I have lived in New York City for six months. I wake up early some days and feel like I’m still in the Chelsea hotel I stayed in the night before I moved my things into the dorm. Other days I’ll sleep in comfortably like I’ve never been out of the tri-state area in my life. But my true origins are in the Deep South. I was never fond of the South, but since I’ve moved to New York, I’ve become increasingly defensive and proud of where I come from. Growing up in Tennessee, you are taught at a young age that your community needs you. You are not encouraged to leave and explore, and often the ones that do are looked at in a different way. Disregarding this “path”, I left my family in Knoxville for an opportunity to study in one of the greatest cities in the world. As it turns out, my Italian relatives had similar ideas for starting a new life in New York City. After a thought provoking conversation with my grandfather, a second-generation Italian, I’ve learned more about my family and their intentions behind immigrating to the United States.
The immigration story of my family starts with my great, great grandfather, Luigi Celano. Born in a rural village in Southern Italy, his life was incredibly simple. Not the relaxing, peaceful kind of simple. The simple that involves eating rice for three meals a day and sharing clothes with all of his brothers and sisters. His family was living in squalor. According to my grandpa, most of southern Italy consisted of deprived village communities in the 19th century. He had one relative in America, and when he was presented the opportunity to immigrate, he took the chance immediately. New York was a great place to settle because of the U.S.’s open immigration policy. Any villagers that left almost always went to New York (if they had the money). It seemed to be the location of choice among poor southern Italians. Luigi made the journey from the Neopolitan suburbs to Ellis Island in 1875. He spent twenty-five years working for the city and living in a poor Italian tenement. Today, this lifestyle might seem grim, but to him it was a total upgrade. The job opportunity provided stability and security in his life, topped off with the feeling of American freedom. In 1900, he had a son (Pietro) and became ill. My grandpa’s exact words are “He was told by a doctor to return to warm climate. So where did he go? Back to Italy.” At this point, I’m convinced this story is a folk tale, but my grandpa insists that it’s true despite the flawed logic (Arguing with people over the age of 75 is a really bad idea). My great grandfather relocated back to Italy, except he was an American citizen by law. When Pietro was 17, World War I was beginning and the Italian government began drafting young men into the war. He was desperate to escape the draft, so he used his American citizenship to immigrate back to New York City in 1917.
The real story begins when my great grandfather immigrated to New York, because this time the change was permanent. Pietro settled in a poor Italian tenement in Prospect Park, Brooklyn. He married and had my grandfather and another daughter. He spent his days working as a street cleaner for the city and working any other job to make ends meet. His family was modest but stable. The original purpose of emigrating was to leave the poverty stricken Italian lifestyle behind. During this journey, returning to Italy set him back, but he was determined to have a prosperous life in a land of opportunity. Pietro’s sister was left behind in Naples. She possessed a mentality that led her to stay true to her homeland, much like the Southerners of this country. He did not argue with her because she was starting a family and wanted to remain raise them in a true Italian household. This distance separated their close relationship, and they were not reunited until fifty years later.
Pietro’s decision to leave his sister was not the only hardship endured. Once the Great Depression hit in the early 30’s, Pietro was out of work and had a family to support. He made the tough choice of moving his family to Newburgh, New York. This entirely foreign place sixty miles from the City provided him with no connections like he worked so hard to obtain. There was no Italian sense of community in this new place. But he did have a reliable job in the Depression, and he kept his spirit strong with the will to provide for his family.
My Italian ancestors had humble aspirations in immigrating to the United States. The main goal was simply to be able to eat. Once one has eaten and is finally full, he can realize even greater ambitions that he never dreamed of. This was the case for my great grandfather, Pietro Celano, who was technically born an American citizen, but was raised in the same poverty stricken Neapolitan village that his father had attempted to escape from. When Pietro finally arrived in America, he visualized a life where not only he, but also his descendants could be immensely successful. He pushed his children to take their education seriously, which in turn produced the first two American college graduates in my family. My grandfather adapted the same values and instilled them even more in his children. There are ten degrees among my grandfather’s five sons and daughters. Of course, this tradition of academic excellence is now upon my generation of the family. I am held to a very high standard, especially with my grandfather (who cares more about my grades than my own parents). My grandfather now lives in the suburbs of Naples, Florida (completely coincidental). He tells me that in his old age, his father’s actions are clearer to him: The hunger only begins with food.
