Articles by: Renata Conte

Last Sunday I decided to once again attempt to bond with my fellow Italian-Americans. Now, ever since my Italian father passed away I have lamented about the extreme sense of void in my Italianita’. The next best thing I could try would be to identify with the actual Italian American that I in fact am. When my Babbo was with us, I felt so much more like an Italian. The phone calls to and from Italy, the Serie A matches on TV, La Repubblica on my kitchen table every day pretty much sealed the deal for me. I was almost there at “tutta via”; alas over this past year I have slipped more and more back to my inevitable “mezza via” status.


     I do realize however that this is not necessarily a bad thing. I mean as I’ve said before, my Italianita’; whatever degree of it I am experiencing, is and always will be of the utmost importance to me. My mother’s cousin, a pillar of Italian-Americanism in his community of Fordham/Little Italy in the Bronx had invited her to come up to a feast the neighborhood was having on Arthur Avenue. He owns a little business on the avenue, and has long been a well liked and respected member of the community. Like many others, he no longer lives in the area, but has been able to maintain strong ties with other merchants, as well as the few older Italians/Italian Americans still living there. My mother was excited to see her cousin, and to check out the old neighborhood.


     My mother, born in the Bronx to Italian parents, left there before she even met my Italian father. I remember her always being so proud of the area. The kinship, the feasts, the grocery stores, the bakeries etc. My parents were married at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church on 187st, the quintessential Italian-American parish. At that time a bastion of Italian-American solidarity, a core of a community so strong it seemed invincible.


     Naturally I was also curious. I wanted to see my cousin, and I wanted to see the old neighborhood. I had visited often when I was little. My parents would do their bi-weekly shopping excursion. I remember my favorite stop, the record store. My parents would buy the latest Italian 45’s and we’d go home and listen to them over and over. Pepino di Capri, Gianni Morandi, Mina, Milva, and numerous others that escape me now. She knew my father missed Italy, and I suppose this was the best she could do for him on their limited income.  My brother and I became so familiar with these Italian tunes, we would sing them on our street in Queens, we’d even invite the Irish kids to come on over and sing “L’Arca di Noe” (il cane,gatto,io e te…)with us, we loved that song!


     And so my husband, daughter, mother and I headed over the bridge and met up with her cousin at this feast. It really was a celebration of community, albeit a now scattered community that just happened to physically be in the same place that day. Many of the old stores are still there, selling their “proud to be Italian” wares and their authentic foods. Cousin John pointed out that not many Italian-Americans live in the area anymore. They do often frequent the neighborhood, eating in the restaurants, hanging around the cafes and shopping the stores. The neighborhood has now become a melting pot as far as it’s’ inhabitants and unfortunately has declined as far as crime statistics, cleanliness and overall safety. Today was different however. The band was playing, the priest was praying, and the crowd was animated. They had come to celebrate their Italianess, by eating, drinking, laughing and yelling things to each other like “kay-say deech” (cosa si dice). Uh- oh, I heard that and I started regretting my decision to come. I started feeling lost again. These were the Italian Americans I had always felt distant from. I was wearing a Parma jersey for God’s sake, but I was overrun by the Yankees jerseys all around me. I had always felt more Italian than them. I read the Italian newspaper, I called my cousins in Italy all the time, I watched RAI on Sundays, but that was when my father was alive, and spread his authentic Italianess among us like the greatest gift in the world. I miss it so very much, so does my Mom.


     I was determined to try to fit in. To celebrate with my fellow Italian Americans. Maybe I could let them all in on the secrets of being at least a “mezza via”. So we bought some zeppoles (the fried dough balls dripping with grease), listened to the 29th version of O Sole Mio from the bandstand and drank chianti with peaches in the paper cups. It was a nice day, and I was glad to have brought my Mom to see her cousin, do some shopping and some reminiscing. As I was perusing the crowds I saw one Italian American gentleman that to me represented the human manifestation of my feeling of Mezza Via, why I would never be akin with these Italian-Americans. He was a large fellow, walking along the street with his buddies yelling to each other the only Italian words I assume he knew, ones I rather not repeat here. The piece de resistance was his shirt; which he actually wore proudly; it said “As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster”.


As far back as I can remember I always wanted to voice an uncomplimentary opinion about Italian-Americans that advertised things like that. Need I say more! Whose fault is it really, that we are one of the last ethnic groups acceptable to deride openly and publicly in the United States. Thanks for your help with that “gangster”.

A few nights ago I decided to attend the round table discussion at Casa Zerilli-Marimò, centering on Piero Bassetti’s notion of “italicita”. The idea of a new virtual meeting place where 250 million people of italic origin could transcend formal boundaries and interact.  A general invitation had gone out to all bloggers and really any members of the i-italy community. I want so badly to find my place; to “g-localize” myself, and this seemed a step in the right direction.  I rearranged my schedule and off I went with a sense of excitement, and in my mind alot to say.


I arrived in a room filled with excited people. They all seemed to know one another. They all were extremely animated, flitting from Italian to English and back again.  I followed some conversations, and yes they all knew each other for the most part. This was the club I so longed to be a part of. This was my way of getting from “Mezza Via” to Tutta Via”.  I listened intently to the learned and very entertaining panel. The idea of this “Italicity” was grand. These people were so intelligent and so caring and passionate about their work. I have never felt that way about the practice of Pharmacy and that made me listen more intently. I almost felt like I belonged there.


My reality set in when the Consul General of Italy in NY, Francesco Maria Talò took his turn speaking. This is a charismatic man who one cannot help but listen to and for the most part agree with, that was the problem for me, he made sense. He began to describe the 3 different populations that are encompassed  by “Italicity” and the free and open community of Piero Bassetti. 


The first group, as he explained, numbered in the tens of millions. They are the grandchildren, great-grandchildren and beyond of Italian immigrants. Most do not speak Italian nor have ever even been to Italy. And now I add that they do not fight for pro-italian causes, they do not care about defending the image of the Italian-American/Australian/South American etc , they do not get “involved”. They do however retain some type of connection with ancestors long gone, usually through cuisine, or an Italian flag sticker on their car. 


The second group, numbering maybe in the hundreds of thousands was my father's. He visited, fell in love, and stayed in NY in the 1960’s. He still read the Italian newspaper, followed Italian politics and calcio, and spoke Italian 50-75% of the time.  But in my opinion this group is not exactly the internet generation. Most, (my father was an exception) are totally involved in their regional organizations. They keep a tight circle of friends, usually involving the common denominator of the geographical area of Italy in which they were born and raised in. 


The third and smallest group was the new virtual “Little Italy” inhabitants. These were young professionals from Italy living in and working in NY (or somewhere else abroad). They connected via their i-phones and truthfully always feel more comfortable when they are around each other. They are an unknown entity to most Italian Americans of the first group.


Unfortunately, out of these 3 groups that Francesco Maria Talò had described and that I have elaborated on, I could not find my place. It made me pat myself on the back while thinking about the name I had coined to describe myself and status; me; sempre “Mezza Via”. How incredibly left out I felt, and how my mind went in all different directions trying to figure out how to belong to Italicity. It seemed I was always fighting to show the 3rd group that I was definitely NOT part of that 1st group.


Physical distance can now be overcome, globalization has intensified common worldly concerns, cosmopolitanism creates that internal unity, but the main obstacle and divider in any issue of networking, global community, italicita’ is LANGUAGE. The people I spent Wednesday evening with are a relatively small group of people without this problem. They are all fluent in at least 2 languages, and could have been just as comfortable conducting the evening in Italian as they were in English. How could they empathize with the angst I feel when someone asks me if I speak Italian... I do but please do not speak too fast or use any idiomatic expressions, why don’t I just admit it and say “no, not really”.


I suppose over time all ethniticity, origin, and commonality become homogenized, diluted, and assimilated into a common “American” culture if you will. One cannot deny that there is strength in numbers and that assimilated 1st group has the numbers on its side. So for me and my Mezza Via  people, wherever they are, we will stand by our causes, keep pushing Italian Language instruction in schools, keep contributing to the digital project, keep opening our children’s eyes to the wonder and privilege that is Italianita’.  And keep trying to find our comfort zone within this Piazza di tutte Piazze.


 

It’s been a while since I posted an entry about my half Italian half American life on the site, but I think I’m finally ready, and may have something worthwhile to say. I’ve had a very rough time of it since I last wrote. My dear father, my main connection to the Italian world, passed away after months of fighting pancreatic cancer. The shock of losing him, my father, this wonderful man whom everyone loved, who raised me and was always there for me, was initially absorbed and dealt with as best as any grieving daughter could. It was not until I went to discard my old newspapers that the magnitude of this loss was fully comprehended. As I placed old copies of “La Repubblica” and “Oggi” out for recycling I realized that what made me unique, what gave me my status as “Mezza Via” was now taken from me. I would become like every other Italian-American, with lost ties to Italy, no language spoken around me, no notes left for me in that “oh so particular” foreign handwriting, no serie A on TV, no fresh vegetables in my fridge every day, no one to ask about verb conjugations, I would probably now end up drinking cappuccino at five o’clock in the afternoon and making sausages in a red sauce on Sundays!

I’ve told a little of the story of my Italian father and my Italo-American mother here on this site. I’ve told how he kept our family unique in its italianita’, how I was lucky to be Mezza Via , now I must carry on without him. I’ve been helping my mother answer all the kind notes sent from old and dear friends that remained in Italy over the years. I’ve spoken on the phone with my cousins and lo zio (my father’s brother) many times over the last few weeks. I’ve sent my daughter to Bologna to be with her cousins and help her deal with her intense sorrow. When I sat back and recalled all the events over the past 2 weeks since his passing, I realized that many of the contacts I’ve had have been of the Italian nature. I've never spoken, called or written, or even thought in Italian as much as I have over this time. And it has all come quite naturally.

So I can safely say.......no "Olive Garden" for me. My father is alive in my memory and I will always be Mezza Via because of him. I cannot unlearn his influence on me. I will always be first generation, and I will always love and fully embrace my Italianess. I feel close to him because we will always share Italianita'. I know it was him that allowed the Italian words to flow naturally and effortlessly through me in writing, on the phone, and even in my dreams. Because of him I will always feel more Italian than my counterparts here in America; for I am Ancora Mezza Via.

Ciao Pa

Several weeks ago I managed to drag my reluctant daughter to the “Sicilian Crossings” exhibit at Stony Brook University.  It had been launched at the Ellis Island Museum where it was fairly well received. The exhibit consisted of 120 panels depicting the story of Sicilian immigration and their assimilation into a new country via photos, letters, tickets and various other items.  I told my daughter we were lucky to have the opportunity to see such an exhibit so close to home.   She was not in the least bit excited, but I played the guilt card, that we needed to spend some quality time together (which we did), and she put her jacket on.

I expected to be able to have full run of the exhibit even though it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. How many people out here on this end of Long Island had any interest in such a thing?  People responded when the exhibit was on Ellis Island because it was part of the tourist experience.  In these parts if you’re not interested in sandy beaches, malls and franchise dining, pick a different spot.

Now, being Sicilian and coming over to America during the late 19th and early 20th centuries was an unfamiliar story to anyone in my family. They all stayed put in Rimini, Ravenna, Ferrara and Bologna while the masses from Sicily and the mezzogiorno were on their way to La Terra Promessa.  I do remember most of the friends my parents met here in New York being Sicilian.  They spoke differently from my parents, and they were very animated and warm people. My father would always say that he knew many more Sicilians here than he ever did in Italy; even during his years in the navy.  All these folks seemed to own their own businesses, they were skillful tradesmen and crafty businessmen.  Other than knowing common places in Sicily, (like Mondello) or having some mutual experiences here in NY (usually anti-Italian experiences) or rooting for the same soccer team, there was not much more they had in common.  So needless to say this exhibit would be something of a learning experience for my daughter and me.

We walked into the extravagant Wang Center at Stony Brook; fountain water gliding down marble filled the atrium with the echoing sound of emptiness. Just as I thought, the place was deserted.  The beautiful architecture of the center could be appreciated as there were no other people around to block one’s view. We searched from event hall to conference room to event hall, and found them empty.  Finally I spotted several people outside what looked like a classroom. My daughter and I sauntered over to them with the intention of asking if they knew where the exhibit was. We needed not ask them a thing.  As we approached I saw the multitude of populace in snake like zig zagging lines. Each person was fighting their own way in to view a photo, letter, or story that was part of the large exhibit.  Once they arrived at a particular poster or group of photos it was hard for them to leave it and move on. Wives were shouting to their husbands, brothers to their sisters, asking if the other knew more about “great grandma and where she was from”, or “your grandfather’s brother, wasn’t that the same ship he came to Brooklyn on?” There were hundreds of people there. I was amazed. So too must have been the party that arranged for such a small space in a center full of empty rooms and halls.  Gabriella, my daughter, tugged on me as she whispered to see if I had noticed that everyone there was “over 70 years old and they’re talking about their grandparents!”

I realized something very profound when my daughter fed me this fact.  I realized that I was really lucky, because I was a first generation hyphen. In 100 years my great grandchildren would be trying to figure out the story of my Italian parents, just as these 70 year old people were doing at the Wang Center.  For now though, I learn all about Italy first hand, from my parents and my own experiences there.  I’ve had a piada generously spread with warm stracchino at one of the many cafe/bars on the beach in Rimini, I don’t need to hear a story about it, I was there…..often.

It was touching to see such a large amount of people seeking their origins.  These legendary immigrants must have had so many stories to tell.  Unfortunately the legacy has already been severely diluted. And so we are forced to look at picture stories about the sulphur mines, the Messina earthquake, the conditions on the ships and the terrible prejudices they encountered in their new home. They have become entities unto themselves now, as foreign in the year 2008 to a 70 year old Italian-American as to a 70 year old Italian, indeed light years away from the “olive garden” genre previously mentioned in this author’s repertoire.

It’s funny how I can now realize that the unique distinction of being Mezza Via; halfway in between Italian and American, can also be a privileged one.