Being Italian

This past weekend, I went to see the play Jersey Boys. I had seen it a few years ago on Broadway and loved it so much that I could not wait for it to tour through DC.

Aside from the great music and story, I think that I really love the play because it is about the culture in which I was raised - that is the New York/New Jersey Italian-American culture. Even though I moved to Maryland when I was 10, my parents brought the culture with us. Plus until a year ago, I had my grandmother to influence me and she definitely was the quintessential little old Italian lady.

On the way home, I started to feel sad. I realized that should I ever have kids, much of that culture will be lost. Most likely, I'll still be in the DC area so that odds of any child of mine visiting the Italian New York neighborhoods are slim to none. He/she will never sit at my grandmother's table in Corona while Lena from next door brings Neapolitan pizza for us to eat with a heavy dose of gossip included. He/she probably will not understand random words in Italian (this knowledge to me was courtesy of my grandmother) since neither my parents nor I speak it. He/she won't be able to enjoy real Italian antipasti complete with capocolla and mortadella - and of course REAL Italian bread not the garbage that they try to pass of as Italian bread south of Jersey.

I guess that's what happens when generations become more and more American. I'm a third generation American, and it would make sense that future generations would become less ethnic. I mean I'm 75% Italian, but unless I were to marry a fellow Italian, my kids will not even be half. That's just so funny to me.

In the area of Jersey where we lived and the areas of New York where my parents grew up, people were pretty much either Italian, Irish, Jewish, or Polish - and everyone knew what they were. Moving to an area with a more blended population, most people did not know their ethnic heritage. This was a huge culture shock to me when I first moved to Maryland since growing up, being Italian was such a part of my identity.

I suppose this identification was helped because I look pretty ethnic. With the exception of my ridiculously pale skin, I'm kind of the poster child for Italian-American women. Plus, my last name is a dead give away. To be honest, I like having those distinguishing factors. It makes me happy to be separate from the pack - I do not like to be just like everyone else.

It will be up to me to try and carry on some of these traditions. For sure, any children of my sister or mine will be told stories about my grandmother growing up in Little Italy. They are going to learn about our connection to John Gotti's incarceration (yes - this is true), and they will be exposed to good Italian food. Any kids related to me will NOT think that the Olive Garden is authentic Italian food. And they will learn how to pronounce Italian names. Nothing annoys me more than when people butcher my name.

So enough venting for today. I'll leave you with the clip for the Jersey Boys' Tony Awards performance.



And yes, I'm already trying to figure out how/when I can see this show again. . .

One Year Later

My grandmother passed away a year ago today. She was my last remaining grandparent. She did live a long life - she was 92 when she died - but I still really miss her.

For most of my life, we were not very close. I saw her maybe two or three times a year. Once we moved to Maryland, it became maybe once or twice a year. However, for the last year and a half of her life, she lived in an assisted living facility near my parents, and I saw her much more frequently.

For the first time ever, I spent holidays with my grandmother. She came over for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, birthday dinners, etc. It was really nice. I felt like I got to know her a lot better. She was quite the character. I loved hearing stories about her mafia boyfriends and her childhood years in Little Italy. She was also extremely blunt but usually in a very funny way. It was great to see her give my dad a tough time - no one else dares to do that at home (at least not the way that she did).

It was also fun to have her nearby because I got to hear stories about my dad. My father is not much of a talker, and he rarely talks about his childhood. Hearing my grandmother tell funny stories about him made me feel like I got to know him better through her.

When she passed away, it was really tough for me. I felt like I could not grieve with my family. Her relationship with my sister and mother was strained and my father is not really one for emotion. I was not able to really cry until my friends showed up at the funeral. Once I saw them, it was like a giant release of pent up sadness. I am so grateful that they came because it was nice to be able to talk about her without having to worry about whether or not it would upset my family.

One year later, I still really miss my grandmother. I'm grateful for the time that I was able to spend with her and also very sad that the time was so short. It's hard to know that she was ready to go. She was so unhappy being away from Queens for the last few years of her life. It's tough to know that she died feeling lonely.

I chose this picture to display because it is one of my favorites. When Grandma first moved to Pennsylvania, we were so worried that she and my sister's dog Zoe would not get along. Surprisingly, they ended up becoming best buds. I love this photo because you can almost see the cartoonish hearts coming out of their eyes as they look at each other with mutual adoration.

This is how I want to remember my grandmother - happy and expressing her sharp wit and wonderful stories. I love you Grandma!