I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was an American. Of course, I had been born in America and had lived here all my life, but somehow it never occurred to me that just being a citezen of the United States meant I was American. Americans were peole who ate peanut butter and jelly on mushy white bread that came out of plastic packages. Me? I ate peppers and egg sandwiches on an Italian roll, I was Italian.
For me, as I am sure for most second generation Italian-Ameriacn childen who grew up in the '40's and '40's, there was a definite distinction drawn between us and them. We were Italian. Everybody else - the Irish, German, Polish, Jewish - they were the "MED-E-GONES". There was no animocidy involved in that distinction, no prejudice, no hard feelings just - well - we were sure ours was the better way. For instance, we had a bread man, a milk man, a coal and ice man, a fruit and vegetable man, a wotermelon man, an egg and cheese man, and a fish man; we even had a man who sharpened knives and scissors who came right to our homes or at least righ outside our homes. They were the many peddlers to plied the Italian neighborhoods. We would wait for their call, their yell, their individual sound. We knew them all and the knew us. Americans went to the stores for most fo their foods. What a waste!
Truly, I pitied their loss. They newver knew the pleaseure of waking up every morning to find a hot, crisp loaf of Italian bread waiting behind the screen door. And, instead of being able to climb up on the back of the peddler''s truck a couple times a week just to hitch a ride, most of my "MED-E-GONE" friends had to be satisfied going tothe A&P. When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends or class-mates only ate turkey on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Or rather, that they ONLY had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce. How we Italians - we also had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce but only after we had finished the antipasto, soup, lasagne, meatballs, salad and whatever else mama thought might be appropriatge for that particular holida. This trunkey was ususually accompanied by a roast of some kind (just in case sombody walked in who didn't like turkey) and was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries, cakes, and of course, homemade cookies. No holiday was complete without some home baking, none of that store bought stuff for us. This is where you learne to eat a seven course meal between noon and four P.M...., how to handle hot chestnuts and put tangerine wedges in red wine. I truely belive Italiance live a romance with food.
Speaking of food, Sunday was truely the big day of the week. That was the day you would wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in olive oil. As you laid in bed, you could hear the hiss as tomatoes were dropped into a pan. Sundays we always had suace (the "MED-E-GONES" called it gravy) and macaroni (they called it PASTA). Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Mass. Of course, you could not eat before Mass because you had to fast before recieving Communion. But the good part was we knew when we got home we would find hot meatballs frying and nothing tastes better than newly fried meatballs and crisp bread dipped into a pot of sauce.
Lots of other things have changed too. The old house my Grandfather bought is now covered with aluminum siding, although my uncle still lives there, and of course my Grandfather's garden is gone. The last of the homemade wine has long since been drunk and nobody covers the fig tree in the fall anymore. For a while we would make the rounds on the Holidays visiting family. Now wee occasionaly visit the cemetary. A lot of them are there, Grandparents, Aunts, Uncles, even my own father.
The holidays have changed too. The great quantity of food once conssumed without any ill effects is not good for us anymore. Too much starch, too much cholesterol, too many calories and nobody bothers to bake anymore - too busy- and it's easier to buy it now and too much is no good for you. We meet at my house now, at least my family does, but its not the same.
The differences between us and them are not so easily defined anymore and I guess that's good. My grandparents were Italian Italians, my parents were Itaian Americans and I'm an American Italian and my children are American Americans. Oh I'm an American all right and proud of it, just as my grandfater would want me to be. We are all Americans now - Irish, German, Poles, and Jews. U.S. citizens all - but somehow I still feel ITALIAN. Call it culture, call it tradition, call it roots. I'm really not sure what it is. ALL I do know is that my children have been cheated out of a wonderful piece of their heritage. They never knew my grandfather.
Anonymous