Our Different Worlds

Our Different Worlds
My papà and I grew up in two different worlds. I never got to know my mamma, she passed away when I was born; papà was the one who raised me. He always flashed back to growing up in New York during the late 1860’s as an Italian. He always told me, “Bella, your culture was what you were defined as back than, saying you were Italian than, differs to how you say it today, and how you’ll say it in the future.” Growing up it helped shape my life, and my children’s lives. I constantly told my children, and tell my grandchildren what papà always told me, but my granddaughter Alexia, never takes me serious. Alexia came home from school the other day, “Nonna, I need to write a paper about my culture, you must help me.” So I agreed, and this was my time to teach her about her culture and papà.
I sat down with her the next day; it was my turn to flash back to papàs life in New York during the 1860’s. Your great nonno, my papà, lived a depressing life. He always told me stories of his past, and now it’s my time to share them with you. Papàs mother and father grew up in Italy, but when they found out they were having a baby they realized they needed more money and had to move, due to the lack of employment in Italy. They waited till papà was born, and left Italy. They went through the Ellis Island, the immigration station, which was built on a small island in New York Harbor. They entered the United States but intended to return to Italy after making some money. However, they ended up staying in America and raising papà here. They wanted papà to be raised just as they were in Italy, even though they were in America, this meant as he grew up he was fluent in Italian, but as time went on he taught himself some English.
Once they set foot in the United States they had pressing financial problems. They had come over with a nominal amount of money. Papàs father found work in a factory. The Americans exploited his labor for as little pay as possible. As for where they lived, tenements were their only choice. Until this point Alexia hasn’t said one word, but finally she asked me a question, “Nonna, what are tenements?” Ah, bella, tenements were these big buildings where these so called “large” rooms were portioned into many smaller rooms, where families lived. Life in the tenements was harsh. The plaster was always falling down; there was no drinking water for days, pipes froze in the winter; bedbugs were ordinary. “Oh Nonna, that’s horrible,” she said. I told her, Alexia that’s not the worse part about it; just listen my dear. Papà and his family lived in a part of New York known as the “Little Italy” of Harlem. They lived in a tenement with about 150 other families, papà always told me he’d wake up in the morning and see more families moving in to this smelly, crowded living space. They shared one bathroom with all these families, and they lived in an inner living space that was 12 x 12, so small giving them no windows for ventilation. Their landlord took as much as he could get in rent money, which demoralized his family.
For the most part the Italian immigrants were very unaware of the laws and customs of America. They rarely had an opportunity for learning about them except from what they observed, but papà observed a lot, especially when his parents passed away due to the lack of sanitation in the tenements. After growing up in the tenements, and a poor life, papà knew he needed to make something of his life. Because he had some knowledge of the American culture and language he got himself involved with the padroni, also known as an employment agent. Papà got involved with the railroad business. The padrone would make sure that he was escorted to the work site and would closely observe over him until the job was done. Papà soon became self sufficient, and let go of these employment agents, and go out on his own. Papà was proud of his Italian heritage but to make something of his life, he needed to let it go and try to act as much as an American as possible to make way in life. Americans did not accept Italians. Papà soon met my mamma, she was an Italian-American; her mother was Italian and her Father was American, which was not normal back than. Papà and mamma, fell in love, and mamma helped him get along with his life, and soon he felt apart of America. Mamma asked Papà one day, “Why do you not act Italian, it is your culture, it defines YOU, and you must be proud of you.” Papà told me that he said to mamma, that he was scared and wanted to make something for a living, not to be known as an Italian immigrant who suffered, like his parents. She told him not to think like that at all, and she wanted him to be proud of himself. Although Papà and mamma had a hard time living, and went through many changes in New York City, they survived. When mamma got pregnant with me, they left the City and headed west, papà didn’t want to leave but they knew it would be best. Eventually I was born, and mamma passed, I’d say Papà raised me pretty well out west, but I knew I had to come back to the city.
Do you understand this Alexia, I asked. “Yes nonna, I do, I’m like papà I want to make a living as an American.” I laughed, oh my dear Alexia, that’s not my point, you are a fifth generation of our family, America is a lot different today and accepts you. I just want you to realize where your family comes from, and the hard times we’ve all been through. Not only did papà have a hard life, but I did too, I struggled to live as an Italian-American, but I did not let it put me down. I stood proud, and made something of my self, and that’s what I want you to do. I could go into much more detail, but you are only to write a two-page paper my dear. “Yes nonna I know, I understand my culture is what I’M DEFINED AS (she said very loud and proud), although it is not how great nonno was defined, nor you, or mamma was, its about being proud of your ancestors and their past and make the future a better place, right?” Ah, yes my dear Alexia, make it a better place, and be proud, I’ll be proud of you and I know my papà will be too. Now you go write your paper, and tell them how proud you are to be an Italian. “Thank you nonna,” she walked off with a smile, and I looked up to heaven and thanked papà for all those flash backs and words of wisdom.