By: Tony Traficante, ISDA Contributing Editor
Who am I? Glad you asked! I could write a book about that! But to be brief, “Sono figlio di genatori immigrati italiani.” I am the son of Italian immigrant parents. I am also a proud American and a soldier of God and country.
My parents, like thousands of other Italian immigrants, dared leave all behind. How brave they were to embark toward a strange land, knowing they would be challenged by a language and customs woefully unfamiliar to them.
Our forebearers didn’t leave because they didn’t love their country; on the contrary, it was to escape a miserable life of poverty, unemployment and political turmoil. For some, even the barren ground that lay beneath betrayed them of the fruits of life.
I have been privileged to have walked the land of my ancestors, to witness its beauty and wonders. Of course, it wasn’t like that for many of them. They rarely traveled from their small commune. When they did, they went by donkey to connect by bus or train.
This article appeared in La Nostra Voce, ISDA’s monthly newspaper that chronicles Italian American life, culture and traditions. Make the ISDA pledge and subscribe today.
I am the son of a Father who came to the United States with no choice but to leave his beloved behind. After six long years, he earned passage to send for his wife. I am the son of a Mother, left behind, who gave birth to a son —my brother — only to lose him a year and a half later.
Life in America wasn’t always so good for our ancestors. They were quick to discover that the streets indeed were not paved in gold! They were taunted by a few ignorant mericani. “Go back to where you came from. You don’t belong here!” They would openly mock Italian women who picked weeds for food!
They called the Italians “guineas, wops and dagos.” Hateful, derogatory words, yes! But names were the least of it. Worse things happened! Eleven innocent Sicilian immigrants were hanged and shot in the streets in March 1891, with the killers never being brought to justice. Or when President Franklin D. Roosevelt, in December 1941, proclaimed undocumented Italians residing in America as “Enemy Aliens” during WWII.
Many Italians lost their means of employment, their homes, and property. Ashamed, some even ended their lives.
Although no one likes to admit or even accept the Italians suffered discrimination, it was there! It makes one wonder if it still doesn’t exist? Otherwise, why are groups still trying to take away our National holiday and destroy our statues?
It wasn’t always doom and gloom for the Italians. Most neighbors welcomed the industrious Italian foreigners who made their own pasta, wine, sausage, and canned all that grew from their lush gardens. Some neighbors even learned to cook those same “cicoria weeds” for their soup!
Believe it or not, a few women still washed clothes in those old, marbled sinks, using scrub boards and diced lye soap for wash detergent! I remember when my Mom got her first secondhand manual wringer washer. I loved turning the handle. Then we got an automated wringer washer. Wouldn’t you know that my older brother had to stick his arm into it and ended up receiving several stitches under his arm?
Say what you will about Italians washing clothes. The neighbors envied the whiteness of their sheets fluttering in the breeze. And they chuckled when those same sheets hung frozen stiff in the winter.
My Mom never received a formal primary education and could not read or write. Pretty much the norm for many Italian women back in the day. Yet Mom did well enough interacting with her American neighbors! My Father, however, received an elementary education and learned to read, write and speak English in the States.
Diligent and hard-working people as they were, the Italians made time for an active social life. Besides activities with their Italian American social clubs, they participated in numerous family activities, weddings, baptisms, communions and confirmations! Because of these religious rites, I inherited a ton of “Commare and Compare!”
Who am I? I am, like many of you, a product of Italian immigrant parents. I am thankful that I was blessed with the exceptional gift of being an Italian American.
