![]() Animal hides? World famous shoes, handbags, and belts. Got fruit? Italians will make custom liquors or the most scrumptious jams. Just give us the opportunity, and we’ll make something of it. This internal coding that “things will work out” is a deeply engrained element of Italian culture-don’t sweat the small stuff. They were Italian and knew they had the substance needed to make it. Equipped only with determination, unfettered love of family, a few lira (the Italian currency at the time), a suitcase of clothes and a few family mementos, they were undaunted by the fact that they didn’t know the language in the United States, perhaps had no place to stay, and had no work lined up upon their arrival in their new world. I never look out over the ocean or the Gulf of Mexico but what I am compelled to envision what the hardships of those voyages must have been like and how I am the by-product of my ancestors’ zeal for a better life in America. They boarded ships mostly in Palermo, Sardinia, and Naples, and spent weeks at sea before arriving in various ports in the United States, but mostly in New York and New Orleans. By 1924, over four million Italians had made the voyage to the United States. Spurred by hard economic times in Italy and the irresistible allure of a life without limitations in America, my grandparents and great-grandparents on all branches of my tree migrated to the United States during the heyday of Italian immigration from 1880 to 1910. From the Italian flag in the corner next to the United States flag to the countless Italian bric-a-brac and heirlooms adorning shelves, nooks, and crannies, our home speaks, “We are proud ‘paesani.’” Today, we bleed green, white, and red in our home, just the way I did growing up in Louisiana-a stronghold for Italians even today, thanks to the port of New Orleans. My mother was Sicilian (Alese to be exact), and my father was Foggiano (Cagnese). Welcome to living under the influence of Italians and the love of all things Italy-Club Italophile. Heck, I’ve seen people with one percent or no percent Italian in their bloodlines who express love and pride for things Italian as if they were native Italian. The funny thing is, you don’t have to be 100 percent Italian to be considered Italian. ![]() I not only have the DNA tests to prove it, but also one has only to give a quick glance at the first four generations of my family surnames (Pizzillo, Miceli, DiNauta, D’Ippolito, Sedita, Benvenga, Lombardi, Garone). Both of my parents are 100 percent Italian. I’m a second-generation Italian American. I’ve grown up under the influence of Italians all my life. October is Italian Heritage Month in the United States. They exiled their royal family and became a republic. It commemorates the day in 1946 when Italians voted to do away with their monarchy. June 2 is a national holiday in Italy known as the Festival of the Republic (Festa della Repubblica). My wife has now conceded to being an Italophile. Why, America itself owes its very name to an Italian, Amerigo Vespucci. ![]() ![]() They often remind my wife-invited or not-how she is the continual beneficiary of Italians: fine clothes, food, entertainment, furniture, lifestyle. My children, although only 50 percent Italian, are fiercely loyal to and proud of their Italian heritage. “Oh my goodness! It’s just a little sliver of a country! Where does all the nauseating Italian pride come from?!” my Anglo-Saxon wife of 30 years often expresses incredulously in our home. ![]()
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