By Patricia Gallupoli Russo, Executive Editor, La Nostra Voce
I woke up recently with Italy on my mind, and then started my morning by sipping my coffee while pondering the question, “Why do I love Italy so much?” Of course, everyone loves Italy, even non-Italians from all over the world, who travel to and fall in love with the culture and history. How can you not fall in love with the beauty of the landscape, the art, the music, the poetry, the food, the people! Ah, the people, therein I think may lie the answer to why I truly love being in Italy.
When I think of growing up, I smile. I’m one of the lucky ones who grew up with Italian immigrant parents. We, like many of you, lived as Italians. My parents spoke to each other in Italian when they didn’t want us to know what they were saying. My brothers and sisters and I never learned Italian because our parents wanted us to be all-American, even though we pretty much lived Italian. I’m sure many of you had the same experience. To this day, not being fluent in Italian is one of my biggest regrets.
My home always had the fragrant aroma of Italian cooking. Both my mother and father loved gardening, he did the vegetables and she did the flowers. Dad and I would go into the countryside to find large rocks that he would then use to design garden walls that would frame Mom’s flowers. And, as we strolled through those rural landscapes, we would pluck a few mushrooms and a few dandelions, at least enough to fill a shopping bag or two, to take home to my mom.
One of my favorite excursions with my dad was to the Italian grocery store. Just walking in the door made my mouth water. While my dad shopped, I would nonchalantly make my way to the olive bin. And with eyes darting about, to be sure no one was looking, I’d plunge my hand into the vinegary-brine and pull up whatever olives my hand could hold.
Our home looked like most other Italian homes of the time. We had lovely furniture draped in plastic, lace tablecloths and napkins tucked away in a drawer, and flowery china on display in the “china cabinet.” Except on Sunday, on Sunday the plastic came off, the table was draped in lace, and the china came out of the cabinet, which signaled company was coming!
Sunday was always that special day when either someone was coming or we were going. My parents’ friends were all Italians who had immigrated from the same Italian town, Spoltore, as my parents and grandparents had. Although they did have one friend from Chicago, who everyone called, “Checago.” I loved that name.
On Sundays I never knew who was coming, they just came. If we weren’t staying home it meant we were going, and magically, wherever we went they were waiting for us! Being the youngest of six children, by almost ten years, I was usually the only child present for the Sunday visits, yet I never heard anyone murmur, “Children are meant to be seen and not heard.” Instead, I was practically given the place of honor. I hung on every word of the grown-up conversations, or the stories they told, as they deftly wove between Italian and English. My parents and their friends were funny, and even though I didn’t recognize it at the time, they were filled with the joy of life. They hugged me and pinched my cheeks. They gave me as much candy and ice cream as I wanted, even when I didn’t want any, and when I was finished they gave me homemade Italian cookies. They let me watch their tiny black and white television set, all by myself. They lived in simple houses, or on farms, with gardens overflowing with beautiful flowers, and they often had a bocce court. They gave me full reign of their prized gardens and let me join in their bocce games. Just now, writing these few paragraphs about my childhood, I think I’ve answered my own question.
Why I love Italy is why everyone who visits Italy loves it. But I also love Italy because it brings back the voices and faces of all the wonderful, loving people of my childhood. I love sitting in the piazza of a tiny village in Italy, closing my eyes and hearing the language and laughter once again. I especially love when an Italian gentleman takes the time to speak to me in English accented with his Italian, and he sounds just like my dad. Basil and I love people-watching when we’re in Italy. We love to pick out the beautifully worn faces of beloved people who resemble our childhoods. One morning, while sitting in a cafe in Napoli, we even picked out the faces of our own teenage children among the beautiful, dark-eyed, laughing Napolitani teenagers passing by.
And so the answer to the question, “Why Do I love Italy?” is that for a short time I’m able to connect, once again, with all of the beautiful immigrant Italian people who helped make a small, shy Italian American child feel very special and loved. When I’m in Italy, I once again see their faces, hear their voices, and celebrate their gioia della vita. To be in Italy, for me, is to once again capture a moment in time, my time, and that is surely a beautiful thing.
Happy Italian American Heritage Month!
This article first appeared in La Nostra Voce, ISDA’s monthly newspaper, that chronicles Italian American life, culture and traditions. Subscribe today for only $25/year.
