The Italian Gang

Although this was an email, the validity of it needs to be reposted somewhere, before it too gets lost.

I am sure for most second generation Italian American children who grew up in the 40's, 50's and 60's there was a definite distinction between "us" and "them." We were Italians. Everyone else, the Irish, the German, the Polish, they were Americans.

I was well into adulthood before I realized I was an American. I have been born American and lived here all my life, but Americans were people who ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on mushy white bread. I had no animosity towards them, it is just I thought our way was better with our bread man, our egg man, our vegetable man, our chicken man, to name a few of the peddlers who came tour neighborhoods.

We knew "them" and they knew "us." Americans went to the A&P. It amazes me that some friends and classmates on Thanksgiving and Christmas at only turkey with stuffing, potatoes, and cranberry sauce. We had turkey, but only after antipasto, soup, lasagna, meatballs and salad.

In case someone came in who did not like turkey, we also had a roast of beef. Soon after we were eating fruits, nuts, pastries, and homemade cookies sprinkled with little colored things . This is where you learned to eat a seven course meal between noon and four p.m. how to handle hot chestnuts and put peaches in whine. Italians live a romance with food. Sundays we would wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in olive oil. We always has macaroni and GRAVY.

Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Mass. Of course, you could not eat before Mass because you had to fast before receiving communion. We knew when we got home we would find meatballs frying, and nothing tasted better than newly cooked meatballs with crisp bread dipped into a pot of hot GRAVY.

Another difference between them and us was we had gardens. Not just with flowers, but tomatoes, peppers, basil, lettuce and "cucuzz." Everybody had a grapevine and a fig tree. In the fall we drank homemade wine arguing over who made the best. Those gardens thrived because we had something our American friends did not seem to have.

We also had grandparents. Not that they did not have grandparents. It is just they did not live in the same house or on the same street. We ate with our grandparents, and God forbid we did not visit them at least three times a week. I can still remember my grandfather telling us how he came to America when he was young "on the boat."

I will never forget the holidays when the relatives would gather at my grandparents' house, the women in the kitchen, the men in the living room, the kids everywhere. I must have had fifty cousins. My grandfather sat in the middle of it all drinking his wine where he was proud of his family and all that they have done.

When my grandparents died, things began to change. Family gatherings were fewer and something seemed to be missing. Although we did get together usually at my mother's house, I always had the feeling grandma and grandpa were there.

It is understandable things change.We all have families of our own and grandchildren of our own. Today we visit once in a while or meet at wakes or weddings. Other things have changed as well. The old house my grandparents bought is now covered with aluminum siding. A green lawn covers the soil that grew the tomatoes. There was no one to cover the fig tree, so it died.

The holidays have changed as well. We still make family "rounds" but somehow things have become more formal. The great quantities of food we consumed, without ill effects, are not good for us anymore. Too much starch, too much cholesterol, too many calories in the pastries. The difference between "us" and "them" isn't so easily defined anymore, and I guess that's good.

My grandparents were Italian - Italians; my parents were Italian Americans. I am an American and proud of it, just as my grandparents would want me to be. We are all Americans now.. the Irish, the German, the Polish, all US citizens.

But somehow I still feel a little bit Italian. Call it culture.. call it roots.. I am not sure what it is. All I do know is that my children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, have been cheated out of a wonderful piece of heritage.