September 1, 2011
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Arriviamo
I feel very different than I did yesterday. I was researching my ancestry and found out the name of my great grandparents. Gaetono Greco was born in Palermo and married Anna Santospirito sometime while they lived in Italy. They had three daughters. After that, for some reason, they moved to the United States and moved to Western New York where he worked as a stone mason. They had three more daughters, one of whom, Josephine, was the mother of my father.
I feel so changed to know all that. Gaetono. I didn’t care anything before, but now I want to know all about him. Who was he? What was he doing in Italy? Why did he and Anna decide to up and move to the U.S.? Someone in a history book will say ‘economic reasons’ but surely it felt different than that? As land dawned to the passengers on the ship, did he whisper ‘Arriviamo’ in Anna’s ear? Did he want to have a son? I don’t even know when he died.
I didn’t know my grandmother had five sisters. Three of them grew up in a country different than their birthplace. They all grew up speaking a different language at home than they did everywhere else. How can my life, taking place just a few years later, be so different than theirs? I grew up in a town called Hilliard (well….pop. 50,000) with my five siblings and then majored in philosophy at Ohio State and now have no idea what to do. Gaetono had the confidence to start a family and then move it a continent away.
When I think of a black and white picture of New York back then, people driving around their Model Ts, all the businessmen in top hats and black coats, I always forget that I’m existentially wrapped up with very specific people making their daily life in that world, or at least, in the Italian section of it. Really, I didn’t forget. I just never felt it because I’ve never had the names to think about. Gaetono and Anna. That was their world.
Why was I such a fool on Tuesday? On Tuesday, if my grandmother was still alive, I still wouldn’t have cared. We grew up taking family trips to Buffalo, and I would sit in her small kitchen at the small round table and there would be a TV with The Price is Right on. Tall grooved coke bottles were always by the door. Green shag carpet in the family room, and a large TV with fine wood that you had to twist a nob to turn on. In the basement she had a large counter and someone would stand behind it and pretend they were serving us drinks. She always made the best soup.
But I was so young when she lived in that house, I never directed the conversations when we were there. I only thought she had the one sister. How much I would ask her if I could go back. I would want to know everything. But her and all her five sisters are gone now. My dad never liked saving things. He was a star runner but one day when he went back to his room in Buffalo he threw away all his trophies. By the time I became a runner I wanted to see them, but they were gone.
More than anything, I want to know all the little things. Did the sisters ever sneakily stay up late and tell each other scary stories? What were their embarrassing secrets they would laugh at each other about?
Human life is so very interesting.
Thinking about it all makes me want to have a family. I certainly have not built my life around the idea. But to have kids and bring them back to their grandparents, Rich and Janet, and for them to know my five siblings and how goofy we all are, I think would be a terrific way to grow up. Years down the road, they’ll have kids, and their kids will ask about Paul and Philip. Were they close brothers? And maybe Paul, who is younger than me, will still be around, and their parents will go say ‘Go and ask him’ and Paul will tell about the ’What if?’ tea party, and mariokart, and the forts we built, and they can marvel at how far back the past goes, and how much went on in it that only specific people know about.
And then, of course, they’ll go read my blog.
You’ll beg my pardon, but this human life thing is all still very new to me, and I have a feeling it always will be. What a world.
Comments (2)
Roots are good. Knowing a little about where we come from. You may find out more about your ancestors at Ellis Island. We found my grandfather’s information on their website, including family info and an old photo of the ship he emigrated alone from northern Italy in 1913 at the age of 17. He didn’t speak English when he got here either.
A rediscovery journey sounds nice. I also find the sheer linkage between the “past” “them” and the “present” “us/me” very interesting. The lives of our ancestors extend into history, we may get a clearer picture only from some closer relatives. The bloodline of familial existence runs on and on. One day, we may be somebody else’s ancestors too, and they may be excited to know how it was like way back in the 21st century.