Post #3- "Italian-American"

“Don’t upset yawh mutha, Jay. She deserves yawh absolute respect.”

“Jaaaaaay, yawh granmaw would really like to heah from ya. She luvs to heah yah voice.”

“Family, Jason….. that’s the mowst impawtint thing. Family.”

These are the mantras that most Italian-Americans hear from infancy all through childhood. (Heck, I just heard that middle line three days ago.) My mother was the first in our family born in America: fostered in the ethnic pockets of Brooklyn, NY, supported by immigrant parents with thick Italiano accents who paid the bills month-by-month (and sometimes right up to 31^st of each) by filling the blue–collar labor gaps of a growing city with expansive, burgeoning social demands—barbering, dressmaking, bootlegging.  As with many, or all, of the immigrant cultures in our “Land of Opportunity”, they left their homeland, left everything they knew (their comfort zone), and braved the unknown, to broaden the horizons of their children and their grandchildren (ME); in many ways, they accepted the burdens of the past and present in their lives to insure a lighter load for the future, for their progeny.

And of course, it’s not a fluid transition, a traditional culture auditioning for a new role in a new play. The past clings to you (embraces you?), the quirks of your heritage shape you whether you want them to or not. As any “ethnic” person does, there are some stereotypes I resent—the mafia, the mamma’s boy, the guido, the greasy hair, the loudmouths and the expressive hands and the tacky jewelry. (But you know what? As they say, stereotypes are usually derived from some truth—and believe me, I’ve got some jabronis in my family!!!) But beyond the clichés, we also know (we ALL know) that the inherited values of our family and our heritage  are sacred, and ultimately universal: knowing where you come from, knowing that family is the bedrock in our lives, knowing that we all dream of a brighter future for our children.  The experiences of “Immigration” and “Transition”—the dramatic nature of physical and emotional up-rootedness-- merely serve to highlight what are fundamental HUMAN truths.

Post #2- "In-Betweener"

I’m an in-betweener-- I’m a southern-friend Yankee. I love the city: the energy of Washington Square and the glamour of Fifth Avenue and the rush of the #9 train and the stateliness of the skyscrapers and the splendor of Central Park and the chic youthful energy of Williamsburgh, Brooklyn and the majesty of the Statue of Liberty as you pass the island from the Staten Island Ferry (my hometown)—this is the city of dreams, the gateway to the Land of Hope and Plenty, the boisterous, dreamlike, scruffy wonderland NYC.

And yet. New York has its reputation (its denizens, its scenery)—definitely pretty gruff, pretty aggressive, entirely coarse. This place (these people) will run you over if you don’t’ step aside, will knock you down if you’re not alert, not sharp, not rough-around-the-edges. I’m too sensitive for this world, sometimes. Partially it’s my natural demeanor, but certainly it’s also a reflection of having spent my last 20-some-odd years in the South. The leisurely, genteel south. The summer-porch, sweet tea, soothing South. The laid back, mostly polite, good-natured charming South. The atmosphere certainly feels less hectic, the people certainly bark less and chortle (rather than snicker) more. And oh my, those creamy cheesy grits!

So I live in both worlds, not quite a full member of either but comfortable enough to meander, interact, appreciate the rhythms and cadences of both. I’ll take the tumultuous sights and sounds of NYC, the raw energy of a metropolitan splendor, if I can also have (in delicate balance) the wisteria and white-moss clad oak trees, the gentle midnight cricket hum of ol’ Gainesville.