Anna looked at the pale yellow sun, a pearl in the overcast November sky. Eleven days ago, this same sky stretched over mount Etna, stained with streaks of orange and pink, like a Van Gogh. She reminisced of the terracotta villa walls, the flowers growing through the cracks, swaying in the garden. Kittens playing in the paved streets. The sweet song of the Mediterranean air. This was her painting of home, Sicilia. But solitude and coldness was all she gathered after stepping off the Gwen Federica after eleven days, with her husband Dominic, and five year old daughter Rose Marie. Anna’s first glimpse of this new country was la Statua di Liberta, The Statue of Liberty: a desolate green
woman, taking the caresses and beatings of the capricious water. Her overwhelmed emotions spilled out pages of poems about identifying with this stone figure. They were both still, unable to speak (for Anna, it was because of the language barrier). Both women were green, desolate, constricted by outside forces more powerful than them. One felt the forces of the water, and the other felt the forces of a foreign society that would eventually instill itself into a part of her forever. But, she traveled eleven days on a ship, willingly turning herself into a statue, for the sake of la famigilia, the family. Dominick’s mother, American-born but raised in Italy, brought over her youngest son Jack shortly after her husband passed away. About a decade afterwards, in 1963, Dominick voluntarily brought over his family, to reunite.
Sitting by the window of their two-room apartment in King’s Highway, Brooklyn, Anna collected these thoughts and pondered whether the sacrifice was worth it. She peered through the glass, and from the sixth floor, watched Rose Marie and the other children drawing flowers on the sidewalk with purple chalk. The little girl effortlessly soaked up all of their English words and mannerisms; it was a quality that Anna so desperately yearned for, in this fast paced world called America. If you don’t learn to speak the language, you’ll never find a job, they warned, back at home. Her eyes were weary from attempting to decode the mysteries on the store fronts, supermarkets, train stations and newspapers. I’m mute and deaf here, she thought to herself. The children giggled, and Rose Marie’s laughter was a ray of hope, a stream of sunlight falling onto a dusty tabletop.
Anna’s shared abode was filthy and cramped. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth–Dominic’s mother was kind enough to take in the family of three, despite the lack of space. The wallpaper lazily curled and chipped, cockroaches slithering through the crevices, and sometimes even the forks. A blanket of dust topped every flat surface. The single, humble light source in the center of the living room exuded an eerie yellow glow, which barely touched the far corners. Anna was grateful and disgusted; hopeful and hurting. It motivated her to give her daughter a better life. She began this process by cleaning over a period of three days.
Dominic worked seven days a week as a chef: he was out of the house at 7 AM and back at 8 PM. It was an Italian restaurant in the neighborhood, Imperial Terrace. Anna took up a basic English course for a few weeks before Rose fell ill with a fever. She stayed home, devoting all her time to taking care of her only child, while her husband brought in the family’s only source of income. The days grew shorter, the nights longer, money tighter, and Anna’s hope for a better life began to dwindle. Fortunately, her mother-in-law found an Italian doctor in the neighborhood. So, Anna wrapped little Rose Marie in a sweater, gloves and scarf that she sewed herself, and they walked hand-in-hand to the office, amidst the slapping February wind. What a relief it was to find a doctor that speaks my language, she thought.
“Buy some rubbing alcohol at the supermarket, and then follow the directions I wrote down for you here,” said the doctor, in Italian, after observing Rose Marie. “Rub-bing al-co-hol.”
“Grazie, dottore.” Thank you doctor, she said.
There was a supermarket at the corner. She went inside, merely equipped with the few American words she knew. She grew more and more confused as she noticed many signs that read “sale,” which specifically means salt in Italian. Why are these Americans so obsessed with salt? She shook her head. Still clasping little Rose’s hand, she attempted to look for this alcohol, but it was nowhere in sight, so she turned to a man who was unloading milk from a cart. “Emm, escusa mi, where is alcol?” The man was perplexed. “What?” “Alcol.” “I don’t know what that is.” “Alcol.” “Sorry lady. We don’t have any.”
She went back to the doctor, reddened by the American man’s attitude. “I went to the store and I asked them for alcol but they didn’t understand me.”
“Try to say it like this: al-co-hol.”
“Grazie dottore.”
The agitated and overwhelmed Anna paced back to the supermarket, and approached the same man who was rolling the cart to the back room. Tapping him on the shoulder, she loudly questioned, “Where is ALCO-HO-HO-HO-HOLLLLL?” The man raised his eyebrows, somewhat taken aback. “Oh. Alcohol.” He rolled his eyes and muttered, “over there.” Anna went to the aisle he pointed to. She picked up a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and uttered a sigh of relief.
[Listen to Anna tell The Alcohol Story in Italian!]
After Rose Marie’s recovery, the whole family took a walk around the neighborhood, and they stumbled upon a wedding gown factory 10 minutes away. Summoning up the courage, she approached one of the seamstresses and sheepishly asked, “Somme one here speake Italiano?” The woman paused the sewing machine and looked up. “Tutti siamo Italiani, we are all Italian,” she replied, referring to the 40 employees, the owner, and manager. Anna was relieved, thankful for the godsend and that she already had years of tailoring experience in her nimble hands. She scanned the factory: it was capacious, clean, and housed an array of machines that were much more complex than the ones she was used to in Italy. The woman directed her to the back office, where she met Hugo: a wiry, affluent man from Milan who managed the factory. Anna shook his hand, expressing her delight to see people like her in the neighborhood. The interview was a conversation of their strong ties to their Italian heritage, Anna’s struggles with the immigration process, and her love for la moda, fashion. “Welcome to the family,” he said.
The bundles would arrive with all the components of the dress, and her fingers raced against the fabric, assembling the pieces to make a dress every hour and a half. Soon, her coworkers noticed her flair, and called her “la sverta,” the quick one. She operated on the embroidery, meticulously mapping a story into each stitch to make a glistening mosaic; it was passion. Some days, she finished early so she snuck into the back room to collect scraps from the wedding dresses and transform them into dresses for Rose Marie. Every day at 3 PM was rest time. Hugo supplied Italian pastries and coffee for all, giving the ladies a chance to relax and socialize. An amiable disposition scored Anna popularity among the ladies. She intrigued them with stories of humorous encounters, Sicilian card games, and family stories. Although Anna kept her struggles of immigration to herself, the ladies saw how much of a toll it took on her. They often gave her gifts in the form of exotic fabrics, and sometimes, even coats. She was grateful especially for the latter, because New York City winters brought some of the most frigid days she has ever experienced in her life.
Despite not having time to see her daughter, Anna cherished working at the wedding gown factory, until its permanent closing four years later due to insufficient funds. Soon thereafter, she found herself in a cashmere factory, which was also within walking distance from the apartment. Unlike the wedding gown factory, the workers stitched the materials by hands, and they underwent long, tedious procedures to finish a task. Nevertheless, she handled each garment with duende. These six years of working with the ladies in the cashmere factory opened up doors to a political realm, and eventually, applying for American citizenship.
One morning in June, Anna was approached some coworkers who asked if she would participate in a strike. Despite not recognizing the word, she was enticed by the energy of the crowd and the thought of going somewhere new. Besides, she hardly strayed away from her apartment and the factory. Someone handed everyone in the group, including Anna, a picket sign. The factory’s double doors swung open, spilling blinding sunlight into their faces. They consolidated with a larger group that was already outside, marching and belting out words in unison, English words that she could not understand. She was awestruck by the commotion. “Anna! Lift your sign and repeat the words!” Someone called out to her, motioning for her to raise her heavy picket sign. She proudly lifted her sign, embraced by a sense of belonging and power. She craned her neck and observed a mosaic of grimacing faces, moving mouths. The humid June air carried the stench of sweat and rotten meats from the shops down the avenue. Policemen in navy blue uniforms attempted to alleviate the chaos. Red and blue lights. Drowned out sirens behind the collectively angry human sounds. She attempted to produce the words being repeated among the crowd, bellowing as loudly as her lungs would allow. Anna enjoyed the idea of belonging to a community, finally having a chance to speak. Here in America, she was so used to being sorda e muto: deaf and mute.
The next day at the cashmere factory, some of Anna’s friends from the strike approached her. “Anna, I never knew you had a beautiful voice.” Anna sheepishly accepted the compliment. “Thank you.” “Can you please sing a song for us, in Italian?” In her most delicate voice, Anna sang Casetta Piccolina in Canada.
She worked in the cashmere factory for six years. One day in the early 1970’s, Anna looked up from her latest project to find one of the younger apprentices looking over her shoulder. “I don’t think I sewed this properly. Can you help me?” She pointed to a button on a sweater that was tangled in a wad of string. Anna agreed to help. She climbed onto the wobbly stool, reaching for a roll of string. Her foot slipped, sending the stool—and her body—to the floor. An electrifying pang of pain rippled through her entire body; her limbs were immobile, vision blurred. It was the last time she saw the factory.
Because her severe spine accident prevented her from working another day in her life, the injury lawyer was able to get her a compensation of $100,000 in a lump sum, or $280 a month for life. Anna chose the latter. It recently proved to be the better choice because she has currently accumulated $100,800. However, the lump sum was a tempting option because it could have bought the family a decent sized home at the time.
With this newfound free time, she learned to relinquish the stereotype that she had of herself: that she will never learn to speak English. She sat with Rose Marie and Dominic, watching American television almost nightly. She began by writing down all the words that had similarity to Italian words: “penna” and “pen”, “lione” and “lion.” The list grew quickly, to her surprise. She often went into the bathroom and recited her newfound vocabulary in the mirror, hoping to achieve the level of charisma and grace that the female news anchors possessed. Finally, the day had come when she summoned the determination to take the citizenship test.
“Go home and study for the test,” the administrators told her, after her very first attempt. Anna picked herself up from her chair, disappointed that she did not know the answer to any of the questions on the test, and headed home. One particular question lingered in her mind, so she asked her daughter when she returned to the apartment: “Who was the first president of the United States?” She asked, in Italian.
“George Washington,” said Rose Marie.
Every day until the next exam, she would ask Rose Marie this same question, because she could not seem to remember it.
Rose Marie offered a hint: “George Washington, like the George Washington Bridge.”
“Oh, the George Washington Bridge!” She exclaimed, and kept the hint in the back of her mind.
She also asked Rose Marie to write “I love America” on a napkin. Anna practiced writing this phrase for days.
On the day of the exam, she wrote down the golden answer with confidence:
Who was the first president of the United States?
“George Washington Bridge” She wrote.
At the very bottom, in her largest, best penmanship, she wrote “I love America.” A few weeks later, her citizenship approval letter arrived in the mail. There it was again—that sense of belonging. But this time, she belonged to a bigger picture. She was a small shard of glass in this mosaic of a country. Anna understood that American citizenship meant a great deal more than certified papers. To this day, she follows both American and Italian news; she especially loves tuning in to hear the speeches of Obrama (her pronunciation of our president’s name) and the current U.S. Secretary of Defense (and fellow Italian), Leon Panetta. Anna admires the president for “his intelligence, devotion to America’s youth and schools, and consideration for working people.” She and Domenico avidly follow RAI Italia, the Italian news network. Although Anna makes an effort to familiarize herself with current events, she has never used her citizenship to take advantage of her voting rights. Why? “Si rompono le corne tra di loro,” she says. “They can quarrel amongst themselves.” She has only voted once in her lifetime, when her brother, who was in the police force, took her by the hand to a voting booth. “We voted for Berlusconi, a democrat.” She recalls.
Like politics, Anna found a way to integrate American and Italian traditions in religion. The Catholic church in King’s Highway was her safe haven, a sacred place where she turned to have private conversations with Jesu Cristo. “In Italy, the churches are beautiful,” she said, “high ceilings with paintings of angels on them. The statues of the saints are much, much bigger. But when you actively practice a religion, you can bring it anywhere and everywhere with you.” The church in King’s Highway was a conglomeration of different races and nationalities that worshipped in unison. She found herself in another community of people like her, who found their own safe haven within these sacred walls, turning to the same Jesu Cristo. She prayed, especially in times of hopelessness, solitude, and desperation: the start of her new life in America, when she felt deaf and mute. During one mass, a bride and groom sat in one of the side pews, carefully watching a man who was translating the mass into sign language. They’re deaf, she thought. Instead of pitying herself for not understanding the language, she bowed her head and thanked God for giving her the sense of hearing, something that she had taken for granted so easily. Every night for as long as she can remember, Anna recites the Rosary in Italian for two hours before she goes to sleep. Her personal relationship with God is one way in which she strengthens the ties to Italy, home to the Pope and myriads of centuries-old churches.
Anna’s journal is her strongest tie to her native country, through the power of speech and language. Her days in America are transformed into lines and metaphors in a continuous poem; they are documentations of events that are both glorious and tragic, life-changing and trivial. Although she had not completed an education past the fifth grade, Anna confides in her journal with themes that emit a sentiment so deep, humble, honest. They are memories of first impressions, working as a woman, falling in and out of love, raising a child in a foreign environment, the struggle to find belonging, and the challenge of making her voice heard in times of oppression. Writing, like the church, is her escape from the volatility of everyday life, her time capsule into her Italian roots.
The next time she encountered the Statue of Liberty while riding the ferry, it offered a different experience. A lifetime ago, she had seen a green woman with the inability to speak. Then something changed, something that she could not quite put her finger on. Whatever it was, it allowed her to see a strong, noble woman emerging from the chaos of the water, giving a chance to anyone who was brave enough to take that risk.
The following is a translated poem written by Anna:
Statue of Liberty
Lady queen
of the sky, of the earth
in this turbulent moment
the water turns livid
like my thoughts.
The people laugh happily
and I clench my fist in my coat,
I think of the soldiers at war
hopeless, confused kids
babies without medicine
please
sweet queen, dear statue,
bring (liberty) to the world
