A Race Against Time

Editor’s note: Italian Sons and Daughters of America (ISDA) has partnered with the Cleveland Italian Ancestry Organization (CIAO) to bring our members closer to their genealogy and family histories. The first ISDA/CIAO zoom seminar took place in February 2023, watch it below.

By Richard Giaquinto, Ph.D, La Nostra Voce

As a kid in Gravesend, Brooklyn, I wore my Italianess everywhere in my neighborhood. You could spot it in my walk, my speech, and in my attitude. I guess it was like Tony Manero’s walk in the opening scene of the iconic film Saturday Night Fever.

But to survive, I had to keep my identity in check as I stepped between two different lives: the one I lived at home, and the one I lived at school. They were both very different; it called for code-switching to succeed in both.

At home, I was myself. I listened to Italian music and ate pasta. At Thanksgiving, I had antipasto and manicotti before our turkey. I walked around singing and using my hands to talk. And when I was mad, the curses flew at designated people or objects. My favorite, of course, was “Vaffanculo.” I learned this from MR. JOE, my father — the all-caps are intentional.

I remember my mom didn’t have to walk often to buy groceries. She relied on Giuseppe, the bread man, for fresh Italian bread in the morning. Or “Patatone,” the peddler who sold fresh vegetables around “noonish.” But when she needed meat, she had no choice but to push her shopping cart to Angelo’s. I enjoyed hearing my mom speak Italian to the owner, Papa Gio — I think that was his nickname.

This article first appeared in La Nostra Voce, ISDA’s monthly newspaper that chronicles Italian American news, history, culture and traditions. Subscribe today.

Sundays were the best — except in the morning before mass. I had to receive communion and had to fast — no breakfast until after mass. But waiting wasn’t that difficult because when I finally got home I could eat two raisin-cinnamon buns and sip my mom’s coffee. And best of all, the aroma of frying meatballs and simmering marinara sauce helped ease my hunger.

We had dinner about 1:30 every Sunday after my father came home from church. It lasted a good hour. Then, about two hours later, my aunt and uncle joined us for dessert — cannoli, sfogliatelli, and pasticciotto. Of course, we had espresso with tasty anisette.

There were no televisions or phones, just talk. Mostly gossip about my “zio” and his love for whiskey. Or about our “pazzo” cousin who had graduated high school and wasn’t working yet. I think my aunt referred to him as a “cidrule.” There was also talk about the “old days.” My dad’s folks were Napolitan and my mom’s Calabrese. So, they had active and loud discussions about who cooked better. I kept quiet and soaked it all in because my grandparents had already passed away. These passionate discussions helped me gain firsthand knowledge of the past and what it meant to be Italian.

I learned about the difficulties my grandparents experienced coming to America in the early 1900s. I learned how an immigration official on Ellis Island changed my grandfather’s last name to Giaquinto on a whim. Apparently, my grandfather stepped away from the line to greet a friend, then fortuitously wound up back in the right place for processing.

The official, who spoke fluent Italian, in a moment of divine creativity, came up with the name Giaquinto. His reasoning was simple: my nonno’s apparent sense of direction led him to the same place in line, the fifth position. So, he robbed my nonno’s last name and replaced it with GIAQUINTO — which means “already fifth.” Amazing! But true. I wish I knew how many times this kind of name swapping occurred on Ellis Island.

Decades later, I learned other life-lessons while sitting at my grandparents’ old table. I miei anziani (my elders) taught me the value of hard work and the need to respect and keep my Italian traditions. They inspired me to emulate the fierce determination of my ancestors to succeed in my own life. I also internalized the real meaning of la famiglia, and I developed a deep understanding and appreciation of my culture and history. It helped me later in high school and college to fight and defend my heritage and ancestry. Especially when I had to confront classmates and the media when they referred to me as a mafioso or guinea.

I have what Giovinazzo (2018) refers to in his book, a strong sense of “Italianita’” — a sincere love for my Italian heritage. You can see it on my face when I come across a store with an Italian name — not an uncommon occurrence in New York City. A broad smile appears, and I slowly and deliberately pronounce the name almost letter by letter.

If ever I need a booster shot to reaffirm my heritage, I hop on the subway to Little Italy — it’s slowly disappearing. I head straight to Ferrara’s and devour a sfogliatella and drink two cups of espresso. And then I stroll down Mulberry Street, remembering the sweet aroma of lasagna or fettuccine alfredo escaping from classic Italian restaurants. When I reach the end of the corner, I’m a born-again ITALIAN American.

Now I’d like to look at the current fourth and fifth generation Italian American young adults. To accomplish this, I will use two distinct lenses. The first comes from my work as a professor for more than 20 years at Brooklyn’s St. Francis College. I taught Italian American students who were the first in their family to attend college. The second lens is based on current readings and viewing many videos of Italian American young adults.

In my very first class, I saw the “ice break” when my students saw my name on the board, Dr. Richard Giaquinto. You could hear what they were thinking, “He’s one of us.” I sensed the same response in my other three classes. It was a good start for a new nervous professor, and it continued to evolve over the years into an absentee-grandfather.

My students had the same drive I had to succeed. They took advantage of my office hours to discuss their work and ways to improve their grades. In our many discussions, I learned part of their motivation for success was not to disappoint their parents. I remember telling them I had the same pressures at Brooklyn College and how difficult it was to remain focused on my studies.

My students worked hard completing assignments and projects. Most of them did more than expected. And besides being full-time students, they worked part-time jobs in the evenings and weekends to help with home expenses. I realized they had the same drive and determination as the early Italian immigrants whose shoulders they were standing on. I respected this and did my part to help ensure their success.

During office hours or even in the college’s cafeteria, we spoke about our classes. But after a while, it shifted to sharing stories about our families. I started first, and it grew into extended conversations over burgers and fries. It was fun and a privilege to hear, but as I listened, I discovered the differences between my experience as an Italian American and theirs.

They spoke about their need to eat dinner and breakfast at “weird” times because of their school and work schedules. As a result, they often ate alone at the kitchen table or even in their rooms. As for Sundays, they worked and often missed family Sunday dinners. And when they ate with their families, football or baseball on the television limited any serious conversation. Or even worse, the younger members of the family were too busy checking cell phones and sending messages to their friends to listen or share ideas.

I had hoped their holidays were better. They weren’t. There were no grandparents present because they now lived in managed or retirement communities. And to further add to this isolation, their uncles and aunts were also absent. Because they had their own family dinners or lived far away.

Christmas, on the other hand, had a little more of a traditional feeling. Grandparents often flew in and stayed several weeks. Also, their uncles and aunts dropped in to exchange gifts and have coffee and dessert. But often my students were not present. They were busy working extra hours because the college was closed for the holidays. And when they returned after a workday, contacting their friends took precedent over catching up on their family events.

In certain classes where I really knew my students, I often cracked jokes or did something funny to better engage them in the class. I’d stop a PowerPoint presentation and walk to the center of the room. I would gesture and say, “Aiutmi!” or “Domande?” They’d laugh and shout, “molto bene!” It became almost a ritual, and we both enjoyed our brief trip to the Italian language.

To help me better understand and evaluate my personal observations of fourth and fifth Italian Americans, I spent considerable time online and read a book entitled, Sense of Origins: A Study of New York’s Young Italians, by Rosemary Serra, translated by Scott R. Kapuscinski.

First, according to the book, fourth and fifth generation Italian Americans consider themselves more connected to American values and cultural norms than Italian’s. The author feels the main reason is the lack of elders — especially grandparents — in their lives. In the past, these revered individuals shared their own stories and experiences living here in America. And now, this source of the past is missing and still needed.

Young adults today also are at another disadvantage in learning about their ancestors. Their parents, second and third generation descendants from previous immigrants, have also lost their connection to the past. Because the current economic and social demands of heading households have taken precedent over teaching their kids about their cultural heritage. Also, most of these people are successful professionals, and now consider themselves more American than Italian. Therefore, their major concern for their kids now is getting an education and landing a high-paying job. Therefore, any thought about teaching about the past has very little importance in their homes.

If there is, by chance, time to explore the past now, it most likely focuses on objects that have a sentimental value. It might be a photograph of nonna or nonno sitting on a park bench somewhere in Brooklyn. Or even better, in my case, a grandfather’s special glass for his wine. These objects of curiosity are just that. Symbols from the past that might stir an interesting conversation, but nothing else. The same book explains that the interest and discussion of these “cultural objects” are only examples of a “symbolic ethnicity.” A nostalgic allegiance and love for a representation of the past without a deep understanding of its significance and meaning.

Another factor affecting the transmission of cultural ideals and values for young Italian American kids is the lack of exposure to written history and personal stories. The result has enabled the entertainment industry to fill this void. Shows like Jersey Shore and films like The House of Gucci or Goodfellas showcase regressive stereotypes of Italians and our culture. And young people are influenced and internalize the messages since they have very little knowledge of their past to offset the power of these stereotypical images.

As for food, Whole Foods and fast-food eating have replaced cooking and baking. It’s easier now to eat at a local Chick-fil-A or have a Frappuccino at Starbucks. The vision of nonna or mom toiling in the kitchen on Sunday morning is now limited only to the holidays. And recently, at a neighborhood pizza place, I overheard several young people, most likely fifth generation Italian Americans, order a gluten-free-pizza. They then ate it with a knife and fork while drinking strawberry banana smoothies.

Next, something that has probably affected all ethnic groups today, including young Italian Americans: the pervasiveness of social media — TikTok, Instagram, Snapchat, and Facebook. These forms of communication prevent most forms of non-verbal communication, like gesturing and direct eye contact. We Italians use these culturally proven non-verbal cues to help express our emotions and feelings. They are an integral part of our Italian ancestry. It separated us from other ethnic communities and provided us with valuable tools in both our private and professional lives.

I’d like to end it with something personal. It was recently my mother’s birthday, and my thoughts swirled around Italian heritage and culture. With the help of my dear father, she made sure I embraced and understood the significance of my Italian background and history. I know it inspired me and motivated me to succeed in life. I always realized that I stand with pride on the shoulders of the past immigrants who suffered so I could succeed. This is what’s missing in the lives of today’s young people who have lost touch with their past. I believe they consider themselves to be more American-American than Italian-American. This is a troublesome reality among the many from the “old school,” so this Easter season, let’s all go one step further — big or small — to connect our younger generations to those ancestors who dreamed big and risked the unknown.