everything. News would travel through this informal wireless network of mainly women at the speed of light. There really was no privacy (one the things I like most about the U.S.), and since there wasn’t much else to do, women and men talked about what their neighbors had done or not done and who was seen with whom, and perhaps would criticize someone for wearing the latest clothes to show off, or the rich person who bought a TV or (later on) a car! Nothing was too small to pass on, and the juicier the better.
The second aspect of life that we learned from a very early age was that without help—a pidata (literally, the kick) or a raccumannata (recommendation from important or connected people)—you would get nowhere. If you needed a little help at school, you found a professor through a friend who could put in a good word for you; if you needed a document from Town Hall or the police, it would help once again to know someone who could expedite the process; for a passport or to avoid the military, you sure needed someone in the army to help you.
When you finished school and wanted a job, certainly you could not expect that one would be there for the waiting! Often many years would pass between graduation and starting work, and once again, hopefully you knew a politician who could get you to the head of the line in return for a small sign of respect, nowadays known as a bribe. These signs of respect began as eggs or a chicken or grain right after WWII and grew more and more into cash payments as the economy evolved. And of course an eternal pledge, seldom fulfilled, to vote for that politician and his or her party.
Another curious aspect of life was that people did not know each other by last name but by the ingiuria or nickname that somehow had been assigned to that family or branch of that family. Most of these nicknames were based on their trade: we had u ferraru (the blacksmith), u carrettieri (the Sicilian cart maker or driver), U sanzali (the business broker). My mother was a paluma, the dove, I never knew why, while my father was u sciunnatu, bottomless, which I believe refers to appetite! My maternal grandfather was Cauci (kicks), don’t ask me how that came about. My mother, until she died in February 2010, more than forty years after leaving Sicily, still identified people by their nicknames while I, part of the newer generation, knew people by their last names. She and I had many conversations where we had a tough time trying to identify people we knew from back home: it was like speaking two different languages!
At that time we had a high degree of family support, which no longer exists or at least has diminished greatly. People in these towns did not pack and leave unless they died. People married within the same town; marrying relatives, usually arranged by the parents, was fairly common as well. This resulted in a village that was highly homogeneous, in which many people are related or at least knew one another well. In this environment, it was easier to provide and receive support.
The 1950’s also saw a new emphasis on education from parents who did not want their children to “grow up like us.” Roads were not paved; transportation was by foot, horse or mule-pulled carts, with a few bikes and motorbikes and an occasional car. Sanitary conditions were changing from primitive holes in the ground to modern piping and sewage systems. We had radios and no TV, and one movie house. (Watch Cinema Paradiso for the best rendition of this era.) Running water inside most homes, but we had lots of public water fountains with women carrying their vases full of water on top of their heads. Electricity was not a problem but phone services would not arrive for a long while. We had no violent crime except your basic theft of cows, grain, chickens. The Church played a critical and controlling role; major Catholic holidays were the hinge around which social life revolved. And, of course, the Piazza or the Villa (the town-maintained public garden) played central roles as gathering places to see and be seen.
This is the story of my life, of my growing up in Sicily; of our migration to the USA and the personal development and transformation I have undergone!.
Family
I never really knew or enjoyed my father until after we came to the States.
He had a very tough life in Sicily, probably not much different from males born in that period of time, 1916. He was able to get some education so that he could read and write, but his youth was spent working in a farm helping his father. His mother died very young and his sister really was like a mother to him and his brothers. He was called into the Italian Army in 1937, just before WWII, and spent the next nine years in the military. He served in Albania and northern Italy until 1944 until (like many other members of the Italian Army) he hid in France, where he lived and worked on a farm for a local family. My father told us a harrowing story of his days in hiding: chased and shot at by German soldiers in a cold winter, he hid in a forest without food or water for several days before he was able to come out and go back to the farm.
Much to the very happy surprise of his family, he returned to Sicily in 1946. He had been out of touch several years and they had not known if he would come back alive. Back in Sicily, he restarted his life by going back to work in a farm with his father as well as working for others. Conditions right after WWII were very tough. Work was scarce and still depended on some of the large feudal landowners.
By comparison, my mother had an uneventful life. She had lived in the same house since she was born, and she also had been able to go to school to learn to read and write. As a child she was sent to a local seamstress where she learned sewing, and as the oldest of three siblings she was of course expected to help with the cooking and all other home chores.
I never asked my parents how they met but I am sure it was an arranged marriage, in the sense that in those days a matchmaker may have been involved in contacting my maternal grandfather on behalf of my father to ask permission to date and to marry. They married in 1948. My father was nine years older than my mother. After an interrupted pregnancy in 1949, I was born in 1950.
I said that I did not really know or enjoy my father until after we came to the States, and here is why. His work schedule over the two decades we lived in Sicily was the following: get up at 4 am, ride his cycle or later motorized bike to a few miles outside town to tend to some cows he was raising for future sale, spend a day farming for a local land owner, stop back to check on his cows, and home again, usually by 8 pm, dinner and to bed. This was his schedule for twenty years, most times seven days a week except for holidays, when he may have worked only half a day. His time in America would be a lot kinder and more fulfilling: He would work “only” five days a week and 8 hours a day.
My father was tough, fearless. He never complained and he liked what he did. I recall one night (I must have been no more than 8 or 9) going with him, on foot, to the edge of town where the public lighting ended and darkness began. I don’t recall why, but he needed to go to a farmhouse, about 100 meters past the edge of town, to check on something. I refused to go into the darkness and recall waiting by the lamp post for my father to return!
Another, more eventful night, my mother asked that we bring dinner to my father who had not come home and was working land owned by his sister. My best friend owned a Vespa and he agreed to drive me to the land, ten minutes outside town. When we got there, the only light came from headlight of the Vespa so we called out his name. Suddenly the front door to the farmhouse opened and out came the barrel of a shotgun! I yelled more loudly and he finally recognized me, put the rifle down and came out so we could deliver his supper.
Of course that left my mother to take care of me and the house, which were easier jobs back then when they could count on the support of other family members and their parents. My mother was a very strict disciplinarian and I would often hide in my grandmother’s arms for easy protection. This was true at least the first couple of years of my life, because once I could outrun her, my escapes became easier. Not that I recall being a particularly “bad apple.” I was just your normal vivacious boy looking for discoveries.
Who could have guessed then that she would spend the last four years of her life living with my wife and me in Connecticut?
