for some special occasion he had to return as quickly as possible. After all, "nobody's watching the house". I also remember the holidays when all the relatives would gather at my grandfather's house and there'd be tables full of food and homemade wine and music. There was always music, playing guitars violins, harmonicas, mandolins, homemade basses made from a washtub turn upside down, a broomstick with some wire. Woman 'in the kitchen, men in the living room and kids everywhere. I must have a half a million cousins. First and second and some who aren't even related. With his fine mustache trimmed, seated at the head of the table, Grandpa would sit, grinning his mischievous smile, his dark eyes twinkling, surveying his domain - proud of his Familia and how well his children had done. They all married well and had fine healthy children and everyone knew respect. He had achieved his goal in coming to America and to New York and now his children and their children were achieving the same goals that were available to them in this great country because they were Americans. When my grandfather died years ago at the age of 83, things began to change. Slowly at first, but then uncles and aunts began to cut down on their visits. Family gatherings were fewer and something seemed to be missing although when we did get together, usually at my mother's house now, I always had the feeling he was there somehow. It was understandable, of course. Everyone now had families of their own and grandchildren of their own.

Today they visit once or twice a year, or we meet at weddings and funerals.

Lots of other things have changed too. The old house that grandpa bought is now covered with aluminum siding and owned by strangers. Grandpa’s garden is gone. The last of the home made wine has been drunk, and no one covers the fig tree in the fall anymore. For a while we would make the rounds on the holidays visiting family. Now we occasionally visit the cementary. A lot of them are there now. My grandparents, aunts and uncles, even the youngest of all the brothers.

The holidays have changed too. The great quality of food we once consumed without any bad effects, is no good for you anymore. Too much starch, too much cholesterol, too many calories. And nobody bothers to bake anymore – too busy – and it’s easier to buy it now and too much is no good for you. We meet at my house now, well at least my family does, but it’s not the same. God!! How I miss those days.

The difference between US and THEM is not so easily defined anymore, and I guess that is good. My grandparents were Italian Italians, my parents were Italian Americans, and they saw to it that I am American outright, for they knew what it was going to take to survive in this new land. And I am filled with pride, beyond all comprehension, just as my grandfather would want me to be. We are all Americans now – The Germans, Poles, and Jews, US citizens all – but some how, through the richness of my upbringing, I can’t help but feel Italian. Call it culture, call it tradition, call it roots. I am really not sure what it is. All I do know is that my children have been cheated out of a wonderful piece of heritage. They never knew my Grandfather.

All that you see before you here is my way of sharing the gift I have been blest with. For my children, for La Familia, and for you.

So Grandpa, this is for you, in the tradition that you raised us in, I hope I have made you proud.

--- Guiseppe