From Sicily to Connecticut. Paul Pirrotta
lunches with Nonno. He always had some wine, usually Zibibbo, and he let me try it. I loved wine then, I love wine now, I never learned to drink beer or really any other liquor, even after I came to the States! Of course not living on campus in the U.S. probably explains why I never liked beer, because if there is one thing you learn on campus in a college in the States, it is to drink beer!
So I grew up in an environment where my father and grandfather were not home most of the time and where my mother was, as needed, more of a disciplinarian. However, Mammanina was always forgiving, always protective no matter what, always welcoming and nearby. Living so close made our relationship stronger than it otherwise could have been. She was present at every moment as I grew up.
My grandparents were exact opposites: Mammanina could not walk very far or fast because of her varicose veins, while Nonno was used to the idea of walking 20 km just to get to his job. He walked to a small piece of land just outside town, a round trip that must have been at least a couple of miles, until his early eighties. Two stories will tell you more about Nonno than any other words I could possibly write.
One story was about my Uncle Joe, my mother’s brother. My Nonno would wake him up to take him to work as follows: u principe, i quattru e ancora rormi(the prince: 4 am and he is still sleeping)! Nonno was that way with me as well, except not as tough: when I went to school in the afternoon sessions and slept until 9 or 10 am, I would hear him argue with Mammanina that I should get up at 7 am and do my homework! He was probably right—but it worked out okay anyway.
The other story is even more telling. Mammanina lost a baby at birth and Nonno was working, about 20 km away. When he was informed of what had happened, he walked back home, only to arrive after the baby had been buried. He went straight to the cemetery, forced the attendant to exhume the body, kissed her and reburied her.
In late 1959 my grandparents emigrated to the U.S. (their son had emigrated in 1953) and lived there until 1964, when they returned home to Sicily. I still vividly remember traveling to Naples by train with my parents, the first time I left Sicily and my first stay in a hotel. We went to meet my returning grandparents and help them with their luggage. They had traveled by boat. My grandfather loved America ( his only sister lived here in the Hartford area) but Mammanina did not; she was used to my mother being next door and in the U.S., not working, she was mostly alone during the day and hated it. Her limited mobility and the tough Connecticut winters did not help. This would be an ongoing and major argument between my grandparents: Nonno Rosario came back to the U.S. one more time by himself for a short period of time before returning to Sicily for good. He never forgave Mammanina for not wanting to stay.
As fate would have it, our family was allowed—and chose—to emigrate to America in 1969. This was devastating to Mammanina. She had come back to Sicily to be with her daughter and now her daughter was going to America! Nonno Rosario made sure to remind her that if she had stayed, we would have been all together again.
The years of 1969-1970 were a very special time for me and one that allowed me to bond with my grandparents even more. After spending three weeks in September 1969 in the States with my parents to take up residency, I returned home to Sicily to finish my last year of high school and lived in my house again, next door to Mammanina and Nonno Rosario. My parents sent me money from the States; I was 19 and being “supervised” by my grandparents, which meant no supervision. I had a good time but I also paid attention to school. I graduated and in August of 1970 came to States for good.
All of our extended family reunited in Connecticut except my grandparents. In addition to my uncle, who had been in Connecticut since 1953, an aunt who had left for Venezuela in the mid 1950s also came to the States in 1971. The ultimate irony: all of her family was in the States while my Mammanina was in Sicily. The grandparents did make a couple of trips to visit, but did so only for short stays.
Nonno Rosario died in 1988. My wife, son and I had seen him in 1987 during a visit to Sicily. I made sure to stay closer to Mammanina after that, and we spoke on the phone very often. At that time, I also traveled to Sicily more often and was able to see her then. My wife and I made a special trip to Sicily in December 1993: Mammanina was turning ninety, primarily bedridden but fully aware and coherent. We arranged a small birthday celebration with several relatives and neighbors in attendance. She was happy.
One day, while Mammanina and I were alone, I pointed a camcorder at her and she started reminiscing. I am not sure if she understood she was being taped, but it was—and is—a beautiful experience.
Mammanina died a few months later. I love Mammanina.
School
In school, I started out as a lion, muddled through as a lost sheep and finished as a tiger.
Across the street from where I was born lived a teacher who held private lessons for kids and, probably more important from my perspective, served lunch. I loved to go to her home and sit in with the other kids, all of whom were older than I was. The problem was that my parents were not paying for me to go there so I did not get lunch, which usually consisted of a panino, a roll filled with mortadella or jelly. I came home crying and my mother arranged to pay for my lunch so that I could go to this private tutoring sessions—not to study, but to eat!
Somehow I must have learned pretty fast and well, because I never went to first grade and I started school at six years old in second grade. Few kids were allowed to do that then or now, so I must have shown a certain level of knowledge or understanding or reading that allowed me to do so.
I started elementary school in 1956 in second grade. The school year began October 1 and usually ended in early June. We went to school six days a week and had only one teacher for the entire day and for all subjects. School days would start around 8am and end by 1pm, and I would usually walk to school since it was about five minutes away from my home. As was common then, we wore a dark blue gown-like garment, usually over shorts and knit shirt. I believe we also wore a white ribbon, almost like a bow tie.
I also remember going to a convent for schooling and my first experience with nuns. And like nuns everywhere else, they were mean, there’s no other way to say it.
There are a few things to know about the five-year elementary schools in Sicily in the 1950s. Teachers were absolute dictators with the power and the willingness to rule unopposed. Corporal punishment was not only allowed but encouraged and an integral part of teaching and raising kids. Classes were not mixed; boys and girls were segregated, each to their own classes. Homework load was heavy. We were subject to oral and written examinations and also had to pass one final exam before being allowed to go from elementary school to middle school.
I did just fine in elementary school. I was not a troublemaker, just a curious and vivacious child like many others. I don’t recall many events but two somehow have stuck in my mind. One was being punished—for God only now knows what—by being made to stand in back of the blackboard, which stood upright on an easel, for an entire hour.
The second incident is more vivid. The father of a student in my class knocked on the door and was let in by the teacher. The students rose in a sign of respect as we were taught to do, and the teacher greeted the father, who asked about a black-and-blue mark on his son’s forehead in what, at least in the eyes of the teacher, was a threatening manner. At this point the teacher, a diminutive person not known for his courage, raced out the door and slammed open the door to the classroom next to ours. Out came another teacher, a bulky, burly man, who rescued our teacher from the irate parent. Nothing came of it, but the whole town knew what had happened and that teacher was marked for life as not too brave.
So I got to middle school; remember, I am ten years old, when all the other boys are eleven. Middle school provided two different venues: Media and Avviamento. The kids who expected to go on to high school or liceo attended Scuola Media, while the kids who, because of financial or family reasons, would not go on to high school but would instead look for a job attended Avviamento, which was more like a trade school. There was a lot of class stigma back then, and going to Avviamento was one such stigma. The up-and-coming middle class wanted their children to succeed and this required attending Media. I went to Scuola Media.
Middle