I was
well into adulthood before I realized that I was an
American. Of course I had been born in America, and lived
here all of my life, but it somehow never occurred to me
that just being a citizen of the United States meant that I
was an American. Americans were people who ate peanut butter
on mushy white bread that came out of plastic packages. ME?
I WAS ITALIAN.
To me,
as I am sure for most second-generation Italian/American
children who had grown up in the 1930's,1940's,and 1950's,
there was a definite distinction between US and THEM. We
were ITALIANS. Everybody else, the Irish, English, German,
Polish, Jewish, they were "MEDI-GANS". There was no
animosity involved in that distinction, no prejudice, no
hard feelings.
It was
just, well--we were sure ours was the better way. For
instance, we had a bread man, a coal & ice man, a fruit &
vegetable man (which we call the "HUCKSTER"), a watermelon
man, a javela-water man and a fish man; we even had a man
who sharpened knives and scissors and a man who fixed
umbrellas, who came right to our homes, or at least just
outside our homes. They were the many peddlers who plied
their trades in the Italian Neighborhoods. We could wait for
their call, their yell, their individual distinctive sound.
We knew them by their names, and they knew us. Americans
went to the store for most of their foods.
What a
waste. Truly I pitied their loss. They never knew the
pleasure of waking up every morning to find a hot, crisp
loaf of Italian Bread waiting behind the screen door. And
instead of being able to climb up on back of the peddler's
wagon or truck a couple of times a week, just to hitch a
ride, most of my "MEDI-GAN" friends had to be satisfied with
going to the A&P.
Alas,
when it came to food, it always amazed me that my American
friends and classmates only ate turkey on Thanksgiving or
Christmas. Or rather, they only 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 Antipasto, Chicken Soup with
Escarole, Cheese Squares & Little Meatballs, Lasagna,
Meatballs, Bronchiole, Salad and whatever else Mama thought
might be appropriate for that particular holiday. Also, our
turkey was accompanied by a roast of some kind, just in case
someone walked in who didn't like turkey, and was followed
by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries, and of course
homemade cakes. No holiday was complete without some
homemade baking. None of that store bought stuff for us.
This is where you learned to eat a seven-course meal between
noon and 4 PM., how to handle hot chestnuts and put
tangerine wedges in red wine.
Sunday
was truly the big day of the week! That was the day you
would wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in
olive oil, as it dropped into the pan. Sunday we always had
Gravy and Macaroni. (The "MEDI-GANS" called it sauce and
pasta.) Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Mass. Of
course you couldn't eat before Mass, because you had to fast
before receiving Holy Communion. But, the good part was, we
knew when we got home we would find hot meatballs frying,
and nothing tastes better than newly fried meatballs and
fresh crisp Italian bread dipped into a pot of gravy. I
truly believe Italians live a romance with food.
There
was another difference between US and THEM. We had gardens,
not just flower gardens, but gardens where we grew tomatoes,
tomatoes, and more tomatoes. We ate them, cooked them and
jarred them. Of course we also grew peppers, basil, lettuce
and squash. Everybody had grapevines and a fig tree, and in
the Fall everybody made homemade wine, lots of it. Of
course, those gardens thrived so because we also had
something else it seemed our "MEDI-GAN" friends didn't seem
to have. We had GRANDPARENTS!
It's
not that they didn't have grandparents also, it's just that
they didn't live in the same house, or on the same block.
They visited their grandparents. We ate with ours, and God
forbid we didn't see them at least once a day. I can still
remember my grandfather telling us about how he came to
America as a young man, "on the boat". How the family lived
in a rented tenement and took in boarders in order to help
make ends meet; how he decided he didn't want his children
to grow up in that environment. All of this, of course, in
his own version of Italian/English which I learned to
understand quite well.
So
when they saved enough, and I never could figure out how,
they bought a house. That house served as the family
headquarters for the next 40 years. I remember how they
hated to leave, would rather sit in the back yard and watch
their garden grow. And when the did leave, for some special
occasion, 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 grandparents'
house or my aunts' house, and there would always be tables
full of food and homemade wine and music. Women in the
kitchen, men in the living room, and kids, kids everywhere.
I must have a half million cousins, first, second and some
who aren't even related, but what did it matter. And my
grandfather, his stogie in his mouth and his fine mustache
trimmed, would sit in the middle of it all grinning his
mischievous smile, his dark eyes twinkling, surveying his
family and how well his children had done. All were married
and had fine wives and husbands, and healthy children. And
everyone knew RESPECT. They had achieved their goal in
coming to America, and now their children and their children
were achieving the same goals that were available to them,
in this Great Country, because they were Americans.
When
my grandparents died yeas ago, things began to change.
Family gatherings were fewer and something seemed to be
missing, although when we did get together, usually at my
mothers house now, I always had the feeling they were there
somehow. It was understandable of course. Everyone now has
families of their own and grandchildren of their own. Today
they visit once or twice a year. Today we meet at weddings
and wakes. Lots of other things have changed too. The last
of the homemade wine has long since been drunk, and nobody
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 cemetery. A lot of them are there,
grandparents, uncles, aunts and even our parents. The
holidays have changed too. The great quantity of food we
once consumed without any ill effects is no good for us
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 mother's house now, at least my family does,
but it's not the same, anymore.
The
difference between US and THEM isn't so easily defined
anymore, and I guess that's good. My grandparents were
ITALIAN/ITALIANS, my parents were ITALIAN/AMERICANS, I'm
AMERICAN/ITALIAN and my children are AMERICAN/AMERICANS. Oh
I'm an AMERICAN all right and proud of it, just as my
grandparents would want me to be. We are all Americans now,
the Irish, English, Germans, Polish and Jewish. United
States citizens all, but somehow I still feel a little bit
Italian. Call it culture, call it tradition, call it roots.
I'm really not sure what it is. All I do know is that my
children have been cheated out of a wonderful piece of their
heritage.
They
never knew my GRANDPARENTS
"Back"