By Marianna Gatto, ISDA Contributing Editor
As Italian Heritage Month approached this year, I began to think about the events in our nation’s history that played a seminal role in shaping both my identity as an Italian American and my understanding of Italian American history:
In elementary school it was the Great Arrival, the period during which millions of our ancestors came to the United States. Images of early Italian enclaves and immigrant ships stirred powerful emotions within me, foreshadowing what would become my vocation.
My consciousness developed further as I read about the Sacco and Vanzetti trial in my eighth-grade social studies textbook. “Sacco and Vanzetti were Italian immigrants who were tried and convicted of robbery and murder and sentenced to death despite overwhelming evidence of their innocence,” it stated. “Their case is widely considered one of the greatest miscarriages of justice in American history.” Sacco and Vanzetti became emblematic of the Italian American experience for me — and not simply because the trial was one of the only references that the book made to Italian Americans.
Learning about the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire in high school, a tragedy that stole the lives of 146 people, mostly Italian and Jewish women and girls, in 1911, was also pivotal. While the Sacco and Vanzetti case demonstrated the deadly consequences of xenophobia and nativism, the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire made me cognizant of how working people, including Italian American women, struggled — and died — to secure many of the rights we take for granted.
In college, I became aware of several other events that shaped my view of Italian American history and my italianità: The 1891 lynching of eleven Italian Americans in New Orleans shed light on the nuanced, tenuous, and often situational nature of race and ethnicity in our nation. The internment and violations of Italian American civil liberties during World War II helped me understand why my family stopped speaking Italian, and how the stigma of being associated with one of the nation’s enemies led them to embrace a more “American” identity.
While the New Orleans lynching offered a clue as to why my family left Louisiana soon after their arrival in 1898, the Ludlow Massacre revealed the volatile climate they encountered upon relocating to southern Colorado. Both my grandfather and great-grandfather were employees of Colorado Fuel and Iron, whose majority owner, John D. Rockefeller, Jr., was blamed for having orchestrated the Ludlow Massacre. The events helped me understand why my grandparent’s generation remained obstinately silent about their past and the type of physical labor that created my nonnu’s massive, calloused hands.
The Lawrence Mill Strike, popularly known as the Bread and Roses Strike, became a parable of Italian American history during my college years. In 1912, over 20,000 immigrant workers, many of whom were Italian American women, walked off the job after their employers cut what were already poverty wages. They endured a brutal winter, hunger, and violence at the hands of law enforcement, thereby defying the expectations of the conservative labor unions that excluded them from membership and alleged that the largely female and immigrant workforce could not be organized. The strike reached an important turning point when Carmela Teoli, a 13-year-old Italian immigrant employed at Lawrence Mill, testified before Congress. Carmela had been gravely injured when her hair got caught in a cotton-twisting machine. The machine tore off a portion of her scalp, requiring several months of hospitalization. Carmela’s testimony generated support for the textile workers, and mill owners, fearful of bad publicity, conceded to some of the workers’ demands. The strike served as a catalyst for the creation of child labor laws that established a minimum age for jobs involving dangerous work. I was moved upon discovering that Italian American women had been at the forefront of these struggles. The story of the Lawrence Mill Strike would also supply a much-needed alternative to the media’s unidimensional depictions of Italian American women.
It was not until graduate school, however, that I learned about another event that is intrinsically connected to both U.S. labor history and to Italian American history: the Monongah Disaster.
Monongah is a town in Marion County, West Virginia, and like most of the state, it has substantial bituminous coal deposits. By the mid-1800s, the coal mining industry had taken root in West Virginia, and the state’s coal along with that of neighboring Pennsylvania became the fuel of choice for American industrial production. Coal was indispensable, powering not only industry, but railroads and ships, and many homes and businesses. While coal mining generated considerable profits for mine owners, the people engaging in the tedious and backbreaking task of extracting it — coal miners — were among the lowest paid workers in the United States.
To mine coal at a lower cost than their competitors, West Virginia mining companies looked to a largely immigrant workforce, which they paid far less than the prevailing wage. West Virginia coal miners were compensated based on output rather than an hourly rate, earning a mere 49 cents per ton of clean coal, compared to 76 cents per ton that the unionized miners of Ohio received. In the early 1900s, the average West Virginia coal miner took home only $2.00 for twelve hours’ work (the equivalent of approximately $58 today).
Among industrial workers, coal miners suffered some of the highest casualty rates, especially in West Virginia, where mine safety laws were the laxest in the nation. Between 1900 and 1910, an astounding 20,000 coal miners died while at work in the nation’s mines. The average life expectancy for a coal miner during that era was an abysmal 32 years.
To make matters worse, most West Virginia coal miners were forced to live in company towns and experienced the exploitation inherent to such settings. Residing in tar paper shacks with as many as ten people in a room, the miners had their rent and other expenses deducted from their salaries by the companies, leaving them in a perpetual cycle of destitution and servitude. Armed guards patrolled the mining camps to prevent workers from leaving until their debts were paid and to bar outsiders, namely union organizers, from entering. In the early 1900s, West Virginia’s mayors, its legislature, law enforcement, and even the state’s governor had financial ties to mining companies or were on the companies’ payroll.
Despite the dangerous nature of the job, mining drew thousands of Italian immigrants to West Virginia — though many would arrive after being recruited by labor agents and had little understanding of the work they would be required to do. In 1910, West Virginia’s 17,000 Italian immigrant residents — the majority of whom hailed from the regions of Calabria, Campania, Molise, and Sicily — made up 30 percent of the state’s foreign-born population. Pockets of Italians could be found concentrated in various parts of the state, especially in Marion and Harrison counties.
West Virginia’s Italians would play an integral role in the growth of Catholicism in the state as well as in the union movement. They would also influence West Virginia’s culinary landscape, giving birth to one of the region’s signature foods: the pepperoni roll. The preparation of sliced pepperoni layered inside yeast dough and baked began as a portable, imperishable meal for coal miners.
The Monongah Disaster
It was Friday, December 6, 1907, the feast of St. Nicholas of Bari, the patron and protector of children. In its official records, the Fairmont Coal Company recorded 367 men working in Monongah Mine No. 6 and Monongah Mine No. 8., although the actual number of people in the mines that day was undoubtedly higher.
To be legally employed in the mines one had to be 12 years old, but to make ends meet and satisfy the company’s tonnage requirements, miners often brought other family members and children as young as eight years old to help. Whereas the miners presented their tin identification tags and were recorded upon arrival, underage and non-registered workers were not counted.
At 10:28 AM, without any forewarning, a violent blast occurred inside the maze of pitch-black tunnels of Monongah Mine No. 8. Another explosion followed moments later. The force of the blasts was so great it was felt as far as eight miles away. On the streets of Monongah, windows shattered, houses were lifted from their footings, streetcars derailed, and people and horses were thrown to the ground. The explosions all but obliterated the entrance to the mine, including the board where the miners checked in, and propelled the massive concrete roof of one mine structure more than 500 yards.
Most of the mineworkers died instantly. Those who survived the blast would asphyxiate as the ventilation systems were destroyed and poisonous gas filled the shaft. Only four men emerged alive; dazed and covered in blood, they were unable to describe what had occurred or divulge the fate of those trapped below.
Rescue teams and volunteers assembled immediately and began frantically clearing the debris that blocked the entrance, but when they attempted to enter the mine they too were overcome by fumes.
Desperate to know the fate of their loved ones, the miners’ families congregated at the scene. When it became clear that no signs of life were being detected below the surface a cacophony of wails and screams were heard — in Italian, Slovenian, Polish, Hungarian, English, and in the universal language of agony. News reports described one Italian woman whose husband, son, and brother were among the missing. Overcome with anguish, she cried, tore out her hair, and dug her nails into her skin until she drew blood before finally being carried home.
“Grief-stricken mothers, wives, sweethearts and sisters waited and watched and wept.” –Fairmont Times, describing the scene at Monongah
Born in Duronia, Molise, Fiorangelo DiSalvo was one of the victims. Fiorangelo had immigrated to the United States in 1906, and after passing through Ellis Island, he continued to Clarksburg, West Virginia, where he joined family members and found work in the mines of Monongah. Although Fiorangelo was only 12 years old, he was unlikely to have been the youngest miner to have died that day.
The DiSalvo family suffered an unfathomable loss. In addition to young Fiorangelo, the Monongah Disaster claimed the lives of nine other family members.
“All hope is gone,” read the headline of the Fairmont Times, which listed the death toll at 425 people the day after the tragedy. Contemporary historians estimate the number of casualties to be closer to 550 men and boys. Mine operators, meanwhile, limited the death toll to 362. Of those, 171 were Italians.
Abbate, Adducchio, Anciello, Basile, Berardo, Ciambetiello, Colarusso, D’Alessandro, DiMaria, DiSalvo, Ferrara, Manzo, Meffe, Prioletta, Riccinto, Rinaldi — were among the Italian families that lost at least three members in the tragedy.
The cause of the explosion was undetermined. Some believed it occurred when a spark ignited methane gas, which in turn ignited the highly volatile coal dust that covered the interior of the mine.
In the days that followed, caskets lined Monongah’s main street and the local bank became a makeshift morgue. The mine company buried the dead, digging rows of open graves in the half-frozen hillside overlooking the town. Many of the dead were never recovered or could not be identified.
News of the disaster spread across the nation and reverberated across the Atlantic. It was especially felt in the region of Molise and in the town of San Giovanni in Fiore, located in Calabria, which lost scores of its sons.
The Monongah tragedy made 250 women widows and left at least 500 children fatherless. Some accounts maintain that 1,000 children were half-orphaned by the disaster. One report noted that not one man remained in 27 of the 30 households on a single block in Monongah.
For their loss, each family received a mere $150 (approximately $4,300 today).
In the United States, December 1907 would be referred to as “Black December,” as in that month alone, five coal mining disasters claimed at least 700 men and boys, many of whom were Italian immigrants. The year 1907 would end with 3,241 coal miners killed on the job; once again, that number reflected only the “official” casualties. Public outcry following the Monongah disaster — the worst mining disaster in American history — led to the establishment of a wave of safety regulations for the mining industry. The tragedy would also serve as a catalyst for the creation of the Bureau of Mines in 1910, an agency that aimed to make mining safer. Safety standards were not broadly enforced until the mid-twentieth century, however.
In 2018, during a road trip through the Southern United States, I made a pilgrimage to Monongah, which is now home to 1,100 residents. The mines are long closed and one in four Monongah residents live below the poverty line. A cool breeze announced the arrival of fall, making the leaves on the maple trees dance and whisper like spirits before detaching from their branches and cascading to the ground.
In the heart of town I came across the Monongah Heroine, a statue depicting a woman with a baby in her arms and a young child at her side. The monument, which honors the women and children left behind by the disaster, is said to be modeled after Caterina Davia, a 42-year-old Italian immigrant and mother of five who lost her husband, Vittorio, in the tragedy. His body was never recovered. Every day for nearly 30 years, Caterina walked over a mile from her home to the mine entrance. She filled a bucket with coal, returned home, and emptied it in her yard. As the years passed, a hill of coal formed that eventually enveloped her house. Caterina purportedly carried out this ritual to lessen the weight on the men and boys who remained entombed in the mine, and perhaps, to combat the madness and grief that threatened to consume her.
In 2007, to commemorate the centennial of the disaster, the region of Molise presented Monongah with a bell, pictured below, that is displayed in the town square. Two years later, then President of the Italian Republic Giorgio Napolitano conferred the honor of Stella al Merito del Lavoro, an order of knighthood, to the men and boys who perished in the tragedy.
The year 2021 has been a historic one for the Italian American community. Thanks to groups such as the Conference of Presidents of Major Italian American Organizations, Italian Americans across the nation are interfacing and collaborating with one another at a level not witnessed in recent times. The community is more actively engaging its youth, promoting the study of the Italian language, and assessing its charitable activities. Italian American museums and cultural institutions are networking to better utilize their resources and to support organizations in the process of establishing new cultural centers. The year also marked the inauguration of the Italian American Museum of Cleveland and the Italian American Museum of Washington, DC, and the groundbreaking of the Italian Cultural Center in Buffalo, New York.
Simultaneously, Italian American groups have waged successful legal battles to protect historic sites and to address discrimination. Italian American-produced media, including the Italian American Podcast and the journal of the Italian Sons and Daughters of America, are helping make history and culture more accessible to the public, including to non-Italian American audiences, and facilitating thoughtful analysis of topics that have long been marginalized. If social media is any indicator of the community’s pulse, interest in Italian American culture — from foodways and home gardening, to cultural-religious traditions, most notably St. Joseph’s Tables — has reached new heights.
All this considered, 2021 could be dubbed the year of Italian American consciousness.
As an Italian American historian and educator, I have been inspired by the community’s increased hunger for our heritage. Perhaps Covid-19 can be partially credited for this phenomenon, as it gave many of us more time for such pursuits, or, at the very least, it led us to question what is truly important in life. Whatever the reason, Italian Americans’ increased literacy in their history could not come at a more critical time.
This Italian Heritage Month, as we reflect upon our families’ successes, as we celebrate Italian American artists, entertainers, captains of industry, and the figli d’italia who are represented in the highest leadership positions of our land — let us also remember the souls of our people whose American dreams were cut tragically short. Let us acknowledge the painful events and turbulent processes that helped pave the path toward upward mobility and acceptance. Let us embrace a more complete historical narrative, one that enlightens our present, and enables us to become more intimately acquainted with the complex fabric of which we are composed. Finally, let us recognize that the resources we allocate to preserving and showcasing our history will determine what our great-grandchildren will know of their forebears, how we are remembered, and our future as a culture.
Cav. Marianna Gatto is the executive director and cofounder of the Italian American Museum of Los Angeles, as well as a historian and author with nearly two decades of experience in museums, non-profit leadership, advocacy, and education.
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