Italian American Archives | Page 3 of 3

Times Change — Embracing New Traditions

We celebrated Independence Day this past week. In addition to the swimming and the picnic food, we set off fireworks. That’s one of my son’s favorite things to do. I think it has something to do with the power of the explosives and the exhilaration the display causes everyone who’s watching. The ones we set off this year were pretty good, for backyard fireworks.

labradors — Excited Casey and
Scared Max

My family enjoyed them. One of my dogs did. The other was frightened, to the point he made himself sick. Maybe next year he’ll adapt better and enjoy the show like his brother does.

My nephew, when he was young, called it a “spectacular extravaganza in the sky.” It’s cuter if you hear it coming from the lispy voice of a two year old. He’s twenty-five now, but I’m pretty sure he still likes fireworks. I don’t know anyone (my youngest dog excluded) who doesn’t like them.

Growing up, Independence Day was spent at the local festival in my hometown. There were food stands, game booths, and live bands for days. Fireworks started around 9:00 on the fourth and lasted for about an hour, culminating in a grand finale that left us all breathless. Most people stayed at the festival to watch the show, but my family always went to my grandparents’ house. Their backyard faced the field where the fireworks were set off.

Those are some of my fondest memories of childhood.

There were the years when I was very young and quite frightened that the embers would land on me. I stood on the porch under the roof and peaked out at the ones that were above my head. There were the years when I was older and stood as close to the field I could, eagerly anticipating the next explosion, and the next, and the next.

We stopped going when my grandfather passed away. My grandmother’s heart wasn’t in it anymore, and if she wasn’t celebrating, it seemed wrong to enjoy the show without her.

As the years went on, I started dating the boy who became my husband. We’d watch the fireworks from his parents’ backyard. It always left me nostalgic for my younger years, but it was nice being with the boy I loved.

Samantha/Seth toddlers — My Kids as Toddlers Ready for Summer Fun with Family

When we were married and had kids, we’d bring them to the festival and then to my in-laws’ house. They had a blast, and so did we. But time marches on, and things change. We moved away, and getting back for the festival became harder and harder. Finally we stopped going home for the festival, and now we live so far away and our kids’ schedules are so full, we couldn’t go home if we wanted to.

Not that it matters.

My town stopped having the Fourth of July Festival years ago, choosing instead to have only the church festival in August.

What’s the point of this story, you ask?

It’s so you understand that time marches on. Things change, people change, and you should embrace every opportunity that comes your way. Before long, loved ones will be gone, events will have changed or ceased to exist, and you might have to start your own traditions just to have any connection with your past. And connections with your past forge the person you are today.

backyard fireworks tradition — My grown son preparing our fireworks display.
Traditions change, but the emotions behind them remain.

My husband and I do what we can to keep family traditions alive for our kids—even when we have to change things to keep the traditions alive. Do you still keep old traditions alive for your family? Why don’t you share some traditions in the comments section below?

And writers, in addition to the family matters discussed above, consider how to apply these principles to your WIPs. Do you have family traditions that you can work into your characters’ lives? Have those traditions changed over the years? If so, for the better or worse? How do these traditions impact your characters? Don’t forget to include setting, senses, and character reactions. Maybe you could discuss a tradition you’re incorporating into your WIP in the comments section.

Can One Red Kimono Bridge an Ethnic Divide?

In February, my friend and fellow author Jan Morrill was kind enough to write a guest post for me right before the release of her new novel, The Red Kimono. Since then, the book has come out and I read it in one sitting. I couldn’t put it down. I found myself bonding with each of her characters so fully that I had to know what happened. And I wasn’t disappointed.

Saturday evening, a local bookstore hosted Jan, having a “coming out” party for her novel, during which she read excerpts from the book and gave those of us in attendance more of the history behind the novel. There was a sizeable turnout, good food, and great entertainment—namely Jan, her family stories, and her research.

The striking thing about The Red Kimono is that its message transcends culture. I don’t have to be a Japanese American to relate to the characters in her book. My ancestors hail from Europe, and yet the themes in the novel are as pertinent to me as they are to Jan as they will be to you. Her work deals with racism, culture, compassion, and most importantly, family.

My writing always seems to come back to the core family dynamic, and this book looks at familial relationships from the point of view of three very different characters. It’s difficult not to place yourself in not only their shoes, but even some of the secondary characters, and wonder how you would behave in their position, ponder how things would be different if their family lives were different. I challenge you to read this book and not consider your own family unit from a different light.

Yes, this Saturday was indeed a joy. I had the rare opportunity to get a sneak peek behind the veil and learn what prompted the first of what I hope will be a series of novels by a talented and engaging author. I hope this post encourages you to do three things:

Spend some time with your family. We always think there will be time to develop or strengthen familial bonds, but you never know when it will be too late.
Attend a book release of an author you enjoy. You’ll learn so many things about the book and the author that you otherwise wouldn’t have the chance to.
Buy Jan’s book, The Red Kimono. It’s an engaging read, and you won’t regret it.

Just A Few Steps Can Make All The Difference

Anyone who visits my blog with any frequency (or anyone who has taken the time to read the tagline in the top right corner) knows that my ancestry is Italian, and I’m quite proud of it. I occasionally blog about it because I want people to get to know me and my heritage, I want them to love and embrace it for the wonderful and rich culture it is, and I want them to know what it’s like because that’s the world many of my characters come from in my fiction. I figure if my readers know and love my world, they’ll know and love my characters’ worlds, too.

Just last week I was contacted by someone who has now become an online friend. He shares my heritage, but he pointed out part of our culture that isn’t so wonderful, and it’s something that, while it does touch Italian-Americans more frequently than others, it can touch us all. I invited him to guest post here today to share his knowledge with you. Without further ado, I give you Craig Butler.

On May 5, the Cooley’s Anemia Foundation is holding Care Walk 2013, a series of walks designed to show support for all those living with the blood disorder thalassemia (often called Cooley’s anemia) and to raise funds for the Foundation’s programs on behalf of people with thalassemia. Thalssemia is disproportionately found in people of specific heritages, including those of Italian descent.

You’re probably asking “What is thalassemia?” It’s a genetic blood disorder, so it’s something a person is born with, not something they catch. A person who has a severe form, such as thalassemia major, has blood that doesn’t carry oxygen around to the body the way it’s supposed to. If left untreated, this causes a severe anemia and eventually brings about death.

Gabriella, the beautiful little girl whose picture you see, has thalassemia major. Fortunately, she gets treatment: she goes to the hospital every couple of weeks and spends the day getting a blood transfusion. She’ll need to do this her whole life—unless a cure is found.

The blood transfusions save Gabriella’s life, but there’s also a big downside to them. They overload her body with iron, way more than the body knows what to do with. So she has to take a daily drug treatment to help get rid of that extra iron. If she doesn’t, it can destroy her heart, liver or other organs, or cause other problems like diabetes and osteoporosis.

For many thalassemia patients, that daily drug treatment involves sticking a needle into the body and pumping iron in for 8-12 hours a day. For their entire lives.

So having thalassemia is a big burden. That’s why the Cooley’s Anemia Foundation is around:

To help these people, to help find better treatments and to help find a cure.

The annual Care Walk is one of the Foundation’s most important fund raisers. The better it does, the more the Foundation is able to do to help Gabriella and all those suffering from thalassemia.

Care Walk is designed for maximum convenience: We ask people to set up a Walk at a time and place that works for them. It can be as simple as walking around your neighborhood with a couple of friends or as involved as organizing a larger walk in a park or other area.

Our goal is to have at least one person walking for every person with thalassemia in the U.S.!

Because of the Cooley’s Anemia Foundation, Gabriella’s mother has great hope for her child. “I want to let everyone know that, even though the illness is not curable, it is treatable. I want to encourage parents that it’s not the end of the world if you have a child with thalassemia. Your child will still have a wonderful life and future if they get the proper care—and the future is getting brighter by the day.”

And the Cooley’s Anemia Foundation is here to make that brighter day get here as soon as possible. You can register for Care Walk or support someone who is walking by going to http://tinyurl.com/CareWalk2013 or you can email n.perozo@cooleysanemia.org for more information. And learn more about thalassemia and the Cooley’s Anemia Foundation at www.thalassemia.org. Thank you.

So a big thank you goes out to Craig Butler for writing this guest post and informing us about thalassemia. Maybe the steps we take on May 5 will be steps toward a brighter future for thalassemia patients.

Traditions Gone by the Wayside

This is the time of year when I get cravings for weird things. It might be because it’s Lent and I give up a lot of indulgent foods, or it might be because of the time of year it is. For example, St. Patrick’s Day is coming up, and that means Shamrock Shakes. Usually those coincided with Lent, so unless they were released before Lent started (like this year), we’d need to not have given up sweets for Lent or freeze them until after Easter. When I moved to Arkansas, I was horrified to learn that they had never heard of Shamrock Shakes. Last year, McDonald’s had a new release here… Shamrock Shakes! However, they were “test marketing” them in limited quantities, so they were virtually impossible to come by. Finally, this year, the stars aligned. McDonald’s released Shamrock Shakes in mass quantities before Lent in Arkansas. One craving averted.

There are some cravings, though, that I’ll never get to satisfy again. Right after Christmas when I was young, my whole family would gather in my grandparents’ basement to make sausage and sopresatta. It was hard work—it took the whole day—and took a lot of preparation before that, but boy was it worth it. (Squeamish readers may want to skip ahead.)

Sheep intestine had to be soaked in ice water and citrus for days to be cleaned and deodorized. Pork shoulder had to be ground, and we didn’t have a motorized crank; it was all done by hand. Pounds and pounds were fed through the feed tube, and once coarsely ground, became the basis for the sausage and sopresatta mixtures. Seasonings were stirred into the meat by hand, requiring the men to dig into big bowls up to their elbows. Peppers were added to the sopresatta mix. Finally the mixtures were pushed back into the extruder and into the intestine casing.

The sausage was hung in my grandparents’ fruit cellar—the coldest place in the house, or cooked right away for us to eat with homemade bread and, if we were lucky, a sip of wine. The sopresatta had to be pressed until it cured completely. It took six to eight weeks to dry out. This is the time of year we’d be eating the homemade salami, and at this time every year, I get a craving for it. The stuff you buy in the stores just isn’t the same, and frankly, living in Arkansas, any kind of Italian food is hard to come by, let alone the stuff prepared the way we’re used to.

The hardest part for me, though, is saying goodbye to the memories. I was too young to actually be a part of the sausage-making process, but I remember sitting on the stool in the basement, watching my grandparents, my parents, my aunt, uncle and cousins work. I remember playing with my young cousins while the adults toiled. My grandmother only had a two-bedroom home, so the house was tiny, and filling it with that many people trying to accomplish a difficult task with a bunch of kids underfoot should have brought conflict and strife, but it didn’t. There was laughter and love and fun. Sometimes there was music, but more often than not when the music ended, people were so busy goofing around that they forgot to turn it back on. At the end of the day, the sausage and sopresatta was made for the year, but the memories were made for a lifetime.

My grandfather is gone now. My parents and aunt and uncle no longer make the sausage—it’s too much work for them. My siblings and my cousins didn’t carry the tradition on. We’ve all drifted apart—me farthest of all, nearly one thousand miles—and simply didn’t manage to keep the tradition alive. Even if we managed to start it up again, it just wouldn’t be the same without my grandfather managing the process. My husband and I tried to make some sausage a few years ago, but it just wasn’t right. Times change and traditions fall by the wayside.

So this year, I finally got my Shamrock Shake, but I won’t be having any sopresatta. At least, not any of my grandfather’s homemade sopresatta. Some traditions just can’t be replicated. We should try to enjoy what time we have with our families while we have them. You never know when those times will be nothing but treasured memories.

Holiday or Heritage? Will You Fight for Cultural Cognizance?

I just read an article called “Columbus Day To Native American Day? CA Assemblyman Roger Hernandez Introduces Bill AB 55” by Anna Almendrala. In it, she discusses the possibility that Columbus Day will be replaced by a holiday called Native American Day in California. With us celebrating Martin Luther King Day today, and with Black History Month approaching in February, people definitely have minority rights and awareness on their minds. That brings up an interesting point.

Do you know what minority group fell victim to the largest lynching in US history? I’ll give you three hints.

1. It occurred in 1891.

2. It took place in Louisiana.

3. It was not African Americans.

It was Italian Americans.

I learned this dark part of my heritage in a fascinating piece called “When Italian Immigrants Were ‘The Other’” by Ed Falco.

New Orleans Police Chief David Hennessy had been murdered, and nine Italians had been tried and found not guilty. Enraged, a mob stormed the jail. The nine innocent men, along with two Italians in jail on other charges, were taken and lynched. The police began arresting Italian immigrants throughout New Orleans. Throughout the country, Italian Americans were being assaulted.

The New York Times ran editorials supporting the attacks, calling Sicilans “sneaking and cowardly” and “a band of assassins” and supported New Orleans’ lynching approach as their only recourse.

Teddy Roosevelt, who wasn’t yet in office, said the lynchings were a “rather good thing,” and John Parker, lynch mob organizer who went on to become Louisiana’s governor, said Italians were “just a little worse than the Negro, being if anything filthier in their habits, lawless, and treacherous.”

I have no interest in taking away anyone’s right to celebrate their heritage. Ask my children, I’m the first one to complain every Thanksgiving that it’s a hypocritical holiday. Atheists celebrate it as a secular holiday, so obviously they don’t believe the pilgrims were thanking God for a bountiful harvest. Christians who do see the Grace of God in the holiday often forget the role the Native Americans played in the first Thanksgiving meal. And even when their role is remembered, no one acknowledges that the settlers simply turned around and stole their land from them after they saved their lives. So really, isn’t Thanksgiving more of a Native American Remembrance Day than Columbus Day?

Yes, Native Americans were here before us. I don’t know how they got here. Maybe they were here since Pangaea. Maybe they crossed the Bering Strait over a now melted glacial bridge. There is no denying though, they were here first and have first claim. That’s undisputed. There’s also evidence that the Vikings came and went before Columbus did. The Italians didn’t live here first. The Italians didn’t even find this land first. But it was Columbus who paved the way for mass exploration, resulting in the country that we’re all benefitting from today. Why not acknowledge that?

I’m saddened at the horrors that befell the native cultures who lived here. The explorers hundreds of years ago were conquerors, and they were hostile and brutal. The spread of disease and the treatment of women especially turns my stomach. We can’t change the past; we can only learn from it. So let’s not put cultures on pedestals. Let’s not forget that when the Europeans tried to buy the land, albeit for a ridiculously low sum, the natives accepted the offerings believing that in their culture, land couldn’t be purchased because it couldn’t be owned. It wasn’t just the Europeans who were duplicitous in their dealings.

I’m proud to be an American, just as I’m proud to be of Italian descent. I think it’s important to celebrate where we came from, but not to the point that we divide ourselves from the rest of our countrymen. There is no reason to take away a celebration from one culture and give it to another when we can set aside days for both cultures to celebrate their own histories, particularly when the cultures include a beautiful and strong one like the Italian culture that has been oppressed time and again, and an often forgotten and proud one like the Native American culture. Both cultures deserve a right to be acknowledged. I would happily celebrate a day that honors and remembers the Native American culture. I would also hope the people of this great nation can see the contributions of my culture, and can see a reason to honor it.

I see no reason why state legislators feel the need to waste time on divisive bills when there are obviously more important matters facing our nation. Let’s not let them get away with eroding our traditions or wasting our time and tax dollars. Instead, let’s uphold them to the principles that all our ancestors lived by—concern for the welfare of the people who inhabit this great nation.

This Italian’s Guide to St. Nicholas Day

religious stockings Yesterday was the first day of the Advent Season. We lit the first purple candle on our advent wreath, sang verses one and two of O Come, O Come, Emmanuel at Mass, and have already finished decorating our home for Christmas. That is, after all, what the Advent Season, is all about. It’s the preparation for Christmas. Parents everywhere are baking and shopping, and if there are young ones in the home, lists are being made for Santa’s visit. But wait! Didn’t we forget something? Christmas is actually Christ’s Mass, and there isn’t really a Santa Claus Day, but there is a St. Nicholas Day, and it’s this week. Due to the commercialism of Christmas, it’s been overshadowed, but there are customs and traditions that are still alive, some of which I’ve kept going in my own family.

Nicolas was born to wealthy parents in land under Greek control. His parents died when he was very young, and he followed Christ’s teachings to give his wealth to the poor, giving the whole of his inheritance to help the sick, needy and suffering. At a young age he became Bishop of Myra, and was known for his generosity, particularly to children and sailors. He was persecuted and imprisoned for his faith, and finally released when the prisons were too full of religious prisoners to hold actual criminals. He attended the Council of Nicaea in 325, and finally died in Myra on December 6, 343, where he was buried in the cathedral. In the spring of 1087, his remains were moved to Bari, Italy for easier pilgrimage access. The Basilica di San Nicola was built over his crypt, allowing tourists to pay homage to the saint who assisted children, sailors, prisoners, famine victims, and others in need.

In Italy today on St. Nicholas Eve, children put a plate on the table with a letter to St. Nicholas. They promise to be good in the coming year, and in exchange they ask for gifts from the saint. When St. Nicholas visits overnight, he reads the letters and fills some of the requests. He’ll also leave candies and cookies on the plate for the children to wake to. On St. Nicholas Day, grandfathers will sometimes dress up like St. Nicholas and hand out the presents. Good children will get their gifts, but naughty children will get sugar candy that looks like lumps of coal.

St. Nicholas is the patron saint of young women wanting to get married. There is a special ritual in Bari for young ladies hoping for a husband. They go to the Basilica and drop a note to St. Nicholas in a special box, along with three coins. In Sicily, young ladies will wear traditional dress on December 5 and 6 and sing special songs to him.

My daughter isn’t old enough to look for a husband, and I wouldn’t expect her to sing for one or drop notes in a box. We’re going to do things the American way, I think. But we have adopted the celebration of St. Nicholas Day, because, if as Americans we can commercialize Christmas, then as Italians and as Catholics we can celebrate the life of the patron saint of children.

We have special “religious” stockings in our house. These are our St. Nicholas Day stockings. On December 6, our kids know to look in them for little gifts. Also, there is always fruit in them, usually an orange or an apple. I’m not sure when or how that tradition started. I think it had to do with my grandfather and there always being fruit on the holiday table, but for St. Nicholas day, there is always fruit.

To help the less fortunate, St. Nicholas used to throw bags of money through windows and fireplaces of people’s homes. Those bags would land in the socks that they’d hung to dry or in the shoes that were warming on the hearth. That’s how the stocking tradition began. And that’s why we give our St. Nicholas gifts in the religious stockings at our house.

We don’t make nearly the production out of St. Nicholas Day that we do out of Christmas. (After all, it’s not Christ’s Mass.) But we do celebrate it. It’s a nice reminder of where our family came from. This time of year is hard for my family because we don’t get to spend it with our extended family. Celebrating this holiday is just another way we can keep family traditions alive. Perhaps it’s a tradition that you’d like to start with your family.

A Legacy is More than Boxes of Photos

My grandfather was a photography nut. I won’t go so far as to say he was a photography buff or an amateur photographer, but he was into taking pictures. Of his family, mostly, and friends. I never saw a picture of interesting buildings or pretty foliage. My grandfather took pictures of people. Often twice, because he’d forget to take the lens cap off.

He was so excited when my sister went to the prom that she and her date had to repose for all the pictures. Because he left the lens cap on. (I secretly think he was just stunned she got a date — just kidding, sis!) I’m not sure how you and your family pose for prom pictures, but in our family, it’s just short of a wedding shoot. Pictures of the girl alone, pictures of the guy alone, pictures of them together. Pictures of her getting the flowers, pictures of him getting the flowers. Pictures with the parents, pictures with the siblings, pictures with the whole family. Pictures with the grandparents… you get the idea. Is it an Italian thing, or was it just my grandfather setting a tradition in my family?

It wasn’t just the proms, though. In the summers, he’d have me and my cousin stand in the flower beds to take photos of us by whatever was blooming. They usually planted geraniums and impatiens. When my grandma wasn’t looking, my cousin and I would bend down and pop the impatiens’ seed pods, and my grandfather would laugh. If Grandma would see, she’d yell and we’d run away, and he’d just laugh louder. And then usually he’d realize he had the lens cap on and we’d have to come back and do it again. Afterward, we’d get Gram’s lemonade and cookies, so who could complain?

There were always photos at holiday mealtimes. We have some wonderful snapshots of tables laden with food and everyone is gathered around them, forks or glasses raised in salute of a toast having been made. But someone is always missing from the photo, because someone was behind the camera. Usually it was my grandfather. I have one nice picture where my grandfather is actually at the head of the table… my uncle took the shot; he’s absent from the photo. When I grew up and started hosting meals, I took a photo at my home. I wasn’t in the shot. It was kind of depressing, because it reminded me that my grandfather wasn’t, either. He’d been gone from us for many years at that point. I never took another photo at the dinner table. Really, at some point one of us should have learned to use the timer function on the camera.

My grandfather’s gone, and all we have now are boxes of his photos. Half of them are black, thanks to the lens cap. He’s in so few of the photos, because he was always behind the camera. But still, he gave us so many memories to remember him by. Not the big trips or the gorgeous monuments. It was the little things.

The grandkids in the flower beds.

His daughters in the kitchen with their mom.

His sons-in-law in the alley washing a car.

The family at the table.

We don’t have to worry about lens caps anymore when we’re taking the photos. But we should all learn to use the timer.

What Do You Do With All Those Tomatoes?

Vandergrift, Pennsylvania when I grew up had a decidedly Italian presence. It was even more so when my parents were kids, and probably even more when my grandparents settled there, but still, when I was young, Vandergrift was pretty Italian. Even to this day they have the Festa di Italiana once a year, so the presence hasn’t completely faded. But I digress…

There were a lot of things I looked forward to in the summer, but one thing I hated as a kid. Gardening. There would be weeding and planting and peat-mossing. And then the picking. And picking. And picking.

Italians plant everything. We have huge gardens. We have to have parsley and basil, those herbs are staples, and they will take over your garden in a nanosecond if you aren’t vigilant. Of course we plant tomatoes.

On that rare occasion that we wanted something no one grew, we’d go to an orchard or farm and pick it ourselves. There was no reason to get bruised produce from the store when we could get what we wanted cheaper fresh from the vine. I spent many June weekends in Erie picking cherries right off the trees.

Many of my friends growing up were Italian, so they worked in their family garden, too. Everyone ate zucchini twenty-eight different ways all summer long. If you’re Italian, you know what I mean.

My friends today don’t understand. My kids barely understand. We don’t have a garden where we live, but we try to get the freshest produce we can. Meanwhile our friends and the kids’ friends are eating frozen dinners and sauce from a jar, or, even worse, just getting take out all the time. When my kids have friends for dinner, I always make sure to have a home-cooked meal instead of letting them order pizza (the pizza here isn’t great, anyway). At first my kids were mortified, but their friends loved it, and now everyone looks forward to eating here. They don’t get food like this at their homes.

Who knew fresh tomatoes were for more than sandwiches and salads?

Are You Thinking Godfather or Jersey Shore?

I know, I know. You hear Italian-Americans and you think Capone and Corleone or The Situation and Snooki. And you are either fascinated with one or both of those lifestyles or couldn’t care less about either. And then you don’t think about them at all.

There’s so much more to Italian-Americans than that.

My heritage is rich and full. Like so many Italian-Americans, we aren’t at the head of a major crime syndicate, nor are we stars of a reality TV show. My family came from Italy because of the same social, political, and economical reasons most families came to America. My great-grandfather came here alone, like so many men did, to find work before sending for his family. Once he was settled in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania, he toiled until he had enough money to bring his wife and son over. And once they were here, he kept working. He worked in the mill and grew his family and continued to provide for them until he got sick and died at a terribly young age, causing my grandfather, the youngest, to quit school at fourteen to support his mother, himself, and six brothers and sisters. And he did it without complaint.

That’s the thing about Italians. It’s all about family. You do for family. No matter what.

So my grandfather became the head of his family at fourteen. And even when I was born, the aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews all still treated him like the head of the family. Because he had earned that respect.

My grandfather isn’t with us anymore, but my grandmother still is. She tells me stories of how the wages were different for Italians then, particularly the dark southern Italians like we are. She tells me how the Italians were beaten in the streets and mistreated by other nationalities who had already settled here. That’s why Italians formed their own communities and started their own clubs and shopped in their own stores. It was a matter of safety in numbers and protecting their own. I’m grateful that it’s a different world today.

My family is almost all still in the Western Pennsylvania area. I’m the only one who has had to leave — much like my ancestors, for economic reasons. We went where the jobs were. We now find ourselves in an area without Italian markets and even the closest church is twenty minutes away. We are once again the minority, but it’s not like before.

And I am grateful.

But I haven’t forgotten my roots.

And that’s what I try to breathe that life to in my writing. So no one else forgets, either.