I am first generation born in the United States. I remember growing up in what can probably be referred to (affectionately), as an Italian ghetto. As a child, I remember walking to Sunday mass on a warm summer morning and enjoying the smells of sauce (and meatballs), probably simmering from the night before, radiating from many homes along East 87th street. I knew my mother was making sauce as well, and I looked forward to, after mass, picking up a loaf of semolina bread, still hot from the oven. I couldn’t wait to return home and when my mother wasn’t looking, breaking off an end of the loaf, dipping it into the sauce, and burning my tongue as I quickly shoved it into my mouth to avoid detection.
My grandparents didn't speak English but just about everyone in the family, and probably in the neighborhood, spoke and/or understood enough Italian, usually a dialect, mine was Sicilian, to get along. I was pretty much an adult before I learned that "baqasu" wasn't the Italian word for bathroom, that it was broken English for "back (out) house."
Though it wasn’t an issue at the time, I’m sure that more than a few family members and friends were “undocumented,” or “illegals” as some in the current climate of intolerance would probably refer to them. My father became a citizen while he was serving in the American Army fighting during the invasion of Sicily, through the villages and towns of his birth. I know as well with the job market so difficult for immigrants with little education, neither of my parents graduated high school, some people I’m sure even flirted with the mafia in order to make a living. I know in my heart they were good, gentle, and honorable people, though I am sure many would refer to them as criminals.
Though I am not sure why, many Americans have forgotten that we are all from somewhere else and have grown cold and insensitive to the plight of immigrants. This includes, I’m sad to say, even friends with similar backgrounds as mine. I grieve about how this nation has forgotten its values and what we stand for as Americans. For me, it has absolutely nothing to do with political ideology or who resides in the White House. For me, it’s about remembering my heritage, the people I knew and loved. For me, it’s about who I am, and where I came from. For me it’s about the values that I fought for, and for which many of my friends died.
By Dr. Camillo Mac Bica
Chapter 138, New York