LIFE: Precious Moments

CHIAVARI, Italy – In the first six months of this year more than 65,000 immigrants found their way to Italy. They come in by the boatloads overwhelming the residents of Lampadusa and other town in the south. It’s a national problem but except for the few Africans I occasionally see here in Chiavari, I have no contact with them. It was much the same when I lived in the Milan suburb of Saronno, until the day that I met Precious.

The Quiet Streets of Saronno

I first saw Precious when I was on my way home from a doctor’s appointment. I didn’t know we were both going to the same town until she sat down next to me at the train station and we started making small talk the way people do who happen to sit next to each other in public places.

She told me her name was Precious and she was from Nigeria. She seemed surprised that I was American and said I was the first American she had ever met. About four sentences later she suddenly turned serious and said to me, “do you believe in Jesus.” As she said those words, she pulled a small bible out of her handbag and held it in her hand.

 Where Are They Now?

She caught me by surprise and I didn’t know what to say. I knew if I said yes, she would roll into a discussion about the wonderfulness of Jesus and religion and how we have to venerate Him. Or she would start reading to me from the bible or wanting me to pray with her. On the other hand, if I said no, she might let the conversation take a lighter note, like most casual conversations do and we could talk about what films in English were playing at the Arcobaleno Theatre in Milan that week.

I realize now, of course, that it would not have mattered which approach I took, she wasn’t going to let me get away that easily. But at the time, I was convinced a strong stand would put an end to her interrogation. So I took a deep breath and said, “No, I don’t.”

Entering the Land of Milk and Honey

She was visibly horrified by my answer. Then she took a deep breath and asked, “How old are you?” 

I told her. Obviously I was, in her opinion, close enough to my expiration date that she felt compelled to save me and so the onslaught began. With bible in hand and a most serious and concerned face, she recounted the horrors that were in store for me. Did I really want to spend eternity burning in the pits of hell? And didn’t I see all the glories of the afterlife that awaited me in the house of the Lord, if only I would believe in Him.

Some Die Trying

The train station we were sitting in didn’t seem to be the place to discuss such a heavy subject as the pros and cons of my impending encounter with the afterlife, so I did my best to change the subject. I tried again to move her off the Jesus track and onto a lighter, more suitable discussion for a brief encounter – the weather for example. And then our train came.

When we got on the train I sat down next to a young Italian woman and Precious sat across from me. She was fully concentrated on her mission and continued her recounting of the horrors that awaited me if I continued down the path that would surely lead to my destruction. She was making me feel very uncomfortable, and as I wracked my brain trying to think of some kind way to distract her, the young Italian woman, hearing Precious and I speak English, joined the conversation. Precious immediately turned her focus to her.

“Do you believe in Jesus,” she asked the Italian woman.

I’m coming from Marrakesh, the woman replied, “where I met the most beautiful Frenchman. He’s a singer. He’s making concerts traveling around in North Africa. Do you think there is such a thing as love at first sight?”

Facing An Uncertain Future

Eureka! I had found a way around the problem. All I had to do was start another conversation with the Italian woman about the possibility of real love at first sight. So I did. I was hoping Precious would join in and we could all have a nice conversation, but she didn’t. She just sat there, clutched her bible and listened as the woman talked about her adventure with the handsome French singer.

While the Italian woman’s talked about her good fortune at meeting the Frenchman and misfortune that it happened her last night in Marrakesh, I was sorry that I couldn’t engage Precious on another subject. I would have liked to have known more about her as a person, her life, why she was in Italy, how she was getting along. I could tell by the seriousness in which she talked about her relationship with God, and her obvious concern for me, that she was a kind and caring person, a daughter any mother would be proud to have.

 Messina

I also understood how difficult it is for Africans immigrants to have any kind of contact, other than the most superficial with Italians. It was difficult for me when I first came to Italy and I have the advantage in that most Italians seem to love Americans even though in reality few have ever actually met any.

But while I felt bad for Precious, the thought of future conversations that most certainly would center on my impending demise and the penalties I would suffer for my apparent lack of belief, hardened my heart.

What Does the Future Hold?

And then we got off the train.

We stood for a moment at the bottom of the stairs in the station’s sottopassaggio. As I was turning right to go home and she was turning left to go to a religious service, she said to me, “will you come to my wedding mama?”

For years I had bristled at the African vendors calling me “mama”. “I’m not your mama,” I would often reply to their attempts to get me to buy whatever they were selling. But in that moment, standing there with Precious, I realized that for Africans the title “mama” is the equivalent of “signora” in Italian. It’s a sign of respect. I also realized how much I don’t know about the Africans I pass every day on my daily to and fro of shopping and errands.

 Salerno

It’s not that I don’t know about immigrants. I grew up in a family of immigrants and know their stories by heart. I’ve even lived my own immigrant experience with my decision to move to Italy. But my experiences were a very different from theirs. I had many advantages my family did not have starting with language skills and life skills that helped smooth my path, advantages immigrants like Precious can only dream about.

As for my grandparents’ experiences, there is a big difference between immigrating to a multi-cultural country like the United States that was built on the backs of people like my grandparents, and a mono-culture like Italy. There are no Italian J.P. Morgans, Andrew Carnegies or Cornelius Vanderbilts building railroads or steel plants or digging for oil and providing work for newly arrived immigrants in the process. There are mostly small family run businesses doing their best to survive the global crisis and any additional competition from quarter, especially non-Italians is suspect.

 Dangerous or Desperate?

As boatloads of refugees/immigrants continue to land on the islands around Sicily the role of Italy’s immigrants still needs to be defined. Those coming ashore see Italy as the land of milk and honey, the Italians rich and prosperous. And compared to the life they left behind, it is true. But the Italians see themselves as barely hanging on, struggling through each day. The truth, as always, is somewhere in the middle.  

I never saw her again, but I’ve thought about her many times since that first encounter. I do wonder what happened to her and if she’s happy in her new life. I hope that she is. For me it was a missed opportunity to better understand others who are as much a part of this Italian life as I am. But life is like that sometimes, isn’t it. 

Photos: Ansa, La Repubblica

LIFE: Some Rainy Morning

SARONNO, Italy - Woke up this morning to yet another rainy day in a long week of rainy days and realized that today’s post would be number 200 and I had nothing to write about. Normally I write blog posts over the course of a week, starting with an idea and then squeezing in changes and adding photos or video, or in the case of Auntie Pasta, a recipe or two over the course of three or four days. Sometimes I don’t have three or four days to write and you can tell those posts by the number of mistakes you find in them.    

Morning Has Broken (thank you Cat Stevens)

But here it is Sunday morning and I’m staring at a blank white page. I’ve been totally distracted this week, some of it spent worrying about friends and family in the States, some of it spent working on a novel I’ve decided to write. Even though I know there is not a snowball’s chance in hell of ever getting it published, I still slog on every morning with my tale of Martina, an American film maker who has come to Italy to make a documentary about the gypsies – or Rom as they prefer to be called.

It’s a story that fascinates me, or rather the inherent fierceness of the Rom to hold on to their culture and traditions and resist every effort to integrate into the general European population fascinates me. Some Rom families have been in Italy for generations, others for centuries. They have Italian names and Italian citizenship and if they dressed like the general population, you’d be hard pressed to single them out. So it isn’t that they look “different” that sets them apart, but something else.

Santino Spinelli (on the right) being introduced by an Italian Journalist

I don’t know how Santino Spinelli, an ethnic Rom living in Italy dresses, but he made news a few years ago by becoming the first Rom to hold a university post in Italy. The path he traveled to get to that point was long, starting as a child begging on the streets to a university graduate and now a professor teaching a course which will cover Gypsy language, literature, traditions, music and theater. 

But he is only one of how many Rom in Europe? Would you believe more than 6 million? 

The seed for this story was planted back in 2003 when the Italian government took a hard right turn and passed ground breaking, stringent legislation requiring all non-Italians living in Italy to be fingerprinted and photographed. And yes, if you go through the files of mug shots held in who knows what Office of Immigration’s data base, will find one of yours truly, darling daughter of an Italian born in Italy and legal resident of Italy, but nonetheless part of the roundup.

The Oh, So Cultured Umberto Bossi, Ex-Leader of Italy's Northern League

As Milan is the home to the Northern League, the Tea Baggers of Italy, the new laws encouraged anti-immigrant sentiment, and blatant discrimination became more evident. No one could ever take me for anything but Italian, which is what I am, that is until I open my mouth and my twangy American accent spews forth. And that’s when the worms turned. A friendly greeting in a shop suddenly became a frozen stare, my reply to a simple question asked of me like where is Piazza Dante, resulted in the questioner turning his back and walking away before I could even finished the sentence.

I really felt that my Italy, the land where I had lived and paid taxes and obeyed every law I could figure out, had suddenly turned against me. Thankfully the political climate has changed now, we have a new government, and the beleaguered Northern League is barely hanging on by its collective fingernails. Now it’s the Italians who want to have - actually need -  that twangy American accent for it’s that twangy American accent, and the language skills that go with it, that’s going to move them ahead in today’s global economy. And the way the European economy is shaping up, they don’t have a choice –  parla inglese or don’t bother to apply for the job.  

Even the prestigious University of Milano is now requiring its professors to teach some courses each semester in English. But that’s another story for another day.

So, where was I? Oh, right. Nothing to write about this morning. Well, I think the best thing for me to do is make another cup of coffee and think about it a little while longer. I’m sure I'll come up with something.

(I want to take this opportunity to thank all of you who take the time to comment on the blog posts. I appreciate hearing from you, and sharing your thoughts and comments with others who read this blog.)

  

LIFE: Precious

SARONNO, Italy – I met Precious in the train station when I was on my way home from a doctor’s appointment in the nearby town of Busto Arsizio. I first saw her when we both got on the wrong bus and ended up sharing a 30 minute bus tour of the hinterlands of Busto.

Saronno train statio

We didn’t talk on the bus. It was raining and I was damp and tired and all I wanted to do was get to the LeNord train station and go home. I didn’t know she was going to Saronno too until she sat down next to me and we started making small talk, you know, the way people do who happen to be next to each other in waiting rooms.

She told me her name was Precious and she was from Nigeria. She was surprised that I was American and said so. I was the first American she had ever met, she said. About four sentences later she suddenly turned serious and said to me, “do you believe in Jesus.” As she said that, she pulled a small bible out of her handbag and held it in her hand.

She caught me by surprise and I didn’t know what to say. I knew if I said yes, she would roll into a discussion about the wonderfulness of Jesus and religion and how we have to venerate Him. Or even worse, she would start reading to me from the bible, or wanting me to pray with her. On the other hand, if I said no, she might take the hint and let the conversation take a lighter note, like what films in English were playing in Milan that week.

 Waiting for the train

I realize now, of course, that it would not have mattered which road I took, she wasn’t going to let me get away that easily. But at the time, I was convinced a strong stand would put an end to her interrogation. So I took a deep breath and said, “No, I don’t.”

The girl was horrified. She took a deep breath and said, “How old are you?” 

I told her. Obviously I was, in her opinion, close enough to my expiration date that she felt compelled to save me, and so the onslaught began. With bible in hand and a most serious and concerned face, she recounted the horrors that were in store for me. Did I really want to spend eternity burning in the pits of hell? And didn’t I see all the glories of the afterlife that awaited me in the house of the Lord, if only I would believe in Him.

The train station in Busto Arsizio didn’t seem to be the place to discuss such a heavy subject as the pros and cons of my impending encounter with the afterlife, so I did my best to change the subject. To move her off the Jesus track and onto a lighter, more suitable discussion for a brief encounter – the weather for example.

Via Roma, Saronno

When we got on the train for Saronno I sat down next to a young Italian woman and Precious sat across from me. As I wracked my brain trying to think of some way to distract her, the young Italian woman, hearing Precious and I speak English, joined the conversation. Precious immediately turned her focus to her.

“Do you believe in Jesus,” she asked the Italian woman.

I’m coming from Marrakesh, the Italian replied, “where I met the most beautiful Frenchman. He’s a singer. He’s making concerts traveling around in North Africa. Do you think there is such a thing as love at first sight?”

Eureka! That was it! All I had to do was start another conversation. So I did. With the Italian. Now if Precious would just put her bible back in her purse, and join in we could have a nice conversation, but she didn’t. She just sat there and clutched her bible.

I was sorry that I couldn’t engage her on some other subject . I would have liked to known about her as a person, her life, why she was in Italy, how she was getting along. I could tell by the seriousness in which she talked about her relationship with God, and her obvious concern for me, that she was a wonderful person, a daughter any mother would be proud to have.

Saronno Rules

I also understand how difficult it is for Africans immigrants to have any kind of contact, other than the most superficial with Italians. It was difficult for me when I first came to Italy and I have the advantage in that until I open my mouth everyone assumes I am Italian.

But while I felt bad for her, the thought of future conversations that most certainly would center on my impending demise and the penalties I would suffer for my lack of belief, hardened my heart.

And then we got off the train.

There are two exits to the Saronno train station. I was turning right to go home, and she was turning left to go to a religious service, but before we parted she said to me, “will you’ll come to my wedding mama?”

A Nigerian Wedding

For years I had bristled at the African vendors calling me “mama”. “I’m not your mama,” I’d reply to their attempts to get me to buy whatever they were selling. But in that moment, standing in the sottopassagio of the Saronno train station, I realized that for Africans the title “mama” is the equivalent of “signora” in Italian. It’s a sign of respect. I also realized how much I don’t know about the Africans I pass every day on my daily to and fro along the streets of Saronno.

I grew up surrounded by immigrants on both sides of my family, and lived their immigration experience with my own decision to move to Italy. But there is a big difference between immigrating to a multi-cultural country like the United States that was built on the backs of immigrants like my grandparents, and a mono-culture like Italy.

There are no Italian J.P. Morgans, Andrew Carnegies or Cornelius Vanderbilts building railroads or steel plants or digging for oil. There are mostly small family run businesses doing their best to survive the global crisis and any additional competition from non-Italians is suspect. The role of Italy’s immigrants still needs to be defined. In the meantime, people like Precious are breaking new ground, and I wish her well.

LIFE: Il Giorno di Colombo

SARONNO, Italy - "God Bless America", my grandmother used to say. My grandfather used to say something else. She was thrilled to be in America, and he, well that's another story. My grandparents were just two of the two million Italians who immigrated to the United States at the beginning of the 1900’s.

My Grandparents when they were still just dreaming of America

My grandmother was fiercely proud of her heritage. She loved Italy, she loved the food, the weather, the closeness of her family. She just didn't want to live there, and mostly she did not want to raise her children there. She was not alone.

Between 1870 and 1920, almost 5 million Italians boarded steamships for America. Only Germany matched that exodus - one of the largest immigrations in modern history. Whole towns in Southern Italy, and some of the poorest areas of the Veneto and Tuscany, were emptied as people jumped at the opportunity for a better life. And yes, maybe even riches. In all fairness my Grandmother and her family were not starving, it was just that she saw America's open immigration policy as a once in a lifetime opportunity not only for her children but for herself and my Grandfather as well.

The town they left behind - Piansano

My Grandfather was a furniture maker, but in the impoverished province of Lazio, there was little money for furniture. To supplement the family income he had turned to making wine barrels and was managing to make ends meet, but barely.

And then one day a stranger came to town with an offer my Grandmother couldn’t refuse. The stranger was an agent. His job was to travel throughout Italy spreading an golden image of America, rich and generous, democratic and open, a country with endless possibilities for success. And best of all the company the agent worked for would take care of the paperwork. It was an irresistible combination: the agents were salesmen true and the product they were selling was good.

 Piansano: The cars may be newer but not much else has changed

So my Grandmother made a plan. My Grandfather, and her brother Joe would go to America first. They would get jobs – which according to the agent there were plenty of -  earn money, buy a house and then send second class steamer tickets for her, my father and my Aunt Louise, who was just a baby. My Grandmother wanted to go to America but not in steerage. I don’t know how much resistance there was to her idea, all I know is that on Feb 18. 1913 my Grandfather, and his brother-in-law Joe Bronzetti, were walking around in that land called America.

There were millions of immigrants

As soon as they stepped off the boat they were offered work. The Pennsylvania Railroad was being built and the railroad company needed men to help lay railroad tracks. So my Grandfather and Uncle Joe signed on. The company offered to provide food and inexpensive shelter along the way, the cost of which would be deducted from their pay. When the project was completed they would get the money they had earned, less their expenses.

You probably already know the end of the story. When the project was completed, there was no money, the paymaster had left town and taken the payroll with him. My Grandfather and Joe had heard from other Italians they had met while working on the railroad that some families from the province of Lazio had settled  in upstate New York, in a town called Siracusa.  It was their only hope. Stranded in a foreign country and unable to speak English, the two men began walking from Reading Pennsylvania to Syracuse, New York. To survive the journey they were forced to beg for food and shelter along the way.

What they longed to see

Newspaper articles published in that period claimed that Italian immigrants, especially those from Southern Italy, seem to beg for the pure pleasure of begging. Obviously they never met my Grandfather and Joe. When my Grandfather and Jot got to Syracuse they both found work, got settled and bought a house. Uncle Joe went on to own a string of bars in Syracuse, and I doubt there is an old timer in Syracuse who doesn’t recall with nostalgia hanging out in Joe’s Bar and Grill on Lodi Street, including yours truly. On April 14, 1915 my Grandmother, my father and my Aunt Louise, who will celebrate her 100th birthday on Nov. 1 boarded a ship bound for America.

 In few other countries in the world have the Italians had as much success as those who went to America. The children and grandchildren of the factory workers, masons, laborers , and waiters who landed on Ellis Island in the early 1900;s have gone on to become accountants, lawyers, doctors, engineers and managers, and yes even journalists. They have opened shops and restaurants. They have become business owners and politicians. With their sweat and tears they built America. They are the embodiment of the American dream.

Many Italians settled in New York's Lower East Side

The first Italians immigrants in America had to jump through a lot of hoops in order to survive. Many were embarrassed to be Italian and changed their name to make their lives easier. When I was growing up we lived next to the Bond family. Their name wasn't really Bond, it was Bonacci. And my cousin Jimmy;s favorite story is about his friend Mario who changed the name of his auto mechanic shop to sound more American. Instead of calling it Mario Bianco's, he renamed it Mario White's. My cousin still shakes his head over that one.

What brought on this wave of nostalgia is the Columbus Day celebrations that will take place across America tomorrow. On October 11 thousands of us, the descendants of all of those who sacrificed and suffered to get to America, will celebrate Columbus' discovery. It's an important day for Italian-Americans, because with this celebration, Italian-Americans can rediscover their pride in being Italian and they have a lot to be proud of.

Still happy after all these years

There are now between 25-50 million Italians in America. Four million just in the metropolitan New York area, 8 million in the Tri-State area of New York, New Jersey and Connecticut. According to a recent study by the Angelli Foundation, the average income of Italians in America is 25% higher than that of the average American. Imagine that. The population of beggars has become 25% richer than the average American. Not bad.

On a trip back to the United States a few summers ago, I spoke with a number of Italian-Americans. Many of them have never visited Italy and they were very interested in hearing about life in Italy today. In talking to them I heard a curiosity about the land their families left nearly a hundred years ago. It was nice. It was also a major factor in deciding to write this blog. Happy Columbus Day.