First gen issue 1 final

First Gen

Issue 1, Volume 1

The internet is filled with resources to help people discover their past, their ancestry, who there are, where they came from. While these outlets provide some terrific paths to discovering our history, sometimes the task can be much easier than scrolling through a plethora of websites simply ask. A neighbor you have known for awhile may have a great-grandfather who traveled from the Ukraine, a co-worker might tell you about her family fleeing Afghanistan or an old friend may share a restored picture of her grandmother. All these stories are just few I uncovered while working on this issue.

We are and continue to be a country of immigrants, from those who came over on the Mayflower, to those brought by slavery, the European in flux during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, to the new immigrants such as Hispanic and Asian populations. Common themes I discovered in so many of these stories were the intense work ethic and devotion of these immigrants that their children would be educated and have a brighter future.

This issue contains retold tales from later generations as well as those who themselves are recent immigrants to this county. They share struggles, humor, recipes, traditions and the importance of keeping these stories alive.

My goal was to collect some of this history so it can be preserved since these stories are so priceless. Their value lies in the legacies of the immigrants - the construction they built, the families they created and the hopes and dreams for their later generations. I hope you enjoy this issue of “First Gen.�

Contributors Farhad Anwarzai

Claire Lee

Abby Church

Susan Leser

Kate Christyson

Sharon Mills

Sara Cross

Tracey Phillips

Anthony DeRosa

Leonard Procopio

Diane Giacoletti

Mary Ann Procopio

Joe Giacoletti

Terri Procopio

Andy Gilman

Paula Procopy

Ahmed Ismail

Sandra Spenos-Payne

~Terri Procopio 1

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Table of Contents Infographic

Changing U.S. Immigration: 1900-2000 ................................................. 6

Terri Procopio

My Heritage

Being an Italian American ............................ 9

Geraldine Ferraro

Interview

An Italian Grocer .......................................... 18

Antony DeRosa

Creative Non-Fiction

No Boat No More.......................................... 21

Paula Procopy

Creative Non-Fiction - Cont.

Pinhead .......................................................... 37

Joe Giacoletti

Mismatch ....................................................... 38

Abby Church

Greek Easter .................................................. 39

Sandra Spenos-Payne

Small Town Italian ........................................ 41

Joe Giacoletti

Photo Essay My Parents: Slovak Meets Italian.................. 44

Terri Procopio

Fiction

Novel Excerpt ................................................ 53

Terri Procopio

Mandel & Marcus ......................................... 22

Andy Gilman

From Kabul to Indiana .................................. 23

Sara Cross

Ravioli Day ................................................... 25

Recipes

Irish Soda Bread ............................................ 62

Sharon Mills

Tracey Phillips

Hummus ........................................................ 63

Susan Leser

Okra Korma ................................................... 64

Wolf Lake ..................................................... 26 The Unintended Impact of Immigration............................................... 27

Claire Lee

Ahmed Ismail

Farhad Anwarzai

Italian Cream Cake ........................................ 65

Diane Giacoletti

Patrick Patton ................................................ 29

Sour Mushroom Soup .................................... 66

The Wine Press ............................................. 31

Sweet Bobalki ............................................... 67

Kate Christyson

Leonard Procopio

Mary Ann Procopio Mary Ann Procopio

Agriculture War ............................................ 32

Leonard Procopio

Christmas Memories ..................................... 33

Mary Ann Procopio

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Quotes

Various .......................................................... 69 4

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Infographic

Changing U.S. Immigration:1900-2000 Terri Procopio

Each symbol = 50,000 people

Note: Not all-encompassing, meant to demonstrate changes in prominent immigrant populations.

1900-1910

6

1911-1920

T. Procopio

1921-1930

1931-1940

1941-1950

1951-1960

Italy

Ireland

Caribbean

Soviet Union

Sweden

Mexico

United Kingdom

Norway

Africa

Germany

Canada

China

1961-1970

1971-1980

1981-1990

7

1990-2000

Procopio

SOURCE: U.S. Bureau of Citizenship and Immigration (formerly U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service)

My Heritage

Being an Italian-American Geraldine Ferraro ~Italian~

G

eraldine Ferraro died on March 26, 2011. Perhaps

no one as yet, within our community of Italian Americans, has reached her plateau of being the first woman, as well as the first, and still only, Italian American to be a candidate for such a high office as the vice-presidency of the United States. In September 2009 Geraldine Ferraro was honored at the annual luncheon of the National Organization of Italian American Women (NOIAW), the only organization of its kind still today. In her speech to NOIAW and its many supporters, she underscored the ethnic element of her political and personal life experience.

Thank you, my friend Mario (Mario Cuomo, former governor of the State of New York), for that wonderful introduction. I remember the first time we met in a neighbor's house in Forest Hills. Was it 1972?

There he was - this expert lawyer on zoning from Brooklyn - and there I was a stay at home mom who was part of a community group of lawyers that was going to hire him. I was so impressed after the meeting that I went home and told John that I had met one of the most intelligent, charismatic, nice etc. lawyers who was going to handle our zoning. John was also anxious to meet him. It turns out, that if I were a really smart wife, I would have said good looking too since people would be confusing John for Mario for many years to come. Mario was the finest of Governors and it is obvious that he and Matilda have passed on great genes to their children. I am very proud of the work being doing by our current Attorney General, a good lawyer like his father. I hope to have an opportunity to call him Governor in the near future. Again thank you Mario for your remarks .

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I was thinking about what I would say today as we celebrate the 25th anniversary of my nomination by the Democratic party for Vice President of the United States. What people focus on of course, is that I was the first woman nominated by a national party to that office and until last November, the only woman. I cannot tell you how honored I am that Fritz Mondale chose me to join his ticket. Since 1984 women stop me on the street, in airports, come up to me in restaurants, and they all say the same thing. Thank you, that I made a difference in their lives. I'm not quite sure it was I who made the difference but it certainly was the candidacy. They frequently start a conversation with "I figured if you They frequently start a conversacould do it, I could too." And I tion with, “I figured if you could hear about their going to college, their tak- do it, I could too.� ing control of their lives, their running for office, their asking for a raise, only one woman shook me up a bit when she told me she got up the nerve to get a divorce. And of course, statistics show the number of women in public office has increased exponentially since 1984 and many of those political women give the 84 campaign and me credit for that, not only in this country, but internationally. So, I am extremely proud that my nomination did make a difference for women and I am grateful to Fritz Mondale and my party for allowing that to happen. Now just imagine if we had gotten elected! Oh well.

What few people talk about however is the fact that I was the first and continue to be the only Italian American to have been so honored. And that's what I want to focus on today in my remarks because, I guess in many ways, that was probably a much more difficult milestone to achieve.

My mother and I had frequently talked about what it was like when she was a little girl growing up in the early days of the 20th century.

She was born in 1905. Her father came here in 1885. Her mother when she was 15 arrived from a different mountain town near Salerno in 1888.They were illiterate and dirt poor. My mother's earliest recollections were of living in an apartment in Italian Harlem with a bathroom in the hall, the fourth youngest of 9 children.

My grandfather was a street cleaner for the City of NY who got fired on a complaint of a woman who had thrown her garbage out of the window just as he finished cleaning the sidewalk beneath the window. He had shouted up at her in Italian dialect, he spoke no English, 10

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and she yelled back, "I'll get you fired wop." And so she did. Italians were treated badly by the Irish and Germans who came before them, and yes, even by the Catholic Church.

And so Italians kept to themselves in Little Italies throughout the country. They put up with the stereotyping, they put up with discrimination, their children changed their names from Antonetta to Ann, Pasqualina to Pat, Michaelangelo to Mike, Giovanni to John when they went to school, and they spoke only English outside the home since they wanted to be like the other kids. They were ashamed of being Italian.

In some ways, many of these immigrants let either lack of knowledge about how to get help that was available, or pride, keep them from taking advanThey were patriotic. They became tage of what citizens as soon as they could and they NYC was offering its showed they were good Americans, citizens at the sending their older kids off to fight in time which both a World War I and their younger sons, was public school and grandsons to fight and die in education and for those who World War II. qualified, at the poverty level, home relief. My grandmother, when my grandfather subsequently had a stroke, took advantage of neither. She sent her children to work rather than school so that she didn't have to take "home relief" which was what welfare was called way back then.

The community, though poor, helped each other. They were patriotic.

They became citizens as soon as they could and they showed they were good Americans sending their older kids off to fight in World War I and their younger sons, and grandsons to fight and die in World War II. Between wars, many of the males worked construction, in fact I have been told that some of my relatives worked on the mid-town tunnel, and the girls, including my mother were sent as young teenagers to work in the sweat shops of the garment center.

But outside their conclaves, life was not easy. Even pop songs of the time, made fun of Italians - or dagos, or wops, as they were called and ridiculed their accents. I can remember as a child hearing songs that went far beyond Rosemary Clooney's ‘Come on to my House ‘lyrics which was popular in the 50's. As a little girl I remember hearing a 11

Ferraro

song that not only mimicked the Italian accent, but denigrated the intelligence of the Italian American it was describing. Imagine if that were done today with a different ethnic group. It was wrong then. It is wrong now. Fortunately, it is no longer tolerated.

Of course, those Italian Americans who discovered early on that education was the key to success in this country, never were talked to that way. It just took m y family a little longer.

Many of you know that my father did not come here in the same set of circumstances as my maternal grandparents, in fact, if my mother and father had met in Italy he would never have been permitted to marry her. My paternal grandfather was an engineer and property owner, my grandmother a school teacher, my father's brothers were an agronomist with a doctorate, a pharmacist, the youngest a playboy who married a Contessa and we all thought a neer do well until I found out during the 84 campaign that he was with the Italian underground during the war. I was at an event in New Jersey and a person whose life he had saved gave me a picture of the two of them after the war. As for my father, he was a student when he came here and decided to stay. But it's not his story that is our story My mother's and my story is that of many single heads of household, exacerbated by the fact that she was an Italian American.

My father died suddenly when I was eight. My mother was 39 with two kids to raise. Money my father had left her in Italy could not be repatriated after the war. Like most women in the 40's, all of the family finances were handled by my father and a large home, and two family businesses kind of disappeared with the help of who knows, lawyers, brokers, government - all I know is that in a year we had moved from a large house in Newburgh to a small railroad apartment in the South Bronx, and my mother was back working in a factory as a crochet beader ,a skill she had learned to help support younger brothers and sisters when her father had his stroke.

My mother never complained. But no one could tell her that her children would not get an education because they had no father. So she worked, and demanded that we work. She knew an education was our only ticket out of the South Bronx which is where we were living after my dad died. And she was the only one on election day in 1984 who believed that my education would eventually lead me through the door of the White House.

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I focus on my mother today, because this event is about raising money for scholarships for young Italian American women. It is about giving our grant recipients a key to a future that can't be gotten any other way. It's what the GI Bill did for many Italian American kids coming home after World War II so that they could move away from the tenements and become, doctors, and lawyers. It' something that took a little longer for us as an ethnic group to figure out but we did. You women who are members of NOIAW are I'm sure as grateful as I am that your mothers "got it" when you were young.

My maternal grandparents didn't get it. It wasn't their fault. They expected little. Society helped them little.

Though my mother had only an eighth grade education she was smart as hell. She read everything in sight and kept on top of all of the issues; espe“If you educate a boy, you educate a cially when I was in Conboy alone. If you educate a girl, you gress. But educate a family.� except for the hard work of my mother, I wouldn't have my education. I remember that when I was graduating high school, she was talking to my grandmother about how she was going to send me to college. My Uncle Tom, who was born in Italy chimed in "Why bother, Antonetta, she's pretty, she'll get married." That did it. My mother responded, "You're right Tom, but if you educate a boy (and my brother was by then, finished college and in the army) you educate a boy alone. If you educate a girl, you educate a family."

This past week I was supposed to attend the Clinton Global Initiative which was focusing on the Education of Women and Girls as the means to move entire countries out of poverty, particularly in Africa. I first cancelled out on Tuesday and then on the rest of the week I asked that President Clinton know that the only reason I wasn't there was because I physically couldn't make it but that if there is something I can do in the future, please let me know. Can you believe that the world has finally caught on to the fact that educating a girl, will not only educate her family, but contribute to her country's success?

I didn't come at these views because I am a feminist. In fact, more than once people have commented that I was ahead of my time as a feminist when I kept my maiden name professionally 50 years ago.

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That's not true. My life's views were shaped by my upbringing as an Italian American. My values are derived from that culture. Feminism wasn't an issue for me in 1960. I was newly married to a rather conservative Italian-American man, but one who understood how much I appreciated what my mother had done for me, and my brother too, and so when I said to John as I was filling out my papers for my admission to the New York State bar: "How would you feel if I kept my maiden name professionally since my mother gave me my education. I would use Mrs. Zaccaro at all other times?" John was secure enough to say, if that would make you happy do it.

On graduation day from Fordham law school, I handed mother my diploma and said, "it belongs to both of us".

We Italian Americans have come a long way in the past one hundred years. I have one foot planted firmly in the past which I don't want any of us to forget, as well as one planted firmly in the present to take advantage of what more there can be to accomplish. We are an ethnic group that has achieved the things we did without a civil rights act, without non discrimination laws, without any sort of affirmative action. We have put up with stereotypes - many of which floored me in the '84 campaign, some of which still persist for those with vowels at the end of their names - and name calling. Despite it all, we have been successful.

Take a look at the number of CEO's who share our heritage, the scientists, lawyers, academics, actors, a former Governor of NY, Mayors, the House Speaker, two Supreme Court Justices, the head of the CIA would you believe, and one Italian-American who was nominated for na- We stand on the shoulders of those tional office who came before us and made sure we 25 years got the education that would allow us ago. It took us to achieve. maybe two generations more than other ethnic groups, but we were able to accomplish the things we did perhaps because of our peasant ancestry, but certainly because we live in this the best country in the world and only we stand on the shoulders of those who came before us and made sure we got the education that would allow us to achieve.

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So you see, being nominated as the first Italian American to be vice president of the United States was a really big deal., I kind of think that if my maternal grandfather was alive he probably would have said in his Neapolitan dialect - I never met him, so we all know, I'm just presuming what he'd say but I bet it would be something like "I had 28 grandchildren, and it had to be one of the girls who was nominated for vice president?"

In any event, I am proud to be here today. I am delighted we are raising money for young women to help them complete their education. And I want to thank all of you who are here to support the scholarship program that NOIAW offers. And I do have a message as well for the young woman receiving their grants today. I know they're at school which is where they should be. But Donna, if you could tell them for me that I hope that once they have their education, that they turn around and help another young girl behind them get hers. It doesn't always have to be with money, though that's good, it could also be with mentoring and I'd speak to the mentoring expert Matilada Cuomo about this. But I feel very strongly about how important an education is to success in life, and this organization does put its money where its mouth is.

When my mom died in 1990, I set up a scholarship at MMC in her name, the Antonetta Ferraro Scholarship fund. I had two requirements: It was to go only to girls in financial need whose mothers are single heads of household. I figured my mother was helping the mother and I was helping the daughter. Every year when I receive notes from recipients of that scholarship, two or three depending on the economic strain on the endowment, I know my mother would be so happy. Today as I receive this award I know she is as well. Today I accept it and do so with the same enthusiasm and with the same words I said to her in 1960, on her behalf as well, because this award, my entire professional life, the 84 campaign, none of it would have happened without her and without the education that she struggled to give me.

Thank you.

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Interview

An Italian Grocer Anthony DeRosa, Interview by Terri Procopio

~Italian~

D

Q: What is your mix of customers? Is it still mostly immigrants/first generation customers or are you seeing more later generations showing an interest in ethnic foods?

AD: we have mostly immigrants and first generation and many people who know good food.

Q: How do you select what you carry in your store?

AD: Mostly by what the demand is from our customers.

eRosa Imports was founded by Antonio and Rosa DeRosa when they immigrated from old Italy to East Chicago, Indiana. The DeRosa’s came from a very long-line of pasta, olive oil, wine and coffee merchants, where they had become a well-known name in the large Italian community outside of Naples, Italy. Later, they returned to their small town of Montedecoro where their oldest son Clemente DeRosa was raised. He returned to the states in 1946 and joined his father and mother in the family business. At this time Clemente introduced Greek and Yugoslavian foods to accommodate the everchanging community. As the ethnic diversity grew in the community so did the DeRosa Imports. After relocating to Griffith, Indiana, DeRosa Imports branched into Hungarian, Turkish and Bulgarian foods. Now the business is owned by the son of Clemente, Anthony DeRosa who also introduced a variety of new products and an expansion of the coffees and foods available to not only the local area, but across the United States and the world via the website.

Q: How have you moved the store from a traditional Italian grocer to meet the needs of the changing 21stcentury and modern technology?

AD: We keep it old school for the most part but we got a website and POS scanner system accept credit cards.

Q: DeRosa’s has been in business in Northwest Indiana for a long time. What is the secret of the business being successful for so long?

AD: I think the secret is to have a long time reputation and living up to it.

Q: Why are you dedicated to keeping traditions alive, both in the Italian community and among other nationalities?

AD: To never let traditions die out.

Q: What are some of the rewards of owning an independent ethnic food store?

AD: Meeting interesting people and how customers become like family, because they shopped there when I was a kid.

Q: What are some of the frustrations?

AD: Being the small guy with vendors and competing with big stores who have a lot of cash to buy big. And people who are not loyal as they say they are.

Q: Do you have any interesting stories from your grandparents when the first started the businesses or interesting facts from their years running the store?

AD: I could write a book on the hundreds of great people I have met or have passed through the store. From mayors of cities to bishops of churches and interesting people from all over the world. It did not matter what country a person came from when they came they felt at home in the store and felt that the store reminded them of their home lands.

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Creative Non-Fiction

No Boat No More

Mandel & Marcus Andy Gilman

Paula Procopy ~Italian~

M

y mother is first generation Italian and her mother

came from Sicily. My grandmother arrived in New York City and debarked from the boat. Her group was originally headed to Argentina, but when my maternal grandmother got off the ship, she said in her most broken English, “I go no boat no more.” Instead of Argentina, she settled in Gary, Indiana where her friend, Mrs. Patapinto was already living.

~Ukranian~

M

y great-grandfather Mandel was born in Russia around 1875, and was the oldest in a Ukrainian-Jewish family. He was the first to immigrate the U.S., and a sister and brother would later follow. Back in the Ukraine, Mandel was a regional representative for the Singer Sewing Company on the coast of the Black Sea. Seeing South Bend, Indiana as the corporate headquarters, he thought it would be a smooth transition to relocate to the area and continue working as a representative. What he did not realize at the time, they had no interest in employing a Jew who couldn’t speak English. Having to be resourceful and find a way to support his family, Mandel found someone to make a sandwich sign for him in English that read, “I can repair sewing machines.” He went to the wealthy areas in South Bend wearing the sign and was able to make a living out of fixing sewing machines.

He later opened a bicycle shop in the area and ran the business to support his family.

His son Marcus was born around 1896 in the Ukraine and was very ill in his early childhood. The family would have traveled to America sooner, but Marcus’ health kept them back for several years fearing he would not survive his illness. When he was strong enough, they left the Ukraine and headed for northern Indiana.

Marcus would later attend Indiana University’s medical school and become a physician in South Bend, Indiana. He also served as a team doctor for Notre Dame University’s football team and was there during the Four Horseman era.

Marcus was also known to be one of the few area doctors at the time that would treat African-American patients, trading items such as baskets of eggs and vegetables for care, knowing they couldn’t afford payment. From his humble beginnings and watching a father face his own discrimination, Marcus showed care and compassion to others in similar situations.

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From Kabul to Indiana Sara Cross ~Afghani~

M

y family is from Kabul, Afghanistan. How we ended up in the United States is all due to my father’s ability to study abroad here as a high school exchange student back in the late 1960s. After graduating from Madison Heights High School in Anderson, Indiana, my father, Zack, returned to Afghanistan to take care of his mother and start college at Kabul University. My grandfather had passed away when my father was a small child and his mother had raised him on her own, working as a maid. My father grew up very poor, often alone on the streets, while his mother worked to put food on the table every night.

His saving grace was school. He both loved it and excelled at it. He ended up getting a scholarship to study in the U.S. for his last year of high school, not realizing that this opportunity would change our lives forever.

After the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan in 1979, anyone with ties to the United States was either killed or imprisoned. My father was on his way home one day when the Russian soldiers grabbed him. He was missing for weeks and we didn’t know whether he was alive or dead.

We later found out that he had been thrown in jail out in the middle of the desert because the Soviets believed he was a U.S. spy. He managed to escape by beating up the guard and putting on his uniform.

Within a few days, my parents sold all of their belongings, including my Mom’s wedding ring, to pay smugglers to get us out of the country.

My family left Kabul Afghanistan in 1981. I was barely four years old, but I remember hiding in trucks, going from village to village. Several times we got pulled over and questioned, both by Russians as well as Afghan rebels. A couple of those times, my father’s life was threatened. Thankfully, we all made it out of the country alive.

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We rode through the mountains and then the desert over to Iran, where my Mother’s three brothers and my grandmother were living at the time. We were in Iran for only a few months, when my parents decided to contact the Morans, the American family that had hosted my father as an exchange student during his time abroad. They explained our situation and asked if they could help us get to America. Iran had just gone through a revolution and the country was also in chaos, so there was no work available for my father. My mother was pregnant with my youngest sister, making a total of six kids they had to support.

The Morans belonged to St. Simon Catholic Church, who agreed to sponsor my family to help us come to the US. The only catch was that we had to go to India first to get our visas and other paperwork approved because the situation between the U.S. and Iran was tense. So, having said goodbye to my uncles and grandmother, we took a plane to New Delhi, India. We lived in India for 11 months, where my father worked as a translator at the immigration office, before our documents were approved and we were able to come to America.

My parents arrived in America with six kids and a total of $50 between them. I remember looking out of the airplane as we were landing - I had never seen so many lights before!

When I started school, in first grade, I didn’t know a word of English.

By the time I was in 3rd grade, I won 3rd place in the school Spelling Bee competition. Thankfully, I got my father’s love and passion for education.

Today, I am extremely thankful for being in a country where I am free to live my life the way I want. I am thankful to raise my daughter in a country where she has oppor- I am thankful to raise my daughter in a tunity and free- country where she has opportunity and dom, regardless of her gen- freedom, regardless of her gender, race or religion. der, race, or religion. I can’t imagine what my life would be like had I never left Afghanistan.

That being said, like most things, there is also a lot of good about the culture. I love the food, the music, and the family traditions that I am able to pass on. am extremely close to my parents and five siblings, more so than most people. We shared an amazing journey…and we aren’t done yet!

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Ravioli Day

Wolf Lake Susan Leser

Tracey Phillips

~Polish~

~Italian~

M

y favorite memory of my Italian Grandma is every year at Christmas she makes homemade ravioli with her sisters (my great aunts). An entire day in the month of December is used for making the ravioli and freezing it for Christmas. My grandma makes her own homemade sauce and fills the dough with meat. The last few years, this tradition has been passed down to my mother, my sister, my Uncle Bob (a wonderful cook) and myself.

We meet in December on a Saturday and begin at 9am where my grandma and her sister, Aunt Mary Jean, join us for the day. These women are now in their 80's and aren't very fast, but sure have wonderful memories to share and help coach. Usually my aunt and my grandma fill the ravioli while my sister and I roll the dough. My uncle makes the homemade dough with flour, eggs and water, while my mom has prepared the meat with ground beef, pepper, salt, eggs and ricotta cheese the night before. Once the dough is rolled, a little metal round pattern is used to place in the dough to make the outside of the ravioli. These are placed on a plate to my grandma and aunt. They will fill the dough with meat and then "fluke" the dough. Fluking means taking a fork and pressing the outer edge of the dough to lock the meat in place around the ravioli dough. Next, the ravioli are placed on sheets, clothes, paper towels to dry. After one hour, these ravioli will be turned over so the other side can dry. When another hour goes by and the ravioli are dry, they can now be cooked.

My mom has really mastered the art of boiling the ravioli at just the right temperature...about 20 minutes and only about 8 ravioli at a time. The sauce is prepared with tomato paste, sugar, tomatoes, salt and pepper and water. The day is complete around 6-7pm. Of course, Aunt Mary Jean and Grandma have inspected the dough, let us know if we roll the dough to thick, too thin, too wet, too dry because they have been doing this task for 60 years! It is a wonderful event and Christmas music is playing and we enjoy listening to stories of weddings, school, and playtime in the 1930’s!

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Phillips

T

his is a photo of my grandmother, Marie (left), and her best friend on Wolf Lake, which straddles the Indiana/Illinois border near Chicago. Marie was born in 1903 so my guess is that this photo was taken in the late 1910s or early 1920s. Before I had it restored, enlarged to 5x7, and converted to B&W, it was a small sepia-toned photo that was quite faded. After receiving the enhanced photo, I realized there was a dog in the canoe which was not visible in the original! I framed this one in a nice matte silver frame and made one for my sister in sepia which I placed in more ornate, antique-looking bronze-y frame and gave it to her for Christmas several years ago.

I have heard my Grandma Marie was the belle of Hegewisch, the Chicago neighborhood where I grew up, and quite the popular fashionista in her day.

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Leser

The Unintended Impact of Immigration Claire Lee ~British~ Immigration is a magical process; it makes your past completely disappear…

I

was in my late twenties when I emigrated from England to the U.S. I prided myself on having done my research; I had visited the area where we would live, I had a broad understanding of the specific culture, and I had read various books about the general cultures of both countries to understand the differences I would be facing. Yet in all my research and discussions with ex-pats, not once did the issue of nostalgia-removal come up.

Nostalgia is a strange thing; it is defined as ‘a sentimental longing or

wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations’. To be nostalgic for something (be it a

time, a place, specific people, a particular kind of chocolate, whatever) and to have an emotion for something in the past, is realized through sharing with one or more people some past event, something with a connection to a part of who you are as a person. Yet when you move to a new location, with people who have a different background and different experiences, suddenly the ability to share these past memories is removed; hence nostalgia loses its very life source and, if not tended to, can wither and die. And it gets worse - not only are you robbed of your own nostalgia, you are also painfully aware that you are excluded from the nostalgia that is permeating all around you, as the people you mix with and care about share experiences amongst themselves that you have no understanding of.

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Lee

I didn’t notice my inability to be nostalgic for the first few years I lived in the U.S,. but with age I’m finding that it is becoming more pronounced, leading me to consciously (or in some cases subconsciously) seek out people with the same With age I’m finding that it is background as mybecoming more pronounced, self. This inevitably leads to the turning of leading me to consciously (or in the conversation to some cases subconsciously) seek matters as varied as 1970s children’s TV out people with the same backprogrammes, Sunday ground as myself. lunches in cozy country pubs on damp weekends, and 1980s comedians (where are you now, Ben Elton?). Thankfully, at least some of the best British music made it to the U.S. Unfortunately, such conversations can only happen rarely (after all, the people who can take part in this kind of nostalgia-fest are limited in number).

So, how to deal with this issue? One coping mechanism would be to replace ‘lost’ events with new experiences, but it seems that to replace just one year’s worth of experiences in the formative years takes many more years to generate, so it’s more time-consuming than you might think. Anyway, to disregard my early memories and feelings altogether and replace them with more recent events would be to deny what has made me who I am.

So instead, I prefer to think of those early experiences as precious items, to be stored in a glass-fronted cabinet and looked at in passing, to remind myself that they are there. I take them out occasionally, in the company of a rare few acquaintances, polish them via our shared remembrances, then carefully place them back in the cabinet until the next time. This way, they never disappear completely.

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Patrick Patton Kate Christyson ~Irish~

G

randfather Patrick Patton left Ireland at the age of fourteen or fifteen and went to work in Scotland for some time before traveling to America. He went through Ellis Island and eventually settled in Cleveland, Ohio. During this time, Cleveland was home to a blend of ethnic communities – German, Italian, Polish – and each settled around their parish church. The Irish community’s parish was St. Coleman’s on the near west side of Cleveland.

There he and my grandmother, who also came to America at the age of sixteen, bought a two-bedroom house where they raised my dad, two uncles and my aunt. It was tiny in relation to the number of people living there, but to my grandfather, it was a mansion. We only found out later, compared to the meager life he left in Ireland, it really was a mansion.

He eventually worked on Terminal Tower in Cleveland where the trains would arrive and depart. There he witnessed accidents and crashes and saw many friends lose their lives. He worked his way up to foreman and my father described my Grandpa Patton as a wonderful father, but a tough foreman. He made his sons work with him in order to build a strong work ethic in each one of them. Grandpa taught my father and his brothers you either go to school and get an education, or you will have to do hard labor.

When my father was starting high school, he received a scholarship to play basketball for Holy Name in Cleveland. Today’s parents would be ecstatic if one of their “I’m not sending you there to play children received a sports basketball, I’m sending you there to scholarship, but get an education.” my Grandpa told my father, “I’m not sending you there to play basketball, I’m sending you there to get an education.”

Grandpa Patton was a quiet man and lived out his life in that small Cleveland bungalow. He never left that neighborhood not because he couldn’t afford to, but he felt he already had everything he needed.

His legacy continues through the construction he built, the work ethic he created in his children, the education he enforced and the family he created in the country he loved.

My grandparents lived simple lives and only bought what they needed. He “It doesn’t matter because this is the never had the desire to return greatest country in the world.” to Ireland stating, “The only way I’d go back is if they build a bridge.” No matter how bad things got, how much people complained, he would say, “It doesn’t matter because this is the greatest country in the world.”

Grandpa Patton spent his life in construction and when he first came over had to travel to different locations to find work. From the beginning, he learned not to say anything when they were selecting workers because unless they were Irish foremen, if they heard his brogue he would not be selected. Instead, he would simply raise his hand.

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The Wine Press

Agriculture War Leonard Procopio

Leonard Procopio

~Italian~

~Italian~

L

eonardo Procopio arrived in America around 1913 and made his

way to the Gary, Indiana steel mills. Being an Italian immigrant, winemaking was in his blood. He decided to build a wine press in the mill with the intention of taking it home to make wine. In the days before mass automobile ownership, the only way to get it home was to drag it across the Calumet River. He hooked it up on a flat piece of wood and attached it to a roped, but underestimated its weight and during the journey across the river it sank, thought to be lost forever.

Years later they were dredging the Calumet River and pulled something up. One of the men remembered back to the infamous river crossing and said, “Look, we found Leo’s wine press.”

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L

eonardo and his brother John were the only two of eight brothers to go the United States from their village in Calabria, Italy. Leonardo settled in Northwest Indiana and John in upstate New York. They once got into a heated argument because John claimed you couldn’t grow decent tomatoes in Indiana like New York. Leonardo threatened not ever to go to John’s funeral, and planted a mirage of tomatoes.

They got into another argument when John said you couldn’t grow fig trees in Indiana. Leonardo purchased several fig trees and planted them in Gary, Indiana.

He took painstakingly good care of them, even covering them from the top to the ground so they could survive the harsh Lake Michigan winters.

Growing up, we always had fresh, juicy tomatoes and figs in Northwest Indiana.

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Christmas Memories Mary Ann Procopio ~Slovak~

C

hristmas! The word has meaning for everyone depending on individual circumstances. After seventy plus years I find myself looking back and remembering. Growing up in the shadow of the steel mills gives me different recollections than country roads and sleigh rides.

Stores were decorated just before the holidays and anticipation mounted as merchants began to share treasures a few precious weeks before Christmas. In an age before artificial fragrances, everything smelled of pine. Lights of the city blended with the music as if by magic my world was transformed into a land of enchantment.

There was a “special feeling” that began to grow at the beginning of December. As I grew older the feeling slowly diminished and eventually disappeared.

My memories center primarily around family. Besides my parents, my sister Bernie and brother John there were numerous aunts, uncles, cousins and friends.

My father worked in the steel mills and every year the Goodfellow Club sponsored a Christmas party at the Palace Theatre for the children of millworkers. We sat through an afternoon of cartoons, then waited breathlessly for our names to be called to the stage for our gifts from Santa.

There was also a party at the Slovak Club where once again we were treated to cartoons and gifts.

through displays of Betsy Wetsy dolls, cribs, buggies, sleds, trucks and trains. What joy! The cases of colorful ribbon candy, filled hard candies and chocolate drops were everywhere. Through all this were lines of kids waiting to see Santa.

Counters were stocked. Gift sets of Evening in Paris. I can still see the beautiful dark blue bottles I can still see the beautiful dark blue with tassels bottles with tassels hanging from cut hanging from cut glass tops. glass tops. Wool gloves, mufflers, Wool gloves, stocking caps. mufflers, stocking caps. Old spice, Aqua Velva. Everything was captivating.

We trudged from store to store lugging parcels. Mom would start at Sears and work her way down one side of Broadway. Gordon’s, Barnett’s, Newberry’s, Niesner’s, Kresge’s, Woolworth’s. They were filled for the holidays. Music played everywhere. Everyone was happy.

Shopping always included a lunch break in Goldblatt’s basement for a kosher hot dog and a Hire’s Root Beer. On the way down the other side of Broadway we would stop at Shellberg’s Bakery for fresh bread and a lemon torte. I remember one particular time my mother let me hold the cake. I was inexperienced at controlling the revolving doors so I squeezed in with mom, all the packages and the lemon torte.

Needless to say, we ended up with a mess of crumbs held together with pudding and icing.

The day of shopping always ended up at the Planters store for a three pound bag of fresh roasted peanuts. The smell was glorious. I remember keeping my hands warm by holding the hot bag of peanuts.

My most memorable Christmas occurred when I was about eight years old. I was allowed to go shopping alone. It didn’t seem too promising without money until after much pleading my mother gave me a dollar. I walked to town because the streetcar cost a nickel; too much money to waste. I went from store to store searching for the right gift. My cousin Mary Louise was living with us at the time.

Shopping during the holidays was a special treat.

There were no toy stores. This was the only time of year that toys were for sale. We walked 33

M. Procopio

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Over sixty-five years later I can still remember my purchase. For dad a pair of socks, 12 cents, for Bernie and my cousin gardenia cologne, each 12 cents, at teddy bear book for my brother at 10 cents, and a cake plate for my mom, 30 cents. There was something different about that Christmas. Perhaps it was the first act of “giving.”

Cooking and decorating became frantic. While we were at school my mother baked and goodies appeared everywhere – rozky, cookies, nutroll. Fruitcakes that were prepared in October and stored in rum soaked cloths were brought upstairs. Pretty serving plates were taken from boxes and decorations came down from the attic.

The tree was placed in the corner and the old ornaments were carefully placed on each branch. The manger was set under the tree. With all the rushing this small humble act was a reminder of the meaning of the season. Cotton was carefully laid out. Mica was sprinkled over it to resemble the shine of snow. Lights were turned off and the three was plugged in. The deepest feeling of peace settled in at that moment.

One year my mother talked us into making a novena to Baby Jesus. It began on the Feast of St. Andrew, November 30th and continued to Christmas Eve. I felt that if I made the novena I would receive everything I wanted for Christmas. I knelt at my bed, fervently prayed and envisioned all the wonderful presents I would receive. Needless to say, I did not receive everything I asked for, but my mother heard a child’s prayer and helped keep a tiny faith intact.

By Christmas Eve everything was finished. We had a special meal, oplatky, bobalki, pagach, sour mushroom soup, pieroghi and fish. If all this sounds foreign to you, it is. Part of my own Slovak heritage has unfortunately become part of the past. A quiet evening was spent listening to carols on the old Silvertone record player. Remember, no TV.

We had a special meal, oplatky, bobalki, pagach, sour mushroom soup, pieroghi and fish.

The signal was given to hang the stockings. Each of us chose the longest we could find. They were pinned to the couch since there was no fireplace.

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We awoke at 5:00am and began opening gifts. So many of the wonderful things I had seen in the stores were under our tree. Our stockings contained an orange and a few mixed nuts. After opening our presents we headed for our bedroom. It was the practice at the time to observe abstinence during Advent. Mom had a small tree set up for each of us. Hanging on the tree were cookies, chocolate Santas and candy canes. After mass we were allowed to have our first taste of candy in four weeks.

It was hard to leave the toys and sit down for dinner. There were coloring books, new crayons, cut outs and a brand new baby doll to bathe and dress.

In the evening the ritual of visiting began. We did not own a car, so transportation was provided by a taxi. The family piled into a cab, kids clutching toys and mom and dad carrying trays and boxes of goodies. We usually all started at Aunt Mary and Uncle Joe Shingler’s. All the cousins compared toys and the grownups visited. If time permitted, everyone jammed into cars and headed on to another house to visit. The day ended with a few minutes of play, kisses goodnight and a prayer at bed. The rest of the week was spent either visiting or having visitors over. When it was all over, the memories remained.

Memories: that’s the key word. Anthony De Mello, a famous teacher of mediation encourages his students always to find a special place, a time of peace and joy and return mentally to recapture the sights and smells of happier times. During this Advent season, I hope to hear the sounds, smell the fragrance and feel the joy of my Christmas past. Hopefully, the “special feeling” that has lain dormant for so long will reawaken. The memory is being written on November 30th, the Feast of St. Andrew. My novena will be for my family and friends. For the young, store the memories for later use. For the old, bring them out, touch and relive. Keep alive the “feeling.”

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Pinhead

Mismatch

Joe Giacoletti

Abby Church

~Italian~

E

ugene “Pinhead” Capella owned a bar in Clinton, Indiana. Back then, anyone with a physical characteristic had a nickname, so having a pointy, slick bald-head, he was christened “Pinhead.” I would mow Pinhead’s yard, his mom’s yard and the tavern’s yard, making $3.00 per yard. After I was done, his mom, Mary, would have me come to the back of the bar, make me a bowl of spaghetti, and pay me out of her apron.

~Irish/German~

M

y grandmother was a protestant Irish girl and my grandfather

was a German Catholic. They met on the boat coming over to America and fell in love during the journey. He was tall, she was short.

They were mismatched, but they were cute. On her wedding day, she carried both her catechism book and a silver rosary.

When I was sixteen I got brave and asked Pinhead for a six-pack of Budweiser and said it was for my dad. He said, “Okay Joey,” and wrapped it up in a brown paper bag. Back then, Budweiser was considered a premium beer and was twenty-five cents more per six-pack.

I took the Budweiser to a park where I drank it with my buddies. I continued to do this ritual of buying beer from Pinhead for years.

When I got to be about twenty or twenty-one, I finally told Pinhead that the beer I bought “I figured if you weren't going to all those years was tell on me, I wasn’t going to tell never for my dad, it was for me. He said, on you.”

“I know Joey, your dad drinks Falstaff, he’d never pay the extra twenty-five cents. I figured if you weren’t going to tell on me, I wasn’t going to tell on you.”

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Greek Easter Sandra Spenos-Payne ~Greek~

O

ne of my fondest memories is from Easter, which in Greek we call Pascha. One of our traditions for Easter was going to Mass the night before. It's not necessarily the kick-off to observing Easter, but it didn’t "feel" like Easter until we went to our Greek Orthodox Church for Midnight Mass. The next day, I always loved waking up to the smells and sounds of my mom preparing our Easter feast, while the men usually prepared the lamb, usually a whole lamb; especially if a lot of people were coming. They would put the lamb on a huge spit and roasted it outside. My dad would always baste it with oregano, olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper. Nothing else. Frankly, I never order lamb anywhere I go. It's something that I love to eat only at their home, prepared by them and no one else.

My mom usually made spanakopites, which were little triangles of goodness filled with feta cheese, dill, onions, and spinach surrounded by phyllo dough. She also made tiropites, the little cheese pies, but the spinach ones were my Growing up, my mother never favorite. Growing up, believed in anything canned or my mother never in anything frozen, so everything was made believed canned or frozen, so from scratch. everything was made from scratch. She would take fresh spinach, salt it and squeeze it by hand to remove the excess water. Afterwards, she would saute the spinach with onions, some olive oil, salt and fresh dill. After it cooled, she would take sheets of phyllo dough, cut them in long strips of three, all the way through , then the next hard phase began.

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Working with Phyllo dough is like working with Kleenix. She would take one phyllo strip, butter it, take a second one, place that on top, butter that one, then put a scoop of the mix on one end and then fold them into little triangles. When done, she buttered the tops and set them aside. Out of respect, the women who came as guests always would help out in the kitchen. No one just "sat" around, not even the men. It was a manly "thing" to help with the lamb.

Another tradition, which is based on our religion is the dyeing of the Easter eggs. You have to dye them red, to represent the blood of Christ. We always did this at the end of our meal, but we each chose an egg to crack with someone at the table. When we do this, we "ftheirame." It's a strange word to use, because in English it actually means to properly, waste away, corrupt (deteriorate); (figuratively) to cause or experience moral deterioration – i.e. decomposition (breakdown), due to the corrupting influence of sin. The root of this word literally means "waste away" (degenerate), "moving down from a higher level (quality, status) to a lower form.

We cracked our eggs with each other. We started at one end, and then we turned our eggs around and cracked the other side together. If our egg cracked, we lost and the last one with the strongest egg won.

Our family and friends have since dwindled, whether it was from loss, moving away, or just not speaking to each other any more. I miss those days. So when it comes to family and tradition, it's always important to learn and to keep them up.

Growing up, I remember when we would be at a store and we would hear someone speaking Greek, we would always get excited just to hear our Greek language spoken by someone else and would always introduce ourselves. Friendships may or may not flourish, but it was a respectful thing to do. That no longer happens and it's a sad thing.

Now, if you hear someone speaking Greek and you attempt to talk to them, they look at you like you're the rude one, so we no longer really say anything at all anymore. I was discussing this recently with my husband and he explained that traditions and things have changed.

Everyone is more "Americanized." Most have adapted to the "American" way. Growing up, that was a different generation and there were still those who held tradition close to them, even finding the time to say hello to a stranger who spoke a language that we are still so proud of.

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Small Town Italian Joe Giacoletti ~Italian~

I

grew up on a farm in Blanford, near the Indiana/Illinois border and later moved to Clinton, Indiana in Vermillion County. There was a coal mine in this part of the state which drew an eclectic mix of immigrants for the work. The Italians who settled there were mostly from north of Turino in the Piedmont region. My dad worked as a steamfitter and a farmer and it was there I learned to understand the meaning of hard work, strong ethics and good people.

Growing up in this area I had the luxury of enjoying incredible food these cultures continued to carry on in America. On one corner alone in my small town were four Italian restaurants, each having its own famous dish. Minnoli’s was known for their meatballs, Marietta’s their steak, Giordano’s their veal, and Capella’s their spaghetti sauce.

The miners also had massive gardens. The would get up at 5am and take care of them before heading off to the mines. They grew tomatoes, peppers, green beans, zucchinis, watermelon. I would ask what they planned on doing with the exorbitant number of tomatoes, but someone always came along and put them to use. They canned tomatoes, made sauces, made stews.

We grew up watching the old Italian men playing bocce from on top a hill. Back then no kids were allowed, no women were allowed, just a group of competitive Italian men who made bets on the game and loved to drink their wine.

These were blue collar mine My mom told me not to go up there to watch beworkers who worked hard cause she didn’t want me and loved their bocce game. to see their drinking and swearing. I tried to tell her we couldn’t understand what they were saying anyway since they all spoke Italian, but she said she didn’t care – stop going there. Being a boy at the time, I continued to go anyway. I found them fascinating; these were blue collar mine workers who worked hard and loved their bocce game.

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In addition, to the Italians, there was a large Serbian population. Mr. Merkowitz was one of the Serbians and I would mow his lawn. He made his own wine and each time after I would mow, he would make me sit down with him and have a glass, then would pay me, wanting me to give him some company at the end of the day. I also grew up with the Kukitz boys. Our mothers were close friends and since Serbian Christmas is celebrated on January 7th, we would celebrate both between our families. On December 25th the Kukitz would come to our house, on January 7th I would go to theirs. I grew up truly believing there were always two Christmases.

A lot of the miners in my town were World War II vets. They were steeped in politics and every house had a picture of John L. Lewis, the president of the United Mine Workers, along with a picture of John F. Kennedy and the Pope. John L. Lewis was in the middle because they revered him more than the Pope. They weren’t afraid to get involved in politics and government and took it as their own responsibility to be a voice in their community.

The old miners are all gone now, but they gave to me memories that are invaluable. They were hard workers I would slow down and spend and stressed this to time and learn more about them their children. Like as characters in life, because they many immigrant groups, education really were great characters. was so important to them. They saw it as a way for their children to have a better life.

If I could go back on my life, I would live it slower. I would take each one of these moments and each one of these people. I would slow down and spend time and learn more about them as characters in life, because they really were great characters.

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Photo Essay

My Parents: Slovak Meets Italian

By Terri Procopio

Leonard Procopio, circa 1938

Mary Ann Ligda, 1945

L-R: Rosie Procopio, Leonard Procopio, Vera Pavazzi circa 1942

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Holy Angels School, Gary, Indiana, 1948

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Donaldson High School, Donaldson, Indiana, 1954

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T. Procopio

Mary Ann Ligda, 1955

Mary Ann Ligda, 1957

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L-R: John Ligda, Marie Ligda, Mary Ann Ligda, Leonard Procopio, Pauline Procopio, Leonard Procopio, October 23, 1960

Mary Ann & Leonard Procopio 2013

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Fiction

Novel Excerpt: St. Joseph’s Table Terri Procopio ~Italian~

D

anny peered through the camera lens focusing it on his greatgrandmother, though the image was still a little blurry due to the haze of smoke that encircled her. Every so often, she picked up her water glass, which was filled to the brim with Chianti wine and took a big swig. She sat patiently while he fumbled with the camera, blowing her smoke up towards the ceiling. She was old and did not comprehend any of his fancy cameras, but was well aware he was doing this because he wondered how much longer she would be around.

“Okay Nonna,” he asked, “Who am I?” Danny always started with this question to gauge Nonna’s lucidness. If she was annoyed, she never let him know, but occasionally would throw in a ringer where Danny could not figure out if her mind was starting to go, or if she was playing him, like the time she said he was Richard Nixon. Today she must have been in a good mood because she answered honestly.

“You’re Durante, Carmine’s son,” she answered.

“Alright,” he smiled as he closed one eye and peered through the lens with the other, “Now how many times do I, Aunt Celia and every doctor you go to have to tell you to stop smoking?”

She took a large inhale on her cigarette, held it for a few seconds, then blew it out towards the ceiling, answering in her thick Sicilian accent, “About the same number of times, I tell you Celia has a cork up her ass, doctors don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, and me?

I’m ninety-six years old. Do you really expect me to live much longer?”

Danny grinned at her, “You’re going to live forever, Nonna.”

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She waved her hand at him, “Bah, Lord help me if I do. I’m counting the days until I can terrorize everyone from the afterlife.”

When the camera was set, he tiptoed back to the 1960’s mustard colored tapestry chair and slowly sat down, making sure not to disrupt the tripod or Nonna’s unending collection of Mary statues. They were everywhere - on shelves, on top the His mother grew annoyed and TV, in cubby holes, told him to count Nonna’s inside the cabinets.

Madonnas to keep him occupied.

One time when he was a kid and bounc- He was six at the time and could ing off the walls, his mother grew annoyed only count to 100; he never made and told him to count it past the living room.

Nonna’s Madonnas to keep him occupied. He was six at the time and could only count to 100; he never made it past the living room.

He once asked his cousin Tony how long it would take to move them all out once Nonna died. “Twenty minutes and a dumpster,” Tony replied.

Danny was much more superstitious and knew Nonna really would hunt them down from the grave if they did such a thing. Danny believed Nonna could and would find them from the afterlife, if anything to ensure that Mary was still surveying ever inch, room, shelf, counter top and toilet tank of her house.

“Okay Nonna, since you have somehow discovered the fountain of youth, maybe you can give the rest of us some insight on the subject.

You have lived through wars, presidents and have seen so much in your lifetime. Do you have any advice for longevity?” Danny asked.

She looked at him and smirked, grabbed a drink of her wine, inhaled a big breath of her cigarette, then exhaled slowly. “Tomatoes,” she answered in her raspy voice.

“Tomatoes?” Danny asked.

“Tomatoes.”

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Italians worship tomatoes. We have a love affair with them. Yeah, yeah, I’ve seen all the shows on TV with doctors discussing tomatoes.

Didn’t I tell you they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about?

But we Italians knew this all along. It’s in our blood. We made sauces with them, stuffed them, dried them, stewed them, pasta with tomatoes, fish with tomatoes. It was our staple, our lifeline you might say.

What is that disgusting thing you eat, ketchup? Good Lord what they can do to a perfectly good tomato. No, the tomato needs to be treated with care and cooked with care.

Your great-grandfather Vincent and I had settled into our small apartment with our cousins Francesca and her husband Alfonso. They already had two children and we had one on the way. It was tight quarters, but we didn’t mind. Back then, we didn’t care about things like that. We had no television, no phones. We just had each other for entertainment. What You think when you walk into else were you supto do? So we your mother’s kitchen it reminds posed talked. We loved to you of home? Well, I tell you, talk and play games. when you walked through Little But most of all, we loved to eat. You Italy, it reminded you of Italy. think when you walk into your mother’s kitchen it reminds you of home? Well, I tell you, when you walked through Little Italy, it reminded you of Italy.

Each day, Francesca and I would walk down to our small store and gather the things we needed for dinner. It wasn’t what today they call a supermarket, though I don’t know what is super about it, just a lot of people rushing around throwing garbage into their carts. Our store was a place where we would go to talk about our families, trade recipes, and discuss the world. All people want to do is get out of that place they call the supermarket. For us, we didn’t want to leave.

Antonio Zucchero owned the store and he was a kind man with a very big heart. Most everyone I knew at that point was a northerner, but Antonio was a southern Italian like me, so we would talk about the places and people we left behind. One day, we walked in and he was staring at a young man in the corner who I had never seen and shaking his head. The young man was flailing his arms about and talking some sort of nonsense.

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“Who is that?” I asked Antonio.

He shook his head, “My sister’s son Bernard. She sent him over for me to look out for him, to make an honest worker out of him and make something of himself in America. But he has these crazy ideas that he is going to make a lot of money doing no work. He wants to be an ‘entertainer.’ Crazy. Crazy I tell you.”

Bernard overheard us talking and soon realized he had an audience.

He ran his hands through his thick, dark hair, smiled and sauntered over.

“Ladies,” he said with a bow. He grabbed Francesca’s hand and kissed it. She looked over at me and laughed, but I merely rolled my eyes.

“I am Benny the Great,” he said.

“More like Benny the Idiot,” Antonio said and we both snickered, “Now will you please get over there and mop that floor and leave these nice ladies alone.”

Bernard glared at him, “Mop? Mop? That’s want you want me to do?”

He picked up an apple, “Sell fruits? Vegetables? Do you think that is all there is in the world.”

“For an Italian immigrant, yes,” Antonio answered.

“Entertainment,” Bernard said, as he spread out his arms, “That is where it is. That is where the money is.”

“Money, money, money. That’s all you care about. What about an honest day’s work? What about family?” Antonio boomed.

“You’ll have a happier family with money,” Bernard answered. He looked over at us and smiled, “Here, let me show these beautiful ladies.” He reached underneath a shelf and pulled out a large black box.

Antonio rolled his eyes.

“Not this again,” Antonio said. Bernard then unlatched the box and lifted what appeared to be a body out of it.

“That is the ugliest doll I have ever seen,” I told him.

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“It’s not a doll, it’s called a dummy. His name is Rudolph. Watch, his mouth moves and I talk for him.”

Bernard sat on top of an empty crate and placed Rudolph on his lap.

He stuck his hand into the dummy’s back and his mouth and head started to move. “mimmece mmooo meeeeet mooo,”

“Ladies,” he slurred, “Ladies, glad I find you, glad. I have been practicin all night. Praticin. I wanna show you my act. It’s a good. Very good” He spun around and yelled to all the buildings, “I am Benny, the great vent, the great vent, venti. The great ventiquist. This my partner, Rudolph.”

“Oh, shut your mouth,” someone yelled from another building.

“What?” we asked. “mimmece mmooo meeeeet mooo,” “What?” We asked again.

He spun around to look at the shouter, almost falling, but catching himself on an empty crate to sit on. “That sir, that I can, ‘cause I talk for Rudolph without movin’ my mouth.” He placed his hand into Rudolph’s back and his head began to move around. Soon his mouth opened and closed.

Bernard grew frustrated, “He says it’s nice to meet you.”

“Mmmmhhhh, anndd mnnnn.”

We shook our heads, “I think you need to stick to apples and tomatoes,” I told him.

Antonio roared, “Grazie, grazie. Now you, Mr. Entertainer, mop!” he jabbed the mop and bucket into Bernard who scowled at him.

“What?” all four of asked in unison.

“Mmdfsfdf andndn mmuuu.”

“What?” the people in all the other buildings yelled out.

Later that night we were enjoying our dinner, which of course included tomatoes, cheeses and bread. Francesca had just poured wine into our glasses when we heard a big commotion outside. We put down our forks and ran to the window.

“What in the world is that?” Vincent asked.

We looked outside and there was Bernard with Rudolph. He was staggering in the street from one side to the other, apparently having indulged in too much to drink earlier in the evening. He carried the dummy with his feet dangling over his forearm. Each time he swaggered in one direction, the dummy’s legs would flair out in the opposite direction.

“That’s Antonio’s nephew,” Francesca said, “Bernard, over here,” she waved.

“Shhh,” I said, “Now he’ll see…,” but it was too late, he had already noticed us.

“Ladies and gentments,” Bernard yelled, “Rudolph here is going to sing for all of you. Mhhh, moooo, lmmm.”

Vincent, Francesca and Alphonso started to laugh. Me, I was getting annoyed. I was hungry and the food was getting cold because of this drunken fool. You know me. I’m not the You know me. I’m not the examexample of patience.

I saw a tomato sitting ple of patience. I saw a tomato near the sink and sitting near the sink and grabbed grabbed it. I pulled it. I pulled my arm back towards my arm back towards the window, but Vin- the window. cent saw me.

“Sophia, no!” he yelled as he grabbed my arm.

“Back in Sicily I had the best shot in the village,” I told him.

“I don’t care. This isn’t your village and we are more civilized here,” he said, “He’ll get bored in a few minutes and leave on his own.”

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Unfortunately, good or bad Bernard had an audience and he was not going anywhere. The more everyone in the buildings heckled him, the more he persevered. During about the fifth attempt at the song, I couldn’t take it anymore and when Vincent looked away, I pulled my arm back and hit Rudolph smack dead on the forehead.

“Sophia!” Vincent yelled, but it didn’t matter because applause erupted from everyone in the buildings.

“Bravo, Bravo,” someone yelled, “Best performance of the night.”

Unfortunately for Bernard and Rudolph, there were no shortages of tomatoes in Little Italy. Soon there was a contest among everyone to see who could hit them the most. Every time Bernard tried again, splat, splat, splat.

“Bastards, bastards,” he started yelling. As he was being pelted with tomatoes, he attempted to make a quick getaway but tripped over the crate he was sitting on, apparently catching himself on an unseen nail.

As he attempted to get up and run, his trousers remained caught and tore down the middle seam. I think the way you say it these days is he mooned everyone in the buildings.

“Now that’s an act,” someone yelled and the buildings erupted with laughter.

The next day we saw Bernard at the store, grumpily mopping the floor. His hair was a mess and he did everything he could not to make eye contact with us. He sloshed the mop left and right and soon disappeared down one of the aisles.

“What happened?” Francesca asked Antonio.

Antonio shook his head, “He came home ranting and raving last night over what happened; then passed out in the middle of the floor. This morning he packed that stupid doll away. Hopefully for good, though I doubt he’ll ever hear the end of what happened last night. Maybe it’s good. An honest day’s work,” Antonio yelled loud enough for Bernard to hear.

A few days later, Bernard decided he needed to get rid of Rudolph because everyone was still teasing him about his dolly and what happened that night. He decided to bury Rudolph behind the store, but as 59

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he opened up the case one last time to say goodbye, something funny struck him, almost a vision from above. He wiped his finger across Rudolph’s face and rubbed his two fingers together and his eyes gleamed. This was his way out of Little Italy. This was his fortune. He had discovered the key to longevity. It was something that would eventually save millions of lives.

Danny’s mouth was agape and he leaned forward to hear what Nonna would say next. “The tomatoes had rotted on Rudolph’s face and on it a strange grey substance. When he rubbed it on his fingers the idea struck. Later, this substance would be renamed penicillin.”

Danny rolled his eyes and jumped up to shut off the camera, “Nonna, that is the most ridiculous story you have concocted yet. Penicillin was discovered by Alexander Fleming in England, not by a crazy want-a-be Italian ventriloquist in Little Italy.”

“Sometimes history is false; especially when it comes to Italians,” she said.

“Nonna!” Danny said irritably. Now he knew for sure she was trying to mess with him.

She smiled at him and took a drink of her Chianti and held her hands up in the air, “Okay, so I exaggerate a lit- We ate hell of a lot of tomatoes tle. But Bernard did and I am sitting here in front of go on to become quite wealthy selling you at ninety-six years old, insurance. I heard his smoking like a stack and drinkgrandson went on to ing my wine, just like we did in work for one of those companies that makes Little Italy so long ago. medicine, so maybe a part of it is true. And say what you want, but we ate a hell of a lot of tomatoes and I am sitting here in front of you at ninety-six years old, smoking like a stack and drinking my wine, just like we did in Little Italy so long ago.”

Danny smiled at her, “Okay Nonna, you make a good point there.

Huh, who would have thought. Tomatoes, the secret to eternal life.”

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Recipes

Irish Soda Bread Sharon Mills

Hummus Ahmed Ismail ~Egyptian~

~Irish~ I come from a large Irish and German family. My grandmother, Rose Miller, was the daughter of a German baker who immigrated to the United States before she was born. Rose married an Irishman named James Keaton, also the child of immigrant Americans. As newlyweds, they settled in a home in an Italian neighborhood in Cleveland, Ohio. Needless to say, Grandma Rose could cook and bake anything. She learned from her family, her husband’s family, and as a young bride shared recipes with her new Italian friends. Although she had a large and diverse recipe collection, she always had Irish Soda Bread available at her house or would bring a loaf along with her when she came to visit. A thick slice of this bread slathered with butter is one of my fondest memories of our visits together.

Irish Soda Bread Recipe 4 c. flour 1 tsp. soda 1 tsp. salt ¾ c. butter 1 c. sugar 1 c. raisins (dark or golden) 1 Tbsp. caraway seed 1 1/3 c. buttermilk Sift flour, soda and salt in mixing bowl. Cut in butter as for pie dough. Stir in remaining ingredients in order given. Mix well. Turn dough into greased iron skillet (preferably 10 ½ “ x 2 ½”) or large round pan dough to pan sides leaving center shallower. Cut cross in top to prevent cracking. Bake at 375 degrees for 10 minutes, then at 350 degrees for 50 minutes or until toothpick comes out clean. Cool before cutting.

Note: This bread is even better the second day.

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This recipe involves my grandmother. She was Palestinian, with some Egyptian, Lebanese and Russian thrown in the mix. My parents, my brother and I emigrated from Egypt when I was young and settled in Minnesota (from the desert to the tundra!). We grew up there and as all young kids, my brother and I tried hard to fit in, first learning the language, then just adjusting as all kids do. We wanted nothing more as pre-teens and teenagers than to fit in with our peers. That meant eating like other kids. My house always had the smell of spices and foreign places, much to my young mind’s dismay. Why couldn’t my house smell like everyone else’s (Spam, lutefisk and bacon)?

My grandmother would come to spend the summers with us and would be challenged each day to make us lunch. She would always want to cook something traditional, and we would always ask for peanut butter. “Pea-na butta” was how she would say it (with disdain).

She wanted nothing more than to make us something middle eastern, like hummus or kabobs or something.

As time went by, and hummus became more popular, we became more open to it. Sad to say, my grandmother passed away before I could tell her that I was using her recipe on my own.

Hummus (2) cans chick peas. Drained and peeled of the fine shell (most recipes skip this step, my grandmother insisted on it).

(2) heaping table spoons of Tahini (sesame seed paste) (2) teaspoons crushed fresh garlic (2) tablespoons olive oil Salt and lemon to taste

Optional - paprika

You can leverage the amounts for bigger portions, as they are really one-to-one. Combine all ingredients in a blender (save the salt step until the end, so you can get a sense of taste and texture). Blend until smooth (no lumps). Add a little more oil if too thick. When done, place in shallow serving dish. Drizzle a little more oil on top, and sprinkle a bit of paprika for garnish. Serve with pita bread.

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Okra Korma Farhad Anwarzai

Italian Cream Cake Diane Giacoletti

~Afghani~ Korma is a popular dish in Afghanistan. It is a type of stew that is simmered in a pot and served over a bed of white rice. Usually beef, lamb, or chicken is used in korma, but okra and eggplant are excellent vegetarian substitutes. The following recipe is my father’s, but I have enhanced it with my own twists. Okra is one of those twists.

Okra Korma (serves 4) 4 handfuls of fresh okra (uncut) 3-4 large tomatoes fresh chopped cilantro 3-4 cups of cooked white basmati rice 1 large yellow onion 1 pinch of sea salt (2 tbsp of minced garlic 3 tbsp of black pepper 2 tbsp of red pepper 2 tbsp of paprika 4 tbsp of extra virgin olive oil Dice the onion.

Cut off the okra stems.

Place diced onions in a large pot. Pour 2 tbsp of olive oil over the onions. Heat the pot on the second highest stove setting. Mix onions and olive oil together. Mix periodically so the onions will not burn.

When the onions are golden brown, drop the okra into the pot. Mix everything together. Pour another tbsp of olive oil. Set temperature to medium and close the pot. The okra should take ten to twelve minutes to cook. Stir periodically. If you are not using canned tomato sauce, chop the large tomatoes and place them in a blender. Add ½ cup of water and blend until the tomatoes become a puree (or as close to a puree as possible). Put spices and chopped cilantro into the tomato sauce. Pour 1 tbsp of olive oil. Blend for about five seconds and pour the tomato puree over the cooked okra. Allow okra and sauce to simmer for two minutes on a low heat setting.

Serve with white rice.

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~Italian by Marriage~ I learned how to make this cake long before I married my husband Joe. An Italian friend of mine introduced it to me after someone at his work brought it to a pitch-in. He knew I loved to bake and when he asked for the recipe his female co-workers laughed at him, knowing he’d never make it. His answer was, “Well I know someone who will.” His last name was Bitonti – an Italian from West Virginia. He was an Engineer for the Department of Transportation. He could build a bridge, but not bake a cake.

Italian Cream Cake 1 stick of butter ½ c solid Crisco Mix above together well, then add and mixing well: 2 Cups of Sugar 5 Egg yolks Add to above mixture – alternating buttermilk and flour 2 Cups of flour 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 Cup Buttermilk Add to above: 1 teaspoon vanilla 1 Cup chopped nuts (pecans) 1 small can (or about a 1-2 cups) coconut Beat (5) egg whites to form peaks – fold into mixture Bake @ 350 40-45 minutes Makes 3 greased & floured 8” or 9” cake pans I have also used 2 - 9x13 for easier transportation

Icing:

8 ounces of Cream Cheese ½ stick butter 1 box Powdered Sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla 65

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Slovak Christmas Eve Sour Mushroom Soup Mary Ann Procopio ~Slovak~ Growing up, my family ate this soup every year at our Christmas Eve dinner. Along with the soup, we had the tradition of breaking oplatky, Oplatky are squares of a Communion-like wafers that are stamped with the nativity scene. We dipped it in honey to symbolize the unleavened bread of the Passover supper. It comes from the Latin word oblate (offering). Some say the custom started when snowbound villagers couldn’t make it to Mass on Christmas, so the parish priest gave them blessed wafers in advance so they could still partake in the Eucharist. For me, it reminds me of the traditions of my family.

Sour Mushroom Soup 1-2 lb chopped onions 1 1/4 cups butter 2 lbs finely chopped mushrooms 10 cans (7 1/2 ounce) cans sauerkraut juice Saute onions in a stock pot 1 one cup of butter until golden brown.

Add chopped mushrooms to onions a cook until mushrooms are tender. Ad water and cans of sauerkraut juice, bring to a boil and simmer for half an hour.

In a small sauce pan, brown remaining 1/4 cup of butter, then add flour to make a roux. Slowly add some soup juice (about 2 cups) to the roux, stirring while you blend. Add roux to the soup and cook another 15 to 30 minutes and serve.

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Sweet Bobalki Mary Ann Procopio ~Slovak~ When I was growing up, we used to fast during Advent. Our Christmas Eve dinner was the first time we could break the fast. My mother would make sweet bobalki for this meal and we ate it along other traditional Slovak dishes.

Sweet Bobalki 2 1/2 cups water 3 tbsp plus 1 tbsp sugar 2 tsp salt 5 tbsp butter 2 packages active dry yeast 6 cups all-purpose flour 1/2 cup poppy seeds 1/2 cup honey Boil 2 cups of water, 3 tbsp sugar, salt and butter. Cool to lukewarm.

Meanwhile, dissolve yeast in 1 tbsp sugar and 1/2 cup lukewarm water. Place flour in a stand mixture and slowly add lukewarm watersugar mixture and the yeast mixture. When thoroughly mixed, knead dough until smooth on a floured surface. Cover and let rise until doubled.

Punch down the dough and knead again on a lightly floured surface.

Roll dough out into 1/2 to 1-inch thick and cut into even pieces. Roll into 1-inch balls. Place on parchment lined or floured cookie sheet with sides slightly touching, cover and let rise until nearly doubled.

Bake in 375 degree oven for 15 to 20 minutes.

While the bread is baking, grind poppy seeds in a mortar and pestle with a little water or milk. When bobalki are cool, break the balls apart and place in a colander. Pour a small amount of hot water over them, just enough to soften and drain well. Heat the honey to a warm temperature and pour over the bobalki along with the poppy seeds.

Stir and serve immediately.

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Quotes

The passion of the Italian or the ItalianAmerican population is endless for food and lore and everything about it.

Mario Batali, Chef

Placing on writers the responsibility to represent a culture is an onerous responsibility.

Amy Tan, Author

I was raised Irish Catholic, but I don’t consider myself Irish Catholic; I consider myself American.

John Cusack, Actor

As you now, I’m an immigrant. I came over here as an immigrant, and what gave me the opportunities, what made me to be here today, is the open arms of the Americans. I have been received, I have been adopted by America.

Arnold Schwarzenegger, Actor/Governor

As a first generation Jewish American, I have witness firsthand Jewish immigrants who have come to this Nation in order to create a better life for themselves, their families, and future generations.

Jan Schakowsky, Congresswoman

We were raised in an Italian-American household, although we didn’t speak Italian in the house. We were very proud of being Italian, and had Italian music and ate Italian food.

Francis Ford Coppola, Director

I’ve played some gangster roles, but that’s obviously not me. When you’re an Italian-American New York actor, it’s just an easy way to get cast.

Michael Imperioli, Actor

My parents didn’t really understand too much about the sport. (basketball) At that time, we were in a Polish community in the inner city of Chicago, and I was the youngest of the bunch of cousins. Polish families are real big, with cousins and aunts and uncles.

Mike Krzyewski, NCAA Coach

I am very proud of being ItalianAmerican, but people don’t realize the mafia is just this aberration. The real community is built on the working man, the guy who’s the cop, the fireman, the truck driver, the bus driver.

Chazz Palminteri, Actor

If I had the opportunity to speak to a young immigrant girl that just arrived to the U.S., the advice I would have for her would be: ask, speak, search because there are opportunities out there. And, know that you aren’t the only immigrant or the last one to come into this country.

Many that have come before you have successes. It is possible.

Jenni Rivera, singer/songwriter/actress

As an immigrant, I appreciate far more than the average American, the liberties we have in this country. Silence is a big enemy of morality. I don’t want our blunders in history to get repeated.

Gloria Estefan, singer/songwriter/ entrepreneur