Old Photographs

When my father died I “inherited” my extended family’s photos.  There must have been at least a thousand pictures, dating back to the beginning of the 20^th century. In addition, there were written records and sundry other mementos. My parents never threw anything away.  Such fascinating information can be coaxed from those records. For example, it cost my parents $2.35 a day for my mother’s maternity stay in the hospital when I was born. Automobiles were priced in the hundreds, not ten thousands like they are today. 

There are WPA notices and old ration books.  The ration books brought to mind one of my most trying experiences. When I was in the terrible twos I tore up the ration stamps, requiring that my parents bring the torn stamp remnants and the naughty child before a judge to replace them.  It was years before I could deal with the trauma. The memory is sharp nearly 70 years later.  To this day I get panic attacks when called for jury duty! Not all inheritances are pleasant.

After sorting through my photographic legacy, I put some aside and attempted to relieve my embarrassment of riches by giving hundreds of photos away. I gave the oldest person in each of the families the photos to keep or to distribute amongst their children or siblings, or perhaps to toss.  I still have several hundred pictures, wonderful and painful memories of people loved, feared, dead.  When I die the memory of many will die with me; they truly will be gone.  No one will want, or even care about, the smiling, laughing, crying faces that meant so much to me. 

Old photographs are a responsibility. Which can I keep a bit longer?  Which should be tossed? I know most must go, holding no illusions about passing the photos on to my son. He does not care about those strangers. Yet I know these mementos could mean something to the right person. I feel that I have a last responsibility to the dead to find that right person. Sometimes I get lucky.

 In a recent rummage down memory lane I found a song written by my great-uncle, the owner of a formal wear establishment. It was funny, written in broken English, an advertising ditty. But it was my Uncle Frank speaking out one more time.  I sent it around to my millions of cousins via email and was amazed at the response amongst Uncle Frank’s grandchildren.

The emails whizzed back and forth with wonderful memories of young children gathered around the radio on Saturday, waiting to hear the ad so they could sing it along with their grandfather.  Their memories gave us a glimpse of family life we never knew existed.  Efforts were being made to locate a tape recording so younger descendants of Francesco could once more hear their grandfather singing and playing the mandolin.  That sheet of music with its lyrics meant a great deal to my cousins who had nearly forgotten the fun they had had with a grandpa once more alive in their memories. 

What of all the other pieces of family history and fond memories?  I believe that a person is never truly dead while someone remembers them. It has been the privilege of the 20^th century to retain memories of the common man in ways never experienced before.  Since then ways and means multiply and subsequent generations will have the capability to store and access memories of parents, grandparents, friends, children in new media. If they so choose.  Will 21^st century lives be shared and preserved?  I hope so.  I fear not.    

The Annual Festival of Genetic Affirmation: 50 Years Strong

The first Sunday in August fills the residents of a Wauconda subdivision with foreboding. Dozens of autos, filled with families, will descend on the old cottage. The cottage itself is an anomaly. It is more than 75 years old; the building with the attached lots reflects an historical time of summers spent “in the country.” Wauconda’s newer homes on smaller lots bespeak the modernity of the last quarter of the 20th century. The old cottage lives in a 30s movie. The building is deserted most of the year—another anomaly in this bedroom community.

But it is the sheer number of people who descend on the cottage that amazes. The first Sunday in August is the date of the annual Family Picnic. Hundreds of family members arrive to affirm their consanguinity and celebrate their Italian heritage. I refer to it as the Festival of Genetic Affirmation—an appellation bestowed with tongue in cheek as well as a great deal of pride.

This year commemorated 50 years of official Family Picnics, although family summer outings began decades earlier. The golden anniversary brought relatives from Germany, the East Coast, the West Coast, all over the Midwest, and across the street. The family picnic newsletter assumed gigantic proportions as memories and photos, some old as the cottage, were shared. A professional photographer was hired to document the event with “The Largest Family Picture Ever.” A website was established to view the 50th anniversary photos.

Cousins so numerous that it stymies the imagination share traditional Italian cuisine, old stories, kisses, and hugs. Each family member professes amazement over how children have grown. Each keeps unspoken how others are now so frail. The pleasure of each other’s company pervades every reunion. Additionally it is an occasion to remember family members no longer alive. Many are gone, but so very many others perpetuate the traditions.

The Family Picnic celebrates the four brothers and one cousin who left Calabria with nothing but hope, courage, and the willingness to work hard. My Grandfather, the oldest, arrived in 1904. Two years later a younger brother made the voyage. My Grandmother joined her husband in 1907. Others followed. Each brother and cousin came with the desire to become Americans, promising that their children would be free, educated, and have good lives.

The American dream was there to be earned with hard work. They worked hard. My Grandfather helped build the railroad west. He and my Grandmother owned grocery and fish stores that served their fellow immigrants. They worked to start a cartage company. Their family flourished. The old cottage reflected their success when it was purchased in 1939. It was a refuge from the city. Grandma finally had her own garden. The family swam, fished, played softball, and enjoyed the clean air. Family was everything.

The family worked hard and achieved the American dream my Grandfather promised in 1904. Subsequent generations renewed this dream for their children. Today great-great grandchildren begin families confident that even the youngest child will own that heritage. The Annual Festival of Genetic Affirmation assures the preservation and propagation of the promise of 1904. Every one of the successive generations honors the progenitors of their American dream on the first Sunday of August when they gather for food and fun at the old cottage. Grandfather would be proud.

[Note: Photograph taken on Labor Day 1945. Family celebrates Victory in World War II. Already some military members are home; others await de-mobilization.]

Italian Americans in Chicago

On Thursday, May 8, the Casa Italia in the Chicago suburb of Stone Park was the venue for the start of a three day conference dedicated to exploring the roots of the Italian American experience in the Chicago area. The official title of the conference was “Reconstructing Italians in Chicago: 25 Authors in Search of Roots and Branches.” It was both a celebration and a process of discovery.

Two of principal organizers were Dominic Candeloro and Fred L. Gardaphe, both professors of Italian American studies at their respective universities—University of Illinois at Chicago and New York’s SUNY. Their energy and enthusiasm was matched only by their hard work. Much of the success of the conference can be attributed to their vision, dedication, and sweat equity. Many other committed researchers and writers contributed to the success of the event.

The presentations were varied and my appreciation for my ancestors enlarged. Although I was able to attend only the first day, I was impressed by the energy exhibited. I learned a great deal that day, and, of course, ate well in the process. I would like to share some of the “epiphanies” I experienced.

Billy Lombardo is a spare and fierce young man. He is passionate about his writing, his family, and his Italian American heritage. Billy is gifted. After telling the audience about his Bridgeport neighborhood experiences, he read a portion of his book, The Logic of the Rose. WOW! What a magnificent command of language that man possesses. His book is a prose work well worth reading. His poetry must be fantastic.

The irony of early twentieth century do-gooders brought a smile to my face. Social workers and nutritionists tried in vain to eradicate the eating habits of southern Italians. They tried to replace their healthful diets of whole grains, olive oil, and vegetables with red meat and potatoes. Little could they have predicted that today’s Mediterranean Diet is lauded by the medical profession.

I had no idea that Italian American communities flourished beyond the near West Side of Chicago, near Taylor Street. There were so many neighborhoods with their churches and community organizations. There were too many neighborhoods to enable Italian Americans the political clout that the Irish and other immigrants have achieved. Several speakers indicated that this Chicago Diaspora within the larger Immigrant Diaspora was intentional. Italian American neighborhoods were gerrymandered to prevent political power accruing to this group. Chicago Italian Americans will never forgive Mayor Richard J. Daley’s theft of “Little Italy.” This vibrant neighborhood was sacrificed to the University of Illinois at Chicago’s Circle Campus.

Several of the speakers revealed the anguish they endured while struggling with academia in order to have the Italian American immigrant experience admitted as a field of legitimate study. Doctoral degrees were placed in peril just trying to get permission to explore the field. It remains difficult to this day. One must ask why our families’ experiences and the talent of Italian American writers are considered unworthy of scholarly study. The sting of rejection is a deep and extensive. It pervades our identity.

The stench of the Sopranos, the Godfather and the Black Hand lingers subliminally when others think of Italian Americans. It will never wash away. This stigma denigrates the accomplishment and generosity of the real Italian American. Will we always be different, sullied by the assumption that somewhere in each family tree lurks a Mafioso?

I have always been somewhat uncomfortable with my Italian American Heritage. My mother did not have Italian ancestry. I was the family’s first “half breed.” I never quite belonged. This separation deprived me of an appreciation of an important part of my identity. I have come to realize that my Italian American relatives were as vulnerable as I. Conferences like the one in Stone Park clarify memories. My Italian American heritage becomes a legitimate source of strength. Beneficial reconstruction of my roots was promoted by Thursday’s experiences. Wish you could have been there!

Book Review: Taylor Street Chicago's Little Italy

Although I do not usually review books, I wanted to share this one. Too often, Italians and Italian-Americans are seen in a negative light. In truth, they have contributed the best of their intellect, talent, faith, sweat, tears, and blood to this country. While the book I review is not an in-depth scholarly investigation of the Italian-American experience, it is a glimpse into the quotidian life experiences so many have shared. Taylor Street is a thank you to forebearers and a gift to descendants of the Italian immigrants who embarked on the American Adventure a century ago. It is the story of family--my grandparents, aunts and uncles. As Nancy Stone writes in Black Sheep and Kissing Cousins, it is the family story that shapes our lives, often unconsciously but always deeply.

Arcadia Publishing’s newest “Images of America” title, Taylor Street: Chicago’s Little Italy by Kathy Catrambone and Ellen Shubart, has added dignity and insight to the Italian immigrant story. The authors carefully demonstrate the strengths and values that Italian immigrants possessed and imbued in their American descendents. These particular characteristics have contributed greatly to American life—hard work, pursuit of educational excellence, religious faith, and devotion to family and country. Each trait is lovingly demonstrated in this book using photographs that record the Italian-American story in the Tri-Taylor Street section of Chicago. A strong sense of place, coupled with the Italian strength of character, form the basis from which many draw their heritage. Taylor Street lovingly manifests one reason why.