There have been two waves of Italian emigration to America. The first, in the 1880’s and 90’s, consisted of the poor, illiterate, uneducated masses that sought work and freedom in America. They were peasants whose culture was based on oral, rather than literate, traditions. America, for them, represented a brave new world, an escape from the tyrannical rulers of Italy and who kept them poor and illiterate as a way of controlling them. These immigrants looked for nothing more than to get a job and raise a family. Those, however, who did not want to find honest work turned to crime, organized crime. Mafia crime.
The second wave occurred during the 1930’s. These immigrants sought freedom from the oppressive regime of fascist Italy. These people were not well off, but they were not the poor, illiterate mass that previously came over. The bulk of these Italians, according to one Italian-American writer, were "Italian intellectuals emigrat[ing] to the United States, often in flight from fascism." They were literate and, more importantly, desired a life different than those Italian immigrants who first came to America. These Italians wanted to distance themselves from the previous bunch. They wanted something more than a nine-to-five job. They wanted more than organized crime.
I have concluded I am a product of the latter. It is a choice, however, that I did not make for myself; rather, others have made me make it for myself.
A funny thing happens when an Italian-American tells a person his or her heritage. The first response of many non-Italians is to ask a person whether they are in the mob, or, if they are not, if they know anyone who is. Some people are direct, some ask in a roundabout way, some hint at it, others ask it half-jokingly. Others don’t ask, but they are thinking it. The idea is there all the same. Italian-Americans, it seems, have become synonymous with La Cosa Nostra. Flashes of tommy-guns and Al Capone-era gangsters cross the minds of people when they hear the word Italian. Phrases like "I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse" and "I’ll put two bullets behind the ear" come to mind - thanks to The Godfather - to those not familiar with Italian-American culture. According to the stereotype, Italians are pasta-eating, hand-gesturing, loud-mouthed, grease-haired, blue-collar, Mafia members. And, I guess, to an extent, some are. After all, we wouldn’t have The Godfather, Casino, or Goodfellas if there weren’t. I guess if we didn’t have those fat, over-indulging, slick-haired, clean-shaven, hot-tempered, cold-staring, meatball-loving, womanizing, gun-toting, face-pinching, loud-talking, fancy-dressing, Luc Abrattzi-looking, back-stabbing men, we wouldn’t have the movies. Of course, movies can not create an image, it only imitates it.
However, as a second-generation Italian-American, I am no closer to the Italian stereotype than are the people who label me; the loudest my parents ever got was when they disciplined me for skipping school, smoking, or doing something else against their wishes. Their discipline and response to my youthful indiscretions were no different than, say, an Irish mother’s would be, or a Jewish father’s would be. The only hand-gesturing that I recall was my grandmother waving us kids out of the room so she could watch that cultural Italian gameshow, The Price is Right. As for greasy-hair, the only grease I saw around the house was the lard left over from the bacon at breakfast or the oil slicks that stained our driveway and garage. The only guns we saw in my house were the ones displayed on television, not to mention the bee-bee gun my father bought my older brother when he turned fifteen. And, finally, if there were any Mafia members in my family, immediate or not, they would have been the sorriest bunch of mafiosos La Cosa Nostra has even known. My grandfather Phil (his real name, my apologies to those who expected Angelo, Johnny, Alfonzo, or any other stereotyped Italian name) did not even know how to handle an umbrella, let alone a gun. He was an insurance salesman, a nine-to-five businessman who, when he came over from Italy, learned to speak English and put himself through school. He came over with the rest of those gun-toting, grease-haired mafiosos. I guess he must have been the only straightlaced one of the bunch; although, when I see pictures of my grandmother and grandfather with their friends and family, curiously enough, I never see anyone else that looks like Michael Corleone, Luc Abrattzi, or Bruno Tatagglia. I guess this group must have been the exception to the rule.
I was nine when I was first "told" of my heritage, reminded that I was the "other," not by my parents or brothers or sisters, but by someone outside my family. It was the first time that I was aware that I was being stereotyped, placed in a category that I knew little about and, in fact, up until that point, didn’t even know existed. I was spending the night at a friend’s house, an Irish boy named Jimmy. Jimmy had two siblings, two brothers, a fourteen and fifteen year old, and parents who did their best to hide the remaining Irish brogue that lingered in their speech. Jimmy’s parents were nice, as nice as I can remember. Jimmy’s brothers were another story; they picked on me before that night, often joking around, calling me names, as kids are wont to do. I didn’t look as tough as other Italians, they told me, and I didn’t look like Michael Corleone. Who that was, I had no idea. On this night Jimmy’s brothers wanted to see how tough I could be. They started picking on me after dinner, playfully at first, then it got a little rougher. Before long they were taunting me with every derogatory word for Italians they could think of: dago, wop, greaseball, guinea – everything. I had no idea what they were saying, not sure if it was nice and they were just playing with me, or if I did something wrong. I fired my own salvos, calling them all and any bad words I had in my limited arsenal. They kept it up, threatening to cut off my fingers like "my" kind does to everyone else. I was a "money-hungry, greaseball, no-good-for-nothing dago," they said. My kind wasn’t wanted here, they went on. Half way through I still wasn’t sure if they were serious or pulling my leg, trying to get a rise out of me. I prayed that they were only joking, after all, what did I do to deserve this treatment? But they persisted and they weren’t kidding. They threatened to kick me out of the house, to beat me and all "my" kind the next time they saw me. Their hatred for me and "my" kind became more evident. It was obvious it wasn’t just kids picking on the smaller kid, they did not like me.
This is the danger with ignorance: stereotypes lead to prejudices, prejudices lead to mistrust, mistrust to hatred, and hatred to irreparable harm. For whatever reason, Jimmy’s brothers were serious and they did not like me or "my" kind. They didn’t like me because they didn’t know me or "my" people, believing that we were all the same; here and there threatening them and their way of living and who they are; the "other" than them, the "different" people, people who were no worse or no better than them but were different and the other, and the "other" is to be mistrusted and hated at all costs. Only years removed from the experience can I look back and see the ignorance, the hatred, the prejudices, the fear in their eyes of me, the Italian kid who represents all Italians, good or bad, and who is now becoming friends with their younger brother and staying the night in their house! I was the enemy. I was the bad guy. I was the other. Why did they act this way? Because they saw The Godfather, read about Al Capone, heard about Mussolini? Heard the stereotypes from friends? Family? Their parents? I tried to rationalize it, tried to tell myself that that was a long time ago and that things like that do not happen today, but realized I was wrong. Even as the end of the twentieth century approaches, even as America becomes more diverse, even as the world is brought closer together by technology, even as more and more mediums are available to counter such ignorance, and even as we become more and more aware of the others out there, we have become more ignorant than ever. More close-minded.
Later that evening, when Jimmy’s mother heard about what had happened, she came down to the basement and talked to me. Jimmy was there but his brothers had already gone upstairs. Jimmy’s mother told me not to worry about her boys, they were only kidding. They didn’t mean it, she said, and they don’t have anything against Italians. Somehow I didn’t believe her, I felt and saw what her sounds espoused and it was not kidding around. Her boys didn’t mean anything by it, she reiterated. They were only calling me nicknames, and they would not hurt me, she assured. She even said that her sister, Jimmy’s aunt, married an Italian, and that her family (Jimmy’s) has nothing against Italians. I still felt like the "other." And no matter what she told me, I did not feel comfortable and did not trust Jimmy’s brothers or his family.
Bensonhurst, 1988. A black youth is shot and killed by several teenagers. Italian teenagers, no less. The story makes headlines across America. Rev. Al Sharpton, Jesse Jackson and other African-American leaders are on every news clip, talk show, radio broadcast, raising hell, talking about how racism is more prevalent than ever. They are right. Race relations could not be more strained. The youth was walking through the Italian section of Bensonhurst with several friends. They made the mistake of thinking they would be okay just walking through, that they did not pose any threat, any trouble. What they underestimated was the deep-seated ignorance and fear of close-minded individuals. The hatred of the "other."
A thousand miles away and closer to home, the Italian-Americans of Chicago’s Bridgeport community silently agree with the shooting. It was justified, they say; the youth had no business coming into "our neighborhood" - as if all the Italian communities across America belong to only Italians, whether they live in that community or not. Several go so far as to claim that they will duplicate the actions of their New York counterparts if any "nigger" comes through their neighborhood. They will shoot him on the spot. The blacks, they say, are no good: they will come in and rob and rape and pillage the neighborhood. They are "lazy, thieving, murderers" out to harm all white people. If we let one in, we are letting them all in. They say we have to show solidarity. They say we have to stop them before more come through.
Blacks, now, are officially the "other."
I am a part of this community, this ignorant thought-collection. Inside, I am sickened by the murder, petrified that someone could die because of his or her skin color or nationality. Thoughts of my experience with Jimmy’s brothers come back. I feel sorry for the youth and sympathize with his family. I am even more sickened by the ignorance, by the prejudices. In this case, they have gone too far. Carried out not by someone defending what is right or because the action called for it, but by ignorant, prejudiced individuals who viewed the victim as the other, different than they were and, because of this, posed a threat to them. Outwardly, I can not show my emotions, I have to nod my head in agreement with the others, and I have to accept what is going on because I am not powerful enough to change anything. Besides, sympathizing with "them" can get one hurt or, maybe, even worse, killed.
I am not proud of my decision to remain quiet, to not speak up when something is wrong. That boy was the "other" just as I was years before. It did not matter that he was black and I Italian, or that this is now and that was then, or that I knew my aggressors and he did not: what mattered was that the two of us – and many others out there, past and present – are the "other," we have been designated as something we are not, something that distinguishes us not by who we are as individuals, but who we are because of our race or nationality. Those that designate us as such are only afraid of us because they do not know us, they do not know the "other." We are NON-human, and they can hate and kill us exactly because we don’t exist in their world, in their mind. It is easy to hate something you are not familiar with.
During my senior year of high school I met someone who was from India. His name was Sunijajesh, or Sonny for short. Sonny, it turns out, was sent to America from India because his parents wanted him to experience life outside his native land. America, they told him, is one place where you can see many cultures interacting, many diverse cultures without having to go throughout the world. America has Polish people, German, Irish, Italian, African, Romanian, French – everything. They said the only way to get a good education is to go out and experience the world and other cultures, and there is no better place to see all of these than America. This reminded me of something I had read previously. During the eighteenth and early nineteenth century, boys who graduated from school were expected to continue their education, not in the classroom, but abroad. All these young lads were expected to take what was called "The World Tour," that is, they were to continue learning, not learning what books had to say, but what the world had to offer: the different cultures, the different peoples, the different beliefs. They were to learn about the "other." They would travel for months on end, sometimes one or two years, stopping in other countries and cities and spending time with the other cultures and people.
And now here was Sonny, also sent to learn about others. He was here for his world tour, for his extended education. He wasn’t here to goof around or to do what he pleased, he was here for the sole purpose of educating himself beyond what his homeland offered. Part of me envied Sonny; he was going to be a better man than I or anyone else could ever be. His mind wasn’t going to be limited to petty prejudices and ignorance; rather, he was going to be an experienced, diverse person, one capable of seeing things from many perspectives and experiences.
And he doesn’t have to travel far to see all of these cultures. He only has to go several blocks over to see Italians living next to Irish, Polish next to Slavs, Russians next to Syrians, Jews next to Africans. Go ahead, take a stroll, Sonny and I did. We were becoming good friends and I decided to go along with him on some of his adventures. One day we went through Chinatown, spending the whole afternoon in and around the area. We ate Chinese food, walked along the avenue, went into specialty stores, strolled through the neighborhood, talked to the people, and then, as the afternoon started to wane, we went to the Pilsen neighborhood, a strong Spanish community. We chatted with locals, took in the different smells, the different dress, ate different foods, saw different people. We blended among the others, mingled in the crowds, in the stores, watched as the people did their shopping, their socializing, their drinking. After awhile, after taking in all these different experiences, as thoughts began to swirl in my head, as I saw the different peoples and different beliefs, everything began to come into one view, one line, one people, to the point that I no longer could tell that I was anywhere other than my own neighborhood, watching my own people, my own culture, my own beliefs, taking in not a different culture, but a similar culture, seeing that everyone was a part of my culture, all my relatives, seeing that we were all the same. For a moment I thought I saw an uncle of mine, sitting at a restaurant, eating the way my uncle does. Later I thought I saw my sister; but it was a girl who walked and looked exactly like her. She moved and swayed and had long hair and I had to look twice to make sure it wasn’t her.
Several years ago a civil war broke out. The nation, at the time, was made up of several ethnic groups that were forced to live together under one country after World War II. These groups lived peacefully side-by-side for almost forty years; side-by-side, I say, because they never lived together; rather they just existed together. So it was no surprise that when Communism – the glue that had been holding their country together – fell, each ethnic group turned on the other. The petty jealousies, long-believed stereotypes, and mistrust of each other led to hatred. This hatred led to atrocities that were thought to be unimaginable at the end of the twentieth century.
This country is now divided into several smaller countries, but the hatred and mistrust of the other is still evident, still there. The war did not come about because of political differences, nor did it happen because of economic problems, the war was a result of ignorance amongst the ethnic groups, because no one took the time to check or understand their prejudices. We are no longer in the dark ages, but sometimes we act as if we are. As an Italian-American I can only pray. I pray for the day when Americans see that we are all Americans.