by C. D'Angelo
“Aww.”
“We also ate so much our stomachs hurt. Lots of fried dough. You know, the kind with sauce and grated cheese on it.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Resting her chin on the palm of her hand, Maggie continues, “Rach, it sounds like you have fantastic memories here. I’m happy to hear that for you.” She reaches over to my hand and grabs it, squeezing it as a sign of support.
“It happens in May. I might have to come back for the festivities. And see, they even have a Saint processional.” I motion to the picture next to the flyer. “I don’t remember that from when I was a child, but I read about it online. Italians brought that tradition to the States. I could see one in person soon.”
Mags and I both walk over to examine the pictures on the posters for a closer look. One shows a picture of a huge Saint statue adorned with excessive amounts of gold being carried by many people, with money pinned to the statue’s garb. I touch the photo and say, “I read this was a practice carried over from the homeland to show the prosperity of being in the United States. The immigrants were proud to show they earned money and could send it home to their families in Italy, so they celebrated by pinning it to the statue, which usually was donated to the church.”
“Sounds fun. What’s this though?” she asks pointing to a picture of a pole with people piled one on top of another.
“Ha. That’s the greased pole! It’s an old Italian tradition to see who can get to the top. The participants win prizes. I don’t really see the thrill, but it’s customary.”
“Rachel, this place has such a good vibe. Like, the whole area down in South Philly, not just this restaurant, you know? I feel it.”
“Yeah, I know. It feels comforting here.”
She agrees by a head nod and we go to the table to wait for the check. It is time to explore a little now. My stomach is ready and so am I.
Walking to and through the Italian market makes me think of items my grandparents would speak about often. Cured meats are hanging in shop windows everywhere and Catholic saints and the Virgin Mary decorate many a vendor booth. Green, white, and red Italian flags hang throughout the market, with Italian music providing candy for our ears.
On the sidewalk, there’s a small Italian flag colored newspaper stand. It’s the only one there decked out in the traditional colors. I peer inside and open the door. This is a newspaper just for the Little Italy section of the city. It is still in production. How amazing.
I show Mags and she finds it “adorbs” as well. Flipping through, I see certain businesses highlighted in articles, as well as advertising the festival. They even have a section for an “Italian Recipe of the Month.” How cute it is to see an older Italian woman holding up her wooden spoon with one hand and pointing to a pot on her stove with the other hand. I bet there was something good cooking in that pot.
I stuff the newspaper in my purse to stop myself from reading it more so that I don’t waste precious time. We came to shop in a few stores and explore, not to read. I can do that later.
There aren’t that many stores, though. Little Italys in the United States have been decreasing in existence and in size. New York has one of the biggest areas, and it isn’t even that big anymore. So, I want to contribute to the success of at least one store and buy something as a memento of this trip. When I find the item that’s a must have, I’ll know right away.
And it doesn’t take long. “I found the perfect souvenir,” I call out to Mags. My new magnet will kindly remind me that the nicest people have “a root in the boot,” decorated with a tri-colored map of Italy on it. I can look at it every day on our fridge and remember this special day.
Before buying it, I see a postcard near the register that sparks a memory. There is a picture of a bocce court on it. Grandpa loved that sport. He told me it was something he did as a young adult with the neighborhood guys. My dad even got in on the action sometimes as a kid. And, yours truly also dabbled in it.
I went with him many times to the Italian American club, where there were bocce ball courts available for use, as well as someone always around and willing to be a partner in play. Throwing the marker ball was my job; a real honor. Then, we both would throw our bigger bocce balls to try to get closest to the marker ball. I became semi-good at my underhanded throw, I must say. How I wish I could live in those carefree times again.
As I slip my new magnet into my pocket and walk out of the store, I think about how strange it is that items like these can be bought in a place where families traveled thousands of miles to live many years ago. They came to survive and knew of no luxury items. Souvenirs? They would laugh in confusion. I bet there wasn’t even the idea of a souvenir back then. They would never believe it if they were told of what the future would bring. If I could only have one conversation with Great-Grandpa Gino… I’d tell him this and so much more.
“I think we make a right there to get to the old tailor business,” I mention after walking a few blocks. The red brick buildings that line the street somehow make me feel closer to my grandpa, like he is walking with me. He used to walk on this same path, I assume. Oh, how I wish he was walking next to me at this second.
The estimated address of his old business isn’t far from the corner. But where’s the building? Stopping at the dilapidated construction in front of me, my heart feels heavy. There are barely four walls standing anymore. The brick walls are at all different heights and crumbling from the top down. I think this place must have meant everything to my grandpa and Great-Uncle Vince, and probably to their dad as well. Now it is as if it never existed.
For the building to be in this condition, it must have been abandoned for many years, maybe decades. There’s been so many businesses in general that have come and gone in the new land of the United States. My family had a part in that cycle. Did any other line of work take the place of Grandpa’s tailoring services here and go out of business as well?
“Oh wow, Rach. This is… Wow.” Mags breaks the silence. “Did you ever visit here before? It isn’t that far from your parents’ house, right?”
I continue to stare, but answer, “No. Or, I don’t know. But it isn’t far, yes.” My thoughts are jumbled and exit as barely sensical answers. I don’t want to see my Grandpa’s once-dream in this state.
“When you came to the festival as a kid, did you ever come here?” Maggie asks.
“I—I don’t know. I wish I knew. But, it just wasn’t a thing to visit these places with him. When Grandpa was alive, we just went on with our current lives and he would talk about when he closed the store years before, but he never said much more. He was such a quiet man. I didn’t even think to ask these questions because I—I don’t know,” I repeat. My chest aches. A tear rolls down from one eye. The exhilaration of being in the area has deflated like a popped balloon.
Maggie hugs me and remains silent. “I didn’t expect to have this sort of reaction here. Maybe in Italy, but in Philly?”
“Don’t you always tell me you can’t control your emotions? That they come and go like, what was it, waves in the ocean? I think you need a bit of your own medicine right now.”
I grin for a second. “Yeah, I do. Thanks. I am so glad you are here with me.”
“Me too. I wouldn’t miss it. I mean, you almost didn’t invite me, but whatevs.”
“Brian wanted to come and you know we’re trying to make us stronger.”
“Likely story. Your best friend will just be waiting on the wayside. Don’t worry about me.”
I laugh and push her shoulder.
“Come on, take a picture. I know you want to,” she says.
I snap a picture of the ruins before moving on to our next intended stop. I can take solace in knowing I can return here any time that I want. It’s fine…
As we walk to the resident address listed for Grandpa and Great-Uncle Vince on the 1920 census, I realize it isn’t that far of a
walk from his old business address. In only two blocks from the old shop, we arrive at what must have been his home.
I look to the right and the left of the building to make sure his house number falls between them. Huh?
A fresh coat of white paint disguising the probably once beautiful bright red brick doesn’t cover up the shocking size of the building. I peek around the side and notice how narrow the building’s width seems. What looks like a complex of apartments now must have been a house back then in order to fit all those people in it, right? I can’t imagine housing, what, at least five to seven people in a small city apartment? My family and the Serafinos all lived there.
“I wish I could see the inside of one of these residences,” I say, still awe-struck. “The tiny windows don’t allow for much to be revealed to outsiders.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that will happen anytime soon.” Maggie’s tone conveys her empathy.
“Yeah,” I utter while looking all the way up to the top of the three-story building. “Let’s go up to the residence list to see if the apartment numbers are listed.”
“Yup, there it is; number 115.” Maggie re-confirms what I see.
Grandpa lived in an apartment with all of those people, not a house. This isn’t the way I imagined his home at all in my imagination. Sure, in some romanticized versions, but not in reality-based daydreams.
“Yes,” I finally respond.
My mind races to schemes that may allow us entry to the building. On TV that happens all the time. People ring the doorbell and before they know it, they are inside searching their old residence, with friendly new owners allowing them to roam wherever they want. But we can’t just knock on a stranger’s door and ask to see their apartment. That isn’t even safe. I will have to settle on walking in Grandpa’s shoes, so to speak, and imagining what his early life would have been like out here from the street.
“Wow. This is where it all started. This is where Grandpa lived as a teen, new to the country, the language, and the customs. In a way, I come from here as well. This is where I started.”
“You know it.” Maggie pauses speaking, allowing me to take in the moment. She knows me well and knows what I need. She also knows when I need to be pushed to move on. “Are you ready to start heading to the train station?” She gently grabs my arm in a tight and reassuring embrace. “We don’t have that much more time before our train leaves.”
“Yeah, I am ready.” I take a large, deep breath. “This was a millimeter of a taste of what Italy may be like, so I can only imagine the feelings that will flow over me when I’m there.” I steal a few more seconds of staring and manage to say, “Let’s go home.”
I leave my grandpa’s probable first American home with a sense of connection to the land. This land provided him, and therefore me, the opportunity to have my current life. It’s an incredible gift that I haven’t thought about quite enough in my life, but I can change that from this time forward.
Chapter 33
Today is the day that I’ve been dreading. Day thirty-seven until the trip. Yeah, I had a great experience in old Little Italy and yes, I am about to head to my ancestral homeland, but today is a double whammy for Anxiety Girl. Where’s my cape?
February 23rd is not only my birthday, but the five-year anniversary of when Brian and I began dating. How would that sort of thing not happen to Rachel Granza? I don’t need attention from either “holiday,” so since they are combined it’s my personal hell.
Let’s take the birthday topic alone. Guess who’s a huuuge birthday person. Yup, my sweet Brian. No matter how many times I reassure him that I don’t need to do much more than a quiet meal together, at home even, he makes a big deal out of it. In the past he’s invited friends to celebrate, he’s bought gifts that, while thoughtful, are unnecessary—and that was just for the birthday part.
Don’t get me started on when I turned thirty. Can we say surprise weekend itinerary? Just thinking about it makes my heart palpitate. It ended up being wonderful, of course. It was the surprise part that shook me the whole time. I always appreciate his efforts, but I wish he would save himself the trouble. If being thoughtful is his worst quality, though, I’m one lucky lady.
Combining my birthday with our anniversary means I will for sure have a celebration bigger than I prefer, especially on this milestone anniversary. Thank God it’s not also a milestone birthday. My soul would explode.
So, I know I can’t escape the celebration tonight. Fine. I have to admit, there’s the tiniest, itsy bitsiest part of me that feels we should celebrate a little bigger tonight for getting through this fourth year of dating, but as soon as I think that, the anxiety whips me back to my typical desire for, say it with me, no big deal. Imagine what would happen if I let him really go wild with the “holidays.” My God, I’d be on the news or something every year, with all of New York City singing “Happy Birthday.” There are birthday people and non-birthday people, and we are one of each. I don’t know about the anniversary people categories. I haven’t made them up yet.
Anyway, at least I know what to expect tonight, dinner at an American bistro and an off-Broadway show. It’s some small production, one I haven’t heard of, but that is excellent with me. What matters most is that it’s just us tonight, the way I like it.
I pick up my drink from the table, but before I get the glass to my lips, Brian stops me.
“Wait a second there, birthday and anniversary lady. We need to toast to you and to us.”
“Of course.” I smile.
We gently tap our glasses together and say “Salute” in unison.
I take my first sip and close my eyes to savor the taste. The Chianti sends notes of fruity pleasure down my throat. “Ooh, this is good. Do you like it too?”
“Yes, it’s great. And even better because of the company.” He reaches across the small table for two and opens his palm, gesturing for me to lay my hand on top.
I grip his hand.
“Rachel, you’ve been doing so much better lately.”
Um, huh? That’s abrupt, mister. I cringe and my hand tightens. He squeezes back, possibly thinking I’m tightening it as a positive response to his statement. I should have known he’d want to talk about the shape of us tonight, but that’s one part I didn’t expect, like a stunad.
After my self-labeling, comes the guilt. It’s been a while, you rascal. I hate that I’ve caused him so much heartache that he starts our dinner conversation in this way. I hate that I’ve changed our home’s atmosphere and maybe even his happiness because I couldn’t get myself together. I hate that I’ve caused him any worry or added extra stress in his life. But instead of saying all of that and risking the floodgates of tears from opening for the thousandth time in this past year, I simply respond, “Oh, how so?” I think I sound convincing, but he knows me just as much as I know him, so we’ll see.
He goes on, smiling ear to ear, which sends a ripple of delight through my body. “You seem like since we have decided to go to Italy you’ve been in such a better mood overall. A more stable mood. I know you had some disappointments, but I’m so glad to see you getting back to yourself, overall.” He pauses and turns his face slightly away from me, crinkling his eyes and waiting for my reply, it seems. Does he think I’m going to hit him or something? Calling me ‘stable’ does make me want to punch him in the face though. Okay, not really, but the truth hurts.
“Yeah, it’s fantastic that we are going. I think I have felt better, especially since Christmas. I’m trying to be okay, you know. I don’t want to be like how I’ve been and especially don’t want to take things out on you. I’ve been trying to do some therapy on myself. You know, a technique or two.” Or five million.
What a mature response, though. Go, Rachel, go. Good job at holding composure while using that good old open communication. I feel like bumping my fist in the air.
I continue, “I think bei
ng able to go to Italy gives me a purpose of some sort. I need to find out the reason Grandpa never talked about his childhood and I think the chances are better there than anywhere. So, you know…” I look down and push around my utensils on the table with my hand I released from his. I can’t believe I just said such a cheesy statement about purpose out loud.
He dips his head down to catch my gaze, puts his fingers under my chin, and slowly moves it up. Continuing to use his sparkly blues to pierce into my eyes, he replies, “Oh, I do know. And I know you know I am here for you. You haven’t pushed me away as much, and that’s a relief. Please let me go on this trip with you. I don’t mean physically. I mean to let me in. I want to help you. I want you to find what you need to find when we are over there.”
He’s pouring out his heart while my heart jumps in a tangled array of emotion. How can it feel ready to beat outside of my chest surrounded by a familiar warmth of safety all in one swooping moment? I know I won’t faint at least. I can’t and won’t allow myself to repeat that past madness. You’ve got this Rachel. Keep moving forward.
I nod in response.
“Rachel, I want this year of you being thirty-three to be your best year yet. And this is another year of us being together as well, at least it looks that way.”
The small question in his voice gives me a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I despise that I confused him with my personal problems and my own confusion about, well, myself. He doesn’t deserve that.
“Brian, I am so thankful for you in my life. Sometimes you just have to give me space to process things on my own. I won’t always have the answers for how I feel. In fact, I can’t always express them verbally, especially in the moment. I didn’t even know some of what I felt and that what was building was largely related to the lack of identity I had about myself. I thought that years after Grandpa died, I had been able to move on and regain feeling grounded. But I wasn’t my normal self for so long that I forgot what my normal felt like at all. I hope the trip can bring that feeling back. And help me to be even better than before.”