L'italoamericana-The Italian American
My parents are Italian immigrants now living in the States. They immigrated in the 1960’s with their own parents and assimilated to the American culture, speaking English, eating Whoppers, (while at times being called Wop behind their backs), and living the American dream. Yet within this assimilation a duality developed—they were and still are very much Italians. They learned to speak English without eliminating La Bella Lingua. We spoke Italian and an Italian dialect at home. We ate Italian; eating Sunday dinner at 1pm and eating Italian food—I didn’t know Kraft and its macaroni and cheese in a box until I went to University (the things you learn in higher education). The Burger King and its side of fries was a once-in-awhile-treat. We spent most of our time at Nonna’s—my grandparents raised me until they retired and returned to Italy. Most of my family is still in Italy and when I go to Italy, I go as an American. I go as an Italian. I go as an Italian-American. I sometimes go as a tourist. I sometimes go to live. I am completely absorbed in the culture and in the every day lives of its people. I am completely absorbed and immersed in family, in the day-to-day minutia, in the every moment of what it is to be Italian. However, I have and will always have a slightly skewed view of Italy. I was born in America. I always wear American sunglasses when I arrive, until the Italian sun reveals such a simple yet forgotten truth that my grandfather would always say---Tutto il mondo e’ un paese---the whole world is one town (it's a small world).
My grandfather was a tailor-he made suits by hand—a dying profession today. He was also a philosopher. He had always a proverb, a quote, and/or a life lesson to teach. His lessons were quiet and interwoven with metaphor or an allegory—you had to read between the lines. One afternoon in November (it was a hot year that year) he took me swimming at a remote spot in Sicily. It wasn’t a beach with sand or umbrellas and lounge chairs; it was rugged, rough with rocky cliffs and stones, which made it so much more natural, real and beautiful.
My grandfather was a tailor-he made suits by hand—a dying profession today. He was also a philosopher. He had always a proverb, a quote, and/or a life lesson to teach. His lessons were quiet and interwoven with metaphor or an allegory—you had to read between the lines. One afternoon in November (it was a hot year that year) he took me swimming at a remote spot in Sicily. It wasn’t a beach with sand or umbrellas and lounge chairs; it was rugged, rough with rocky cliffs and stones, which made it so much more natural, real and beautiful.
RSS Feed