The duality of being a first-generation Italian-American
My parents are Italian immigrants now living in the States. They immigrated in the 1960’s with their own parents and assimilated to the American culture, speaking English, eating Whoppers, (while being called Wop behind their backs), and living the American dream. Yet within this assimilation a duality developed — they were and still are very much Italians. They learned to speak English without eliminating La Bella Lingua. We spoke Italian and an Italian dialect at home. We ate Italian; eating Sunday dinner at 1pm and eating Italian food — I didn’t know Kraft and its macaroni and cheese in a box until I went to University (the things you learn in higher education). The Burger King and its side of fries was a once-in-awhile-treat. We spent most of our time at Nonna’s — my grandparents raised me until they retired and returned to Italy. Most of my family is still in Italy and when I go to Italy, I go as an American. I go as an Italian. I go as an Italian-American. I sometimes go as a tourist. I sometimes go to live. I am completely absorbed in the culture and in the every day lives of its people. I am completely absorbed and immersed in family, in the day-to-day minutia, in the every moment of what it is to be Italian. However, I have and will always have a slightly skewed view of Italy. I was born in America. I always wear American sunglasses when I arrive, until the Italian sun reveals such a simple yet forgotten truth that my grandfather would always say — -Tutto il mondo e’ un paese — -the whole world is one town.
My grandfather was a tailor — he made suits by hand — a dying profession today. He was also a philosopher. He had always a proverb, a quote, and/or a life lesson to teach. His lessons were quiet and interwoven with metaphor or an allegory — you had to read between the lines. One afternoon in November (it was a hot year that year) he took me swimming at a remote spot in Sicily. It wasn’t a beach with sand, umbrellas and lounge chairs; it was rugged, rough with rocky cliffs and stones, which made it so much more natural, real and beautiful.
My grandfather dove right into the deepest blue of the sea and minutes later resurfaced. “Jump,” he said. I couldn’t. I was scared, stiff and he knew it. “Jump,” he said, “don’t be scared. Remember when you were a little kid? You were never scared. Remember it now, and jump otherwise you will miss out on all this beauty and life that surrounds us.” I jumped and learned a great lesson about life that afternoon. Today when fear rears its head, I remember that afternoon in November. When my grandfather returned to Italy after spending almost half his lifetime in the United States, he saw an Italy that was very different from the Italy he was born and raised in, he too would sometimes wear American sunglasses until he observed and recognized; tutto il mondo e’ un paese.
We are all so very similar. Our aesthetics change but we are all still so very human. It’s this humanistic quality that Italy highlights, that Italy personifies, that Italy exposes with such depth. No wonder Humanism was born here. Italy is beautifully flawed and with all its imperfections, we are allowed to see our own. We see Beauty and its not always beautiful. No matter how many times I come to Italy, I see and learn something new; something about its people, its nuances and more importantly something new about myself — -one cannot help but grow in this place, find an inner peace and solace unlike a Tibetan monk yet just as spiritually enlightening. One cannot help but fall in love with this place. I fell in love at five years old and I still play in its perfectly flawed streets sometimes as an Italian, sometimes as an American but always as an Italo-americana.
What’s your experience as an Italian? As an American? As Italian-American? What’s your story? Share it…
