My father told me to always remember where I came from. I would respond, “I know where I come from…Brooklyn!” Then I was met with a harsh glance and sometimes a slap across the face. Although he was a harsh man, I know that he had a soft spot for me. He would always wake me up before school and tempt me to the kitchen with fresh muesli that only he could perfect. One day I was showcasing my monthly acting-up session on a Saturday morning, and he made me do something I’ll never forget. “Since you think you’re of Brooklyn and not a true napoletano (he would never refer to Naples in English), you’re going to visit your nonna on Broome St.” I was so confused. I was twelve and thought myself to be a genius, but what did my nonna have to do with this?
“Give me your books. You’re going alone.”
My jaw dropped. My father wasn’t keen on letting me walk around alone, unless I was going to school. But at least that was in the neighborhood. I was incredibly nervous, but I knew he was serious. I gave him my books and he gave me a few subway tokens.
“Go into the city and let your nonna teach you something about your heritage.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “The City” was always understood as Manhattan, not the actual city limits. I’ve only been to Manhattan with my father running errands, and most of the time was spent underground commuting. I looked at him nervously one last time and walked out the door of our tenement and down six flights of stairs to Prospect Avenue. On my way to the subway I saw all the familiar sights and smelled the familiar smells. As I passed the pastry shop right next to my building, I cursed at myself for not bringing any pocket change to buy a cannoli to make me feel a little less nervous. Even though I was twelve, I still thought my dad had an all-seeing-eye and would know whether I went to Broome Street to see my nonna. I kept my pace and continued walking towards the subway station. The old beggar that always heckles people coming from my building didn’t even look at me that day. He must have known that I had important business to carry out.
One more block to the subway. I just had to pass the Catholic Church my family attended. I dreaded going to church. However, I did think of one positive thing that this impromptu journey provided me with: I wouldn’t be attending mass today! My family dragged me to mass every Saturday to listen to all of the prayers in the original Latin text. The word monotonous would not even begin to explain it, but I eventually realized that sitting through mass became easier the older I got. I even began to enjoy it at one point. Before I turned the corner, a tall man wearing a black overcoat with a hood shoved me and hurried quickly past. There seemed to be enough room on the sidewalk for both of us, but I figured he might be in a hurry. I could now see the dimly lit green orbs and that mysterious staircase leading to nowhere. I counted how many steps I took down the stairs, nervously fumbled for my tokens and boarded the next Manhattan-bound train. I knew the train stopped at Canal Street, which was close to nonna’s house. Hopefully I wouldn’t get lost from the station to her place…
Thankfully I made it to Canal Street in one piece and started recognizing landmarks as soon as I got off the subway. I saw a drug store that reminded me of the time I got slapped for knocking down a shelf of glass cough syrup bottles. It was winter and the cold wind made the mark sting even more. I passed a candy shop that my mother would take me to and let me run around while she gossiped with the owner. This was Little Italy. When I turned onto Broome Street, I saw a massive Italian flag draped in the window of a local restaurant. Across the street was a post office and an identical sized American flag hung from a pole nailed into the building. I looked intently at both flags. In my heart, the Italian flag stirred more emotions in me than the American flag. It made me think of my family get-togethers and the stories my father told about Italy. The American flag made me think of what I’ve grown up around but not come home to. I started to wonder if I really do think of Italy as my home, and America is just where I’m living. It was the first time I ever thought of the difference between “home” and where I actually went to sleep at night. I began to imagine what it was like in Italy and how much different my life would be if I lived there instead. In my twelve-year-old head, I pictured most of it to be the same: The same language spoken at home, the same food, and the same culture. The scenery and day-to-day activities would be different, but the core values of my culture are just as alive in New York as they are in Italy. In New York, we get a shot at this “American Dream” just like the other immigrant groups. We get to start over. In Italy, we’re stuck in a life that has no room to grow. At that moment, I understood why my father immigrated: the endless opportunities. And to think I had my realization before I even reached my nonna’s house. I wondered if I could talk her out of a lecture.
I finally arrived at my nonna’s building and rang the buzzer. I mentally prepared myself for the cheek grabbing and the force-feeding that was about to occur. I liked my nonna, but she was so vigorous. She always seemed mad at me, but I learned later in life that was how she showed love. She didn’t come on the intercom to ask who was there, the door just unlocked. “That’s strange,” I thought. As I trudged up to the 8th floor, I continued to reflect on my father’s brave decision to start a new life in America. When I reached her door, it immediately opened to the sight of my father in a black overcoat with a hood, smiling at me. I was so puzzled.
“Sorry I shoved you,” he said. “You kids are way too fast for me, I couldn’t let you beat me here.”
He moved out of the way to reveal my nonna setting the kitchen table with large bowls and plates of traditional Italian food. I forgot that she made a huge meal every Saturday after mass. We hardly were able to go because she lived so out of the way from us. I was surprised that my father wasn’t still upset at me and impressed he led me all the way here just to eat dinner with me and my nonna. He led me inside and sat me down at the head of the table.
“Mamma, tell this boy the history of Napoli.”
As I helped myself to my nonna’s gnocchi, I listened intently to every word that came out of her mouth.
