I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was an American. Of course, I had
been born in America and lived here all of my life, but somehow it never occurred to me
that just being a citizen of the United States meant that I was an American. Americans
were people who ate peanut butter and jelly on mushy white bread that came out of plastic
bags. Me? I was Italian.For me, as I am sure for most second generation Italian-American children who grew up in the 40's and 50's, there was a definite distinction to draw between Us and Them. We were Italians. Everybody else, the Irish, Germans, Poles, they were the "mericans." There was no animosity involved in that distinction, no prejudice, no hard feelings, just -- well, we were sure that ours was a better way. Truly, I pitied their loss.
When it came to food, it always amazed me that my friends and classmates only ate turkey on Thanksgiving Day or Christmas. Or rather, that they only ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce. Now, we Italians, we also had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce, but only after we had finished the antipasto, soup, lasagna, meatballs, salad and whatever else Mama thought might be appropriate for that particular holiday.
The turkey was usually accompanied by a roast of some kind (this was just in case
somebody walked in who didn't like turkey) and it was followed by an assortment of
fruits, nuts, pastries, cakes and, of course, the homemade cookies sprinkled with
little colored things. No holiday was complete without some home baking -- none of
that store-bought stuff for us. This was where you learned to eat a seven course
meal between noon and 4 p.m., how to handle hot chestnuts, and how to put tangerine
wedges in red wine.I truly believe Italians live a romance with food. Sunday was the big day of the week. That was the day you'd wake up to the smell of garlic and onions. Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Mass. Of course, you couldn't eat before Mass because you had to fast before receiving Communion. But, the good part was that we knew when we got home we'd find hot meatballs, and nothing tasted better than meatballs and crisp bread dipped into a pot of tomato sauce.
There was another difference between us and them. We had gardens, not just flower gardens, but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoes, and more tomatoes -- and everybody had a grapevine and a fig tree. Those gardens thrived because we also had something our American friends didn't seem to have. We had grandparents. Of course, it's not that they didn't have grandparents it's just that they didn't live in the same house or on the same block.
We ate with our grandparents, and I can still remember my grandfather telling us about
how he came to America as a young man, on the "boat." How the family lived in a tenement
and took in boarders in order to make ends meet. All of this, of course, in his own
version of Italian/English which I learned to understand quite well.So, when they saved enough money, and I never still can figure out how, they bought a house. That house served as the family headquarters for the next 40 years. They would rather sit on the porch and watch their garden grow.
I also remember the holidays when all the relatives would gather at my grandparents' house and there would be homemade wine and tables of food. The women in the kitchen, the men in the living room, and the kids -- kids everywhere. I must have a thousand cousins, first cousins, and second, and some friends who just became cousins -- and my grandfather sitting in the middle of it all.
It is understandable that things change. Everyone now has families of their own and grandchildren of their own. Today we visit once or twice a year; or we meet at wakes and weddings. The holidays have changed. Yes, we still make the family "rounds" but somehow things have become more formal. The great quantity of food we once consumed without any ill effects is no good for us anymore. Too much starch, too much cholesterol, too many calories in the pastries. And nobody bothers to bake anymore -- too busy. It's easier to buy it, and anyway, too much is not good for you. The differences between "us" and "them" aren't so easily defined anymore, and I guess that's good.
We are all Americans now . . . the Irish, Germans, the Poles -- U.S. citizens all. But, somehow, I still feel a little bit Italian.
Other things have also changed. The only house my grandparents bought is now covered with aluminum siding. A green lawn covers the soil that grew the tomatoes. And there was no one to cover the fig tree, so it died.
Note: The text is an abbreviated version of a story that has been passed around among family and friends for years. The author and the original source are unknown (although I believe it was originally discovered as a newspaper article). The picture is a copy of a print by artist Isabelle de Borchgrave.