Heritage: The Joy of Growing Up Italian

I want to share the following story that my Mother gave me from a friend in Philadelphia about growing up as part of an Italian family in America.  Your story may not be just like this, but I bet it’s similar; mine is.  It may also give some of our Italian members who grew up in Italy some incite into why we Italian-Americans are the way we are.
                                                                                                            John D’Angelo 

 

THE JOY OF GROWING UP ITALIAN 

I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was an American.  Of course, I had been born in America and had lived here all of 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 out of 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 and 50s, there was a definite distinction drawn between US and THEM.  We were Italians.  Everybody else – the Irish, German, Polish, Jewish – they were “MED-E-GANS.”  There was no animosity involved in that distinction, no prejudice, no hard feelings, just – well – we were sure ours was the better way.  For instance, we had a bread man, a coal and ice man, a fruit and vegetable man, a watermelon man, and a fish man; we even had a man who sharpened knives and scissors who came right outside our homes.  They were the many peddlers who plied-roamed the Italian neighborhoods.  We would wait for their call, their yell, 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 every morning to find a hot, crisp load of Italian bread waiting behind the screen door.  And instead of being able to climb upon back of the peddler’s truck a couple of times a week just to hitch a ride, most of my “MED-E-GAN” friends had to be satisfied with going to the A&P.  When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends only ate turkey on Thanksgiving or Christmas.  Or rather, that 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, soup, lasagna, meatballs, salad and whatever else mama thought might be appropriate for the particular holiday.  This turkey was usually accompanied by a roast of some kind (just in case somebody walked in who didn’t like turkey) and was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries, cakes and of course, homemade cookies.  No holiday was complete without some home backing, 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.  I truly believe Italians live a romance with food. 

Speaking of food – Sunday was truly the big day of the 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 his as tomatoes were dropped into a pan.  Sunday we always had gravy (the “MED-E-GANS” 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 mass because you had to fast before receiving communion.  But the best part was knowing when we got home we’d find meatballs frying, and nothing tastes better than newly fried meatballs and crisp 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 also grew peppers, basil, lettuce and squash.  Everybody had a grapevine 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 American friends didn’t have.  We had a grandfather!!  It’s not that they didn’t 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 him at least once a day.  I can still remember my grandfather telling me about how he came to American 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, five sons and two daughters to grow up in that environment.  All of this, of course, in his own version of Italian/English which I soon leaned to understand quite well. 

So, when he saved enough, and I could never figure out how, he bought a house.  That house served as the family headquarters for the next 40 years.  I remember how he hated to heave, would rather sit on the back porch and watch his garden grow and 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; women in the kitchen, men in the living room and kids, kids everywhere.  I must have a half a million cousins, first and second and some are aren’t even related, and his fine mustache trimmed, would sit in the middle of it all grinning his mischievous smile, his dark eyes twinkling, surveying his domain, proud of his family and how well his children had done.  One was a copy, one a fireman, one had his trade and of course there was the rogue.  And the girls, they had all married well and had fine healthy children and everyone knew, respect. 

He had achieved his goal in coming to America and to New Jersey 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 76, things began to change.  Slowly at first, but then uncles and aunts eventually 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 mothers 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.  Today we meet at weddings and wakes. 

Lots of other things have changed too.  The old house my grandfather bought is now covered with aluminum siding, although my uncle still lives there and of course my grandfather’s garden is gone.  The last of the homemade wine has long since been drunk and nobody covers the fig tree anymore.  For a while we would make the rounds on holidays, visiting family.  Now, we occasionally visit the cemetery.  A lot of them are there, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and even my own father. 

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 may calories.  Any 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, at least my family does, but it’s not the same. 

The differences between US and THEM aren’t so easily defined anymore, and I guess that’s good.  My grandparents were Italian Italians, my parents were Italian Americans, I’m an American Italian and my children are American Americans.  Oh I’m an American alright and proud of it, just as my grandfather would want me to be.  We are all Americans now – the Irish, German, Poles, and Jews.  U.S. 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 their grandfather.

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