(This is an adaptation of a story written by an unknown author from Washington D. C.. I took some of it and adapted many of my experiences and events to reflect some of my fondest memories - Dino Tarquinio )
I realized at a very young age, that something was different. I was born in America, have lived here my entire life, and was a citizen of the United States, yet looking back I knew my Italian existence was a whole different experience than my neighborhood, as well as my schoolmates.
Americans ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a soft, mushy white bread that came out of these long plastic sleeves. It looked good and all, but as an Italian-American, I would wake up to the incredible smells of hard crust Italian bread being baked, while I was dipping my pizzelles or Italian sprinkle cookies as we called them, in a watered down coffee or milk.
There was definitely a difference between us and them, as I’m sure most first generation Americans felt. We were Italians! Everyone else, the Irish, Polish, Germans, French, Spanish, etc- they were Med-e- gans, ( broken English for Americans, kind of like, how you hear Gabagool for capocollo or..capicola..you get what I mean.)
There was no animosity in the distinction, no prejudice, no hard feelings, just, we were sure this was the better way. We did everything ourselves. At the time, I just thought it was the inherent talents that Italians possessed, but lets make no qualms about this, it was survival at its best. By making their own bread, pasta, wine, clothing even , they were able to squirrel away money to make a better life in the long run for the famiglia.
While the Med- e - gans were going to the A&P grocery store, I was helping my pops in the garden which provided for us throughout the year. Tomatoes, peppers, corn, squash, lettuce, arugula, parsley, basil…and on and on. Just incredible fresh food for summers. Then we had the tomatoes at the end of the harvest which we jarred for sauce in the winter. Truly, I pitied their loss, as they purchased their store bought goods.
What was very unusual for me to witness was the holidays. Take for instance Thanksgiving or Christmas. I mean, they, (my American friends) only ate Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes , cranberry sauce and gravy. And,yes, we Italians had that also, but that was after the antipasto w prosciutto, brodo (Italian soup with a fried bread and egg) ravioli, meatballs, sausage, salad…then the turkey, and possibly lamb for those that didn’t want turkey. That was always followed by fruit and desserts ( cookies, crostata etc) as the afternoon progressed. this was all accompanied by homemade wine and finally topped off by an awesome expresso..with a dash of your choice of sambuca or anisette.
While we are talking about food, Sunday was always special..almost every Sunday. We would wake up to the smells of garlic frying and sauce simmering. We called it “sugo” pronounced sue-go, the Med -e- gans called it sauce. Of course Sunday would not be Sunday without attending Church. But, no problem, because we knew when we got home, the eating fest would begin! If it wasn’t quite ready, nothing tasted better than dipping some bread in some fresh, hot,”sugo” to hold you over. Every weekend was a different type of pasta with the meatballs and sausage, and during the summers we would have the old fashioned barbecues in the back yard .
Something I really enjoyed were the summer weekends where our circle of Italian families would throw all the kids in the car and head to a local pond or to one of the Atlantic Oceans northeast beaches. I was young, but could read English, so my father would have me sit in the front seat to read the signs and give him directions. Trust me, you better get it right! It wasn't easy being an immigrants oldest son, and you matured young.The woman from the various families would pack up picnic baskets with tons of cutlets, whole porchettas, as well as salads, sandwiches, boiled eggs, and of course..gallons of homemade wine. the men brought plenty of speducci (lamb skewers) as well as steaks and sausages, hamburgers, and hot dogs.
After some vino and food, before heading for a swim, the men would pair up with lawn bocce balls, and the whole picnic area was our kingdom. They played bocce the rest of the day, as onlookers watched the games from their picnic tables. Some of us older kids were invited to play if we were good enough. It was a blast!
Another fun thing I recall were the Friday nite, or weekend gatherings of the adults. They would rotate the houses play pitch, enjoy homemade pizza, wine,and snacks, as well as some cocktails. All the while some great Italian music would be playing in the background. We kids would sneak in every 15 minutes or so to grab some pizza or hunk of cheese to snack on, then run back to our black and white tv to enjoy a show. No remotes back then, low man on the totem pole, the youngest, would have to get up and make the channel changes…imagine that !
Things are different now however. After my father passed away, things began to change . Italian women (from the old country) can grieve for years, still wearing black to honor the deceased. Friends of the family began passing away. No longer were there continuous family gatherings. They slowly became fewer, people began visiting less, and then, as time moved on, much less.
We still make wine, and have gardens, cook, and enjoy Italian traditions, but after we are gone…… I just don’t know. Everyone is too busy to bake, it’s too easy to order out, we all have more money and it’s much easier to buy. We meet at my parents house still, but it’s not the same. Not the same at all.
The differences between us and the mer -e- gans aren’t much different anymore, but that is also good thing. They and us are now “we”. My grandparents were Italian, my parents were Italian American, I am an American Italian, and my children are Americans with a half Italian ancestry.
I am most proud of being American, be most assured of that. And my proudest moments were when my father would get angry at any immigrants that complained of America, and the freedom and opportunity it has given us. He would get in their face and say in broken English, “ leave if you don’t like it or if it’s not good enough for you here, because I love America!”
We are all American now, the Irish, Polish, Germans, French, Spanish, etc. All “ Med-e-gans”, the difference between us not so readily defined, and that is good.
However, I still feel a bit Italian, and embrace the traditions and culture. Most of all I enjoy sharing the memories and new traditions with all my new and old friends alike. Hope you can join us for some good times at the Southbridge Italian Club.