Sharing a name

My debut novel, “Secrets of the Jeweled Flask,” got a mention in the October issue of Fra Noi.

Coverage in your magazine is an honor of epic proportions because it’s connected to my paternal grandmother, Camille Severino, whom I am named after.

I am the only Camille many people know. Many suspect I am the only Camille Severino that existed. But there was another. And she was the original.

She was big Camille. I was little Camille. Those monikers stuck even when I towered over her 5-foot figure.

Grandma Camille read Fra Noi religiously. I can see her, sitting in her lavender kitchen with a cup of coffee and her face buried in Fra Noi.

Culture meant a great deal to Grandma Camille, especially when it came to Italians. She and I spent afternoons roaming The Art Institute of Chicago.

As a child, I told her I wanted to grow up to be an author. Grandma Camille encouraged me, delighting in the idea of having a creative granddaughter. She would joke with me and say, “One day your name is going to be in print, and everyone is going to think it’s me.”

Grandma Camille also loved to write, specifically letters. She wrote letters to Fra Noi, always about the same thing. She was fed up with the way Hollywood portrayed our culture. In her letters to Fra Noi, Grandma Camille would vent her frustration that American cinema continually depicted Italians as “murderers, thieves, or stupid.”

Grandma Camille has been gone for more than 10 years now. She lived to 97.

When her possessions were given to her grandchildren, I was bequeathed some of her paintings and her dining room set, a dining room set that still sits in our home today. We eat at it nearly every single evening. So much love and so many memories are woven into the fabric of that table; I don’t have the heart to replace it with a more modern set.

This was the table where we had her three-course meals, where we temporarily stored the cookies, pizzas and pastas I would help her make in her kitchen. Walking a mile to Grandma Camille’s house was nothing when I was a girl. And I took full advantage of the opportunity to learn all she was willing to teach.

It was at this dining room table that she served a rice casserole she made for Thanksgiving, with eggs, Romano cheese, pine nuts, and turkey livers and gizzards, the latter kept a secret. That rice casserole was the most delicious part of the meal when we spent Thanksgiving at Grandma Camille’s house.

One year, she scooped a serving of her rice casserole onto my plate. I said, “Grandma, we learned about Thanksgiving at school, and they talked about turkey and stuffing, but no one talked about rice casserole.”

Without missing a beat, Grandma Camille smiled and replied, “That’s because it’s for Italian Thanksgiving.”

I smiled brightly and grabbed my fork. I never once questioned her, and it wasn’t until many years later that it hit me, “Italy doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving.”

It was in the dining room set, deep in the drawers of the matching hutch, where I found all the magazine clippings and published works I had over the years. I discovered her little shrine to my writing after the set was moved into my home.

It’s a great honor to share a name, and a responsibility I do not take lightly. I am blessed to carry the name of one of the most talented, intelligent, strong and independent women I have ever known. We were blessed to have her as our grandma.

So, having my debut novel highlighted in Fra Noi means so much more than simply getting press.

It means Grandma Camille’s name appears in Fra Noi, alongside a story about Italian Americans who are not murderers, thieves, or stupid. There is nothing more satisfying than a full-circle moment like this.

The above article appears in the January 2026 issue of the print version of Fra Noi. Our gorgeous, monthly magazine contains a veritable feast of news and views, profiles and features, entertainment and culture.

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