Do you have any idea what it is like, to grow up as an Italian in the United States, your whole life, knowing only what you learn about being Italian from family or Pisanos in the neighborhood? No? Well, let me tell you…me either!
I grew up in a largely Italian neighborhood in NY. I hung with many Italians, DiBennedettos, Biaginis, DeLucas, Angelillos. In college, friends thought I was Italian. My daughter’s friends occasionally likened me to a Soprano. (Such an unfair stereotype!) And, just last week, on many occasions, real-life Italians, who spoke Italian (complete with lobster-claw fingers wagging in the air), regularly asked me if I was Italian–assuming such.
What was great fun, after explaining my own confusing lineage, was watching my true-blue Italian American friend who I was traveling with, excited to finally be in his land of origin, while “feeling” his Italian-ess, and, observing behaviors that he identified with and somehow, finally felt “natural.” It was good stuff.
(What wasn’t so much fun was how many of us fell into speaking Italian-American, by adding an “A” to the end of every word, as though the real-Italians would understand us better. “Canna we-a have-a table for eight-a pleasa” “Grazie, grazie.”
Whattyagonnado-a.
Your article helped me a lot, is there any more related content? Thanks!
Bingo nights just got so much more fun with this platform. I print my grids every weekend and love how the numbers draw right in front of my eyes. It gives me that cozy club feeling while chasing those sweet matches from the comfort of my couch.