I am convinced that my dad and his family are rolling over in their graves. My Italian side of the family whose rich heritage meant the world to them. I seem to have forgotten all of my Italian heritage, and I dont know how to reclaim it.
What brought all of this memory loss to mind? Well, I spent several days in Chicago at a conference, and one night, we decided to eat supper at Volares, a wonderful Italian restaurant right near Michigan Avenue in the heart of downtown Chicago. From the moment we walked in the door, I knew we had been transported back to Italy. For me, it was a trip back in time.
My dad was pure Italian, and his mom, my Grandma Cipollone, had come over from Italy on a boat with her mom when she was only a few years old. She grew up in an Italian section of Brooklyn, N.Y., as an immigrant, and lived a very ethnic centered life. When she was an adult, she married Peter, another immigrant from Italy. Together, they had two children – my dad, Peter Jr., and my Aunt Gloria.
My grandma and her sister both were working women before women really worked outside of the home. They both worked in a sewing factory in Brooklyn. My grandpa owned a garage and spent his days repairing cars. My dad and aunt were raised mainly by their grandma, my great-grandma, Madeline Rose Cicarra. She only spoke Italian, and so my dad was raised as an American Italian.
When my dad married, he moved to Ohio, and so I grew up only spending summers and vacations at his parents home in New York. But every time I was there, I lived like an Italian. I knew the traditions, the food, the espresso and the desserts. And the talking and talking, shouting and shouting. Most would call it arguing, they called it love.
So the other night in Chicago, when we were at Volares, part of me felt right at home. It was loud and crowded. The waiters and waitresses were all Italian and spoke some Italian as well. On the other hand, I felt like a foreigner, as I could not pronounce most of the meals on the menu.
Who was I? How could I not have remembered anything from my childhood? My past? My heritage seemed to be MIA, and I was left feeling quite guilty about that. Everyone in my dads side of the family has since passed away, and with them, died my Italian heritage. I imagined my dad sitting next to me, and wanted to order something unique. So I ordered the scaloppine all pizzaiola, only, I am not quite sure what I ate. I think it was veal. I do know what I had for dessert, it was tiramisu, which is a cake like dessert with lady fingers, chocolate and drizzled with espresso.
Maybe, instead of rolling over in their graves, my dad and his family are just chuckling at my inept-Italian-ness, and hoping I do better next time.
My trip to Chicago was a trip back in time to when I used to be Italian. I think its time to be Italian again.
