My Turn

In my mother’s hometown in Italy, people don’t ask, “What is your name?” Rather, they ask, “To whom do you belong?” You answer with the family name, actually most of the time with the nickname by which your family is known in town. The importance of belonging to a family, to a community, comes before one’s own individuality. The community shares the same values, customs, traditions and dialect, as well as hopes, beliefs and expectations. Italians who left Italy and came to this country have maintained many of those values and traditions. The fourth- and fifth-generations Italian-Americans of today are …

Since both my driving and language skills are severely challenged in Italy, I always hire Marcello, a driver/interpreter, when I’m researching a new novel. A few years ago, Marcello and I were speeding along the highway hugging the western bank of the Serchio River north of Lucca when we saw a mammoth stone footbridge at Borgo e Mazzano. Its beautiful humpback shape was obviously the work of many experienced craftsmen. “Wow! What’s that?” I asked. “The Ponte della Maddalena,” Marcello said. “But nobody calls it that. It’s Ponte del Diavolo.” The Devil’s Bridge? With a straight face, Marcello went on …

On April 12, 2019, New Orleans Mayor Latoya Cantrell officially apologized to the Italian-American community for the part her city played in the horrific lynching of 11 Italians more than a century earlier. In so doing, she brought some measure of closure to one of the most horrific abuses that our community has endured. The apology has its roots in the emancipation of slaves in the South after the Civil War. At the time, New Orleans found itself in need of cheap labor that ended up being filled by immigrants from Italy, particularly Sicily. They came in such great numbers …

The great South African leader Nelson Mandela once noted, “If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his own language, that goes to his heart.” As Mandela suggests, through Italian language, we can deepen our connection to all things Italian. And as we all know, Italy has so much to offer. Its art, culture, music, food and architecture are justly famous throughout the world and have given much pride to those of Italian heritage. The importance of Italian as a language not just of art, food …

After 70 years in Italian America, I am still searching for the “Queen of Little Italy.” No, she’s not one of those lovely young ladies who reign over the Columbus Day Parade. My queen was short and stout and tough, and she packed a gun. She died in 1920. In her day, she controlled more votes than any other woman in Chicago. She was a midwife who delivered her voters into the world at their birth and to the polls on election day. She was a strong leader who in her time defied every stereotype of women, Italians and immigrants. …

  As Italians, our fast food might be pane e formaggio on the fly, but when is the last time you savored an al fresco feast in the great outdoors? Before summer escapes, take time now to plan a picnic with your cherished family and friends. One summer weekend every year, my family and I are lucky to be part of the annual PDG picnic. The PDG lodge originated in Chicago in 1925 as the Piana dei Greci (PDG) Aid Society. It was a haven for nuovi arrivati Arbereshe from Sicily and helped them get established and assimilate into life …

50 years have passed since I first sailed the waters of New York Harbor, coming from Italy. When my father, Luigi Savaglio, heard that a person could make his fortune in America, my parents gathered their four children, packed every earthly possession they could into two large cases and several bags, and departed for the Promised Land. Like others, we left behind all we knew, hoping to trade hardship and uncertainty for prosperity, safety and security. Above all, my father prayed that we would always remain together as a family. As we pulled into the Port of New York, we …

The altar my grandma arranges sits under one of our kitchen cabinets. The rosary hangs from St. Joseph’s neck. It’s deep purple with silver pieces between each bead. The statue is about a foot tall and hand painted. He has gray, purple, and brown cloth draped from his body. He’s typically depicted holding Baby Jesus, but in ours he stands alone surrounded by small votive candles. The tomatoes start to simmer right before guests arrive. Both of my uncles are in the kitchen. Steel pots sit on the stove and emit clouds of steam each time the lids are lifted …