The Difference

by C. D'Angelo

  The foyer is a grand area, with what looks like gorgeous early twentieth century details from floor to ceiling. My mission, and my physical reactions, escape me for a moment as I am awestruck by the room’s beauty. The gold lined wall sconces, decorated ceilings with attached ivory sculptures, and the beautiful banister details on the stairs are breathtaking. The old buildings in the city are all stunning, but this building is on another level. Okay, enough distraction though; back to business. Where are the research rooms?

  Once I find them, a room attendant greets me kindly and offers any assistance when and if he is needed. I smile in an awkward manner and choose my seat. This time, there are at least four other people in the room, unlike the Ellis Island research room. Four other hope-filled people on similar journeys, like the one that consumed me almost this whole year, are right here with me. Maybe they had some success on their research travels and now’s my time.

  First, I search the correct spellings of my family’s first and last names, each and every one, then the alternate last name spellings. It is so routine by this point I can practically do it with my eyes closed. It takes a few hours to get to the point where I can conclude I am still on the wrong path, searching each tiny lead and being led to dead ends. Yes, the records are correctly brought up for my family once they were in the US, except still not for Gino for some reason. I want to scream. I can’t even find the vessel that brought them to America. I just don’t understand.

  With my head resting on the palm of my hand under my chin, I go somewhat delirious and type arbitrary Italian sounding combinations of words with my last name. I try Granzafina, Granziatti, D’Granza, and so on.

  What’s this? The name on the screen makes me stop in my tracks. My foolish game of desperation has led to a fascinating find. Allegranza populates as an actual last name. Huh? Wait a second here.

  I type in my grandpa’s full name and hold my breath.

  There it is.

  The words “Salvatore Allegranza” appear on the screen along with the information stating he immigrated from Italy to the US “through New York ports.” Eee! His birth year is correct. His death date is also true. Home addresses. Check.

  I keep scrolling to confirm every fact listed. This one hundred thousand percent has to be my grandpa. Yesssss!

  I navigate back to the main search and see another Allegranza. Vincenzo Allegranza. Great-Uncle Vince’s name was Vincenzo, not Vincent! The Italian version of Vincent was needed all this time. Of course! I feel like my eyes grow larger than my head. These records are my family’s records. I am too excited to feel stupid for not having thought of these alternate spellings. Hmm, that’s weird for me. Anyway, the right files exist. My family is documented as arriving as immigrants in New York.

  But wait, there is still no date of entry, actual port of entry, or ship listing. This dance I’m doing of a step ahead and two steps back has to stop. I quietly groan.

  But as soon as I feel the annoyance building, a chill goes through me once again. This time, I realize the sensation is a definite sign. Grandma and Grandpa sent that chill through me outside as well, I know now. It has to mean I am on the right track, even with the questions that remain. I will never doubt their signs again, as I did for Ellis Island. I guess it just takes time to get the reassurance sometimes. They are making me work for it. The Italian work ethic persists.

  Please forgive my haste and ignorance, Grandma and Grandpa. I just want to know you more, Grandpa. I won’t give up the search.

  “I found something! I found my family in the records today!” I exclaim upon Brian setting one foot into our apartment.

  He looks at me with bright eyes. “That’s great news, Rach. What did you find?” He takes off his black leather messenger bag, light fall jacket, and loafers while petting Harrison as he greets him at the door.

  “I know now that my last name is supposed to be Allegranza.” I pause for his reaction before continuing, but my eyes get wider by the second.

  “What? I don’t understand. Supposed to be?” Brian walks over to me and sits down on the couch.

  I speak with increasing speed. “Remember how I was told to look at alternate spellings by that lady at Ellis Island? Well, I started adding prefixes and suffixes to my last name and this is what I ended up stumbling upon. I don’t know why it was changed to Granza, but I know for a fact that it was changed. This is definitely my family. Even one record for Grandpa and Great-Uncle Vince’s known US address showed up with the new, or I mean old, last name. The original surname hasn’t been on any other documents I’ve found. Not on newspaper announcements for events with the business, not for burial records, and not even Grandpa’s cherished naturalization papers. All other documentation shows the name Granza.”

  “That is really something. I am shocked too, but more happy for you. You are getting somewhere, Rach.”

  “Yeah, I was losing faith recently.”

  “Uh, you think? I try to leave you alone when you are in those moods, but I also do keep an eye on you.”

  “What do you mean you ‘keep an eye on me?’” I am riding high on adrenaline so I’m careful to stay in check with my tone. Choices, Rachel. It’s cute he cares so much, but what does he actually mean?

  “It’s part of my job as being the world’s best boyfriend to make sure you are okay, that’s all.” He brings his arms up like he’s God as he speaks the words ‘world’s best boyfriend’ and it makes me laugh.

  “Well, you aren’t the best, but you know, you’ll do.” He grabs me and tickles me as I playfully scream to stop.

  I don’t even get the chance to tell him about the knowledge I gained about Great-Uncle Vincenzo (how wonderful to know and to say his real first name now) before we find ourselves acting like Annabelle and Peter. Finally. My mindful choices lifestyle may be helping us after all.

  Chapter 24

  The recent mounds of snow lessen my guilt of not wanting to leave my home. While most people dread the coming winter, sometimes I think it could be helpful for perspective, even when not trying to solve all these mysteries. The weather is a perfect excuse to stay in my soothing space and have a moment of gratitude. Even sludging through the snow for work, I end up in my comfortable office. I need to embrace these thoughts more often.

  I love to stare out of my window at the white, fluffy flakes floating down while I sit in my warm apartment, cozied up with my fuzzy blanket on the couch. I pull it tighter around my body, sit up straighter, and position my computer on my lap.

  Since the new/old last name reveal, the ancestry databases have become my friends again. Gino has entered the building! I do an upper body dance of joy. There’s no shame in this game.

  Gino’s date of birth and his Italian business records are right in front of my eyes once again. I keep bringing up his beautiful name, appearing in someone’s perfect cursive handwriting. It’s the most gorgeous view in all of New York City. Every document shows him living in Genoa, or as the records state, Genova, Italy. He was born and raised there from what I can conclude so far. Any other documents though? Well, they’re still in my hunt.

  What’s beyond amazing is that I now know the names of my great-grandmother and Grandpa’s full-blood sister. Francesca can finally be declared my great-grandma and Antonia my great-aunt. Isn’t that exciting? I squeal internally every time I think about them.

  Beyond the birth and death years of my family members, well most of them, ugh, there still isn’t much more information I can find. I can’t break a second metaphorical wall that’s present now. Those bricklayers are still hard at work.

  Even with knowing our true and original last name and confirming birth dates, I still can’t find some family members’ baptism records, marriage records, and death records. These documents would reveal a treasure of family information, such as addresses, names of the generation before my great-grandparents, and who Grandpa’s sisters married. M
y family had to be members of their neighborhood church in Genoa, knowing how religious they were, so why doesn’t that information appear?

  I reach for my steaming coffee and take a second to sniff the hazelnut creamer before taking a sip.

  My fingers drift away from the ancestry search engines and type the word “Genoa” into Google. I guess my fingers know I need a break from chipping at the wall.

  Images of Grandpa’s hometown flood the screen. My God, those lush green hills and those rocky cliffs set against the dark blue sea. The Mediterranean architecture in the warm tones of the color spectrum force my eyes wide open. The photos are true eye candy. Okay, the most beautiful site in the city today may be these images. I was wrong.

  I open my Pinterest page and immediately start a Genoa board. The photos from there are too gorgeous not to keep coming back to in the future. But what’s this? Genoa is known for pesto and focaccia bread. These are two foods I can’t live without. Often, I eat them together. Of course, I hone in on the food.

  Leaning in to this sidetracked journey for now, I take a large bite of my biscotti. Its sweetness matches the moment.

  More and more information populates on Pinterest. They know how to capture my attention and suck me in. This pin leads me to an article that states Genoa was a major seaport and maritime city for centuries. It must have been easy for my family to leave Italy from that port then. How convenient. It looks like there is still a lot of trade that goes on there today too.

  I need to make sure to save all the information I can find about Genoese culture. I’m Genoese, after all. Italy is a country that I only dream of visiting so I’ve never researched anything about it. I should have looked up information about Genoa years ago. How has this thought never crossed my mind? I curl my lips and ball my fists at the thought. The next book I read will have to be about Genoa. Or at least fiction with the story set there.

  What about the early 1900s in Philly, Grandpa’s new city? Rapidly typing those phrases into the search brings up a whole different vibe. Oh, these pictures are much darker than the glistening Genoa shots. I don’t know if I want a board like this in my Pinterest account.

  I type in “Italians immigrate to Philadelphia 1900s” on Google instead and click enter. Well, there is a lot to sift through here.

  Okay, it was more of a popular destination than I thought. This first article states many Italians immigrated to South Philly in those years, which is consistent with the wave of Italian immigration to other areas of the US at that time. Little Italys formed and jobs were booming in the careers that Italians were already trained in from Italy.

  Skimming more, I see jobs were plentiful in factories, but the specific work our family did—tailoring—was one of the listed necessary occupations for South Philly. What a perfect opportunity for my family. Their knowledge was needed. Maybe that’s why they settled there. Hmm.

  The demands of America’s progress included the skills of Italians. My people! I take in that thought and hold the pride close to my heart. Grandpa’s family trade was essential to keep America growing.

  In these old photos, the fabric merchant shops look like they were close in proximity to tailors. Did they all have certain districts or something? The shoemakers on one block and the butchers and bakers on the next? Maybe businesses that didn’t complement each other as much didn’t need to have these connections. But maaaybe I’m just making up stories. The proximity is an interesting idea to remember when searching for information in the future, though. It may help me somehow. I grab my journal to jot it down. The facts are starting to add up so much that I need to keep track. I don’t want to forget anything.

  I finish the rest of my biscotti and smile at Harrison. The sound of my movement casts his attention my way. But as soon as we make eye contact, he meows.

  “What, little man?”

  Meow.

  “I’m busy over here. If you want more attention, come over and sit with me.” I pat the cushion next to me.

  He puts his head back down.

  Looking back at my screen, I don’t recognize any storefronts as Grandpa’s store in these photos, but I’ll keep exploring. I only saw a few pictures as a child, but I think I’d remember. That would be pretty unbelievable if any photos of his store exist online. Maybe I can catch a glimpse of the inside someday.

  Oh gosh, what are these photos? They speak a thousand words. I see why the phrase is true.

  Glum looking new Americans working in dirt lined streets is not a pretty picture. Their faces convey a hard life, full of long days and less than exciting work. Maybe I am reading into the images too much, but my heart breaks for them. How spoiled we are now, due to these ancestral angels that paved the way for easier times for us. I can’t believe Grandpa had to live in those hard times. It must have been challenging to earn enough money to survive in a new country and to eventually help feed a whole family, be it his family of origin or creation. I pray that behind the straight faces and apparent discomfort that the photographs show, there was true satisfaction and fulfillment for their achievements.

  The rows of wooden crates of fruit and vegetables lining the streets show a hint of home that was brought with the immigrants. People were carrying wicker baskets as their shopping bags of the day, dressed head to toe in what looks like peculiar clothing for today’s standards, though I doubt they were for back then. Man, it must have been hot in the summer. The landscape in general looked dusty and soiled, and so did their clothes.

  Now here are happier people. I click to enlarge this photo. Musicians look like they were playing their mandolins and accordions at a festival. Maybe these images demonstrate what was the start of the Italian festivals I grew to know, which I loved attending as a child. Their pride shows through the faded photos, over one hundred years earlier than today according to the date written on the photo. There is always a large saint or a Virgin Mary statue carried at the front of the parade that starts the festivals the information states, which is also pictured here. Another photo’s caption reads that the “festas” gave the Italians a sense of being united and that there was a comfort when at the festivals because they shared a similar identity in this new land, even when I now know they were looked down upon for what seemed like strange beliefs to others.

  As I continue to view the pictures, my perception morphs. Maybe they weren’t miserable and overworked people. Well, probably overworked, let’s be real here. But maybe they were serious in the pictures because they had a lot at stake and they took every minute in the United States as a chance to succeed; to make it at their jobs, with their families, and even for their celebrations and traditions to persist. And they had a lot to celebrate, finally living in America.

  Oh, now what’s this? Okay, this is the last bit I’ll allow myself to dive into today.

  “I swear it is, Harrison,” I say like he can hear my thoughts.

  How could I not read about the Italian language dwindling with the immigrants in America? It’s one of the fastest dying languages? No, this can’t be true. I honestly haven’t heard it spoken by anyone too much in my life, but what I have heard was beautiful.

  Reading more, I see that when immigrants came to the United States, they were desperate to assimilate, and often abandoned their home language. They would change anything about themselves to be a true American. They not only wanted to learn English but wanted to forget their old language when conversing with others in the new land. One quote is from someone who said their mom would get scolded by her Italian immigrant parents for speaking Italian. They would say “Soltano Inglese,” or only English.

  My mouth drops open.

  Did that ever happen with my dad? I doubt Grandpa and Grandma would penalize him for trying to speak Italian. Right?

  Was this why Grandpa never wanted me to learn Italian? Never wanted to be called Nonno, like many Italian grandpas? Not that I pushed either issue, but
I remember trying to read a letter or two of his, between his sister and him, and he wouldn’t let me. He would just say it wasn’t important and don’t worry about it, while grabbing it out of my hands. I always let it be, without a thought as to his reason. And, of course, he was called Grandpa to me, so that wasn’t a big deal. But wow, he wanted to be American with all his heart.

  Well, I’ll end this round of research on that note. An exhausted sigh escapes. It’s a lot of emotional information to take in for one night. I rub my eyes to gain some visual clarity. The screen sometimes does a number on them.

  I move my laptop to the coffee table, place a throw pillow at the arm of the couch, and plop down to lay flat.

  With the plethora of images whirling through my mind, I want to focus on the beauty of Italy and the promise of Philly that my Grandpa must have had. That foreign land of South Philly is only thirty minutes from my childhood home, jeez. If I knew back then what I know now, I’d have been down there all the time, taking in the sights. I’ll visit what’s left of it someday. That’s in my power and darn it, I will make that a reality.

  Chapter 25

  When lunch time comes, I stroll along the Chelsea sidewalk near my office to meet Maggie for lunch, lost in thoughts, as usual. Today I am especially absent from the moment. I’ve been forcing myself to try to stay present all morning with my clients so now I declare permission to myself to let my mind wander. Ahh. I exhale a large breath.

  I wrap my oversized scarf around me once more to shield myself from the chilling wind blowing through the streets. My curls must be popping out of my ponytail since I forgot my snow hat at home. I’ll look like a lion with an unruly mane by the time I arrive at the diner.