As Legend Has It...

Since leaving high school, most of my efforts at self-improvement have revolved around literacy. I plug away at a large collection of books in my home that awaits my attention some time before I die. I am in my ninth year of college - I just keep going back hoping to learn everything I can. I read widely online and make connections to essays, films, news, etc. Perhaps this is an arrogant quest. I have never thought of it that way. Rather, much like the person who has a life-altering experience with a counselor or health care provider, I have pursued higher education and advanced literacy with intensity and absolute certainty in my altruistic ideals. I honestly believe that literacy is the key to a better life and I want to cultivate literacy in young people, starting with my own children. In striving to improve I have never considered that what I have gained comes at a cost that goes beyond hard work and monetary. What do we leave behind us as we ascend the next rung? Whose sacrifices made it possible? Progress is good, right? As with a multitude of things in my life, these questions begin and end with family.

Note: I record events and family stories here as they were told to me and as I remember them. You are cautioned that there may be elements of fiction therein; any gaps in the narrative have likely been embellished and embroidered over the years. I do my best to present events and family history as truthfully as I can.  

As legend has it, my grandfather, Daniel Tucciarone, came to America on a ship from Caserta, in the southern region of Italy, in 1921 when he was nineteen years old. His family produced the fare for his passage somehow despite the fact that they had nothing. He did not really speak much of his life in Italy, but when he did he would tell us stories of times when his family had nothing to eat except hard black bread (which I imagined at the time to be black as soot, but I'm now sure wasn't). Daniel was the youngest in the family of four surviving children and the only son. He received the equivalent of a sixth grade education and, as the story goes, his father, who was fond of cigars, refused to give him the half penny for the parchment for the diploma that would provide the physical proof of Daniel's accomplishment because it meant that he would not be able to afford his tobacco.

This portrait of abject poverty correlates with what was happening in Italy after World War I. Italy was in dire straits at the turn of the century because of inner political turmoil, a "reunification," intermittent famines and droughts, and the eruptions of Mt. Vesuvius and Mt. Etna. The aftermath of war was not good for the people. It is no wonder Daniel's family thought his best chances for a good life lay in America. They likely feared the family name would die out should he remain in Italy. Digital History (2011) provides an excellent overview of the Italian immigrant situation at the time my grandparents were migrating to the United States. The link below will bring you to more information.

www.digitalhistory.uh.edu/historyonline/italian_immigration.cfm

Not much was told to us about Daniel's passage from Italy to America, athough I am sure it was long and fraught with hardship and discomfort. He ended up in Chicago where he found plentiful work opportunities. He worked at menial labor for a couple of years during which he learned some English and saved his money because Daniel had a plan. In what was among the first of many, many missives Grandpa would write, he addressed a letter to Signore Rasile, a prominent man in his village, requesting the hand of his second daughter, Maria. Signore Rasile had three daughters and three sons. He also had land, a prosperous farm, and he was a public figure - a pubblico ministero. Signore Rasile agreed to allow the marriage. It is unknown whether Maria was given a say in the arrangement, or if she even knew Daniel prior to his proposal. They were married as soon as Daniel could arrange passage back to Italy.



Pictured from Left to Right: Back row: Signore Tucciarone, Daniel Tucciarone, Signore Rasile
Front Row: Signora Tucciarone, Maria Rasile Tucciarone, Madeline Rasile, Signora Rasile

From their dress and adornments you can see the difference in the socioeconomic levels of these two families. (It is also noteworthy that the young girl, Madeline, is in this photograph because it was very unusual. I have been told that Zia Madeline adored Maria, and was devastated that she would be leaving for America - the expression on Madeline's face says it all. She was eight years old at the time of the wedding. Madeline eventually migrated to America where she still lives in New York.)  Because of jealousy among some people in the village, Daniel was forced to flee back to America shortly after the wedding leaving Maria behind. As soon as it could be arranged, Maria made the trip to America alone. Another piece of family lore has it that on the point of her departure Maria's father called to her saying, "Please write to us and let us know how you are," to which she responded, "How can I write when you never sent me to school?"


Daniel and Maria settled in Utica, New York, where they set about the business of having a large family, seven boys and four girls. My father was their seventh child and when he was nine years old they moved from Utica to North Providence, Rhode Island. Italian was spoken in their home. My grandmother never learned much English but knew if someone attempted to cheat her at the market; one might consider her shrewd. She passed away when I was two years old. My grandfather put his limited education to work for his personal benefit, if not for employers'. He was an avid reader and writer. He loved books about the saints, which he obtained by sending away to Italy for them, and it was rumored that he kept up a lifelong correspondence with a woman who lived far away. Even with that role model, my father never appreciated school. He dropped out at 16 years old. There was no support at home for him to continue in school. His parents needed his paycheck and they didn't have the resources to argue with the administration at the public school. They were similar to Rose's (1989) parents in that way. I wonder how Dad's life would have been different if he had had a teacher like Mr. McFarland.

Growing up just one door down from my grandfather's house we never knew, until we were halfway through elementary school, that other people did not have altars in their houses complete with cloths signifying the various times in the liturgical year. Grandpa's altar also featured a full-sized statue of the Virgin Mary, and several more of saints including St. Gemma Galgani, St. Anthony, and St. Maria Goretti. My grandfather offered the first fruits of his garden on that altar every year, which meant that a small tomato sat on a dish before the statue of the Sacred Heart until it rotted. I do not recall my father, aunts, or uncles exhibiting embarrassent about these overt signs of devotion to Catholicism - Lord knows there were always plenty of visitors to the house - it was just the way things were.


Sr. Gemma Anthony Tucciarone, FCJ and me standing in front of Grandpa's altar,
on the occasion of my First Holy Communion

Everything I have read about literacy and reading tells me that I should be a statistic. We were poor growing up. We received church food baskets at Thanksgiving. English was not my father's first language and he was a high school drop-out - the textbook picture of a marginalized student. We used amalgamated words that combined Italian and English and were unique to our family. We were odd - we ate traditional Italian foods on the holidays, observed First Fridays, fasted at Lent, said the Rosary. Ainslie (2002) disputes the theory that acculturation is a linear process. At least with our parents' generation, there was no relinquishing of the old ways. By geography and sheer numbers, we were our own universe and no one argued with us. Now I see that these things that set us apart from the rest of the world are manifestations of loss, and that our grandparents were trying to recreate, or preserve the culture in which they were raised.

For me, this begs the question: Why did my father seek out, actively pursue, and marry my mother who, first, was not Italian American and, second, was very definitely a product of the American Dream, poodle skirt and bobby socks included? Further, why would my mother marry my father - a man with whom she had absolutely nothing in common, and whose family was a close-knit unit, complete with their own unique vocabulary? If we use literacy as the measure, he married up and she married down. My parents were definitely on different cultural planes. I have no answers. I do know that it was our mother, with her quiet but persistent influence, who opened up the world of reading to us, her six children.

Would my grandparents think of my advanced literacy as a successful outcome of their decision to leave Italy? I believe they might based on the fact that they put one of their sons through private school and then the seminary. He was to be the offering to God in the form of a priest. A daughter, Gemma, also attended private school and became a sister of the Order of St. Francis (see photo above). Evidently there was some value in higher education for my grandparents and they did support it if it had a basis in religion. In a twist of fate, the uncle who was to be a priest never did make it through the seminary. He remained a bachelor all his life and became a school librarian instead.

So, is my advanced literacy worth what I have lost in the form of family closeness, culture, and bilingualism? I would say that it is. Just the fact that I can read, synthesize, critically think, and reflect on this very subject will serve to make me a better, more thoughtful teacher with a greater reach than that of my parents and grandparents. I am fortunate that I still enjoy aspects of my family's unique culture and that makes me richer. For example, my ethnic name. I have thought about how outstanding is that name - Tucciarone - most likely I would be the only one in New Hampshire. There are also celebrations and holidays that we observed in Rhode Island that are not observed here, or anywhere else outside of Italy. St. Joseph's Day is one that comes to mind. St. Joseph's Day is March 19, and there is a parade in Providence every year on Federal Hill where the center lines of the street are painted red, white, and green. My children know about the traditional pastry served on St. Joseph's Day - zeppoli - only because for a long time I made them for us at home.

Now that I mention it, the Italian food is something I could consider a big loss. Ainslie's (2002) discussion of it as he related it to the Mexicans in Texas really resonated with me. Spinach pies in New Hampshire include phyllo dough and feta cheese; they are calzones seasoned with garlic and black pepper, and feature sliced black olives and mozzarella cheese where I come from - I have never warmed to the New Hampshire variety. For twenty years now I have lived in New Hampshire and still, if I want a decent loaf of bread, I return to the bakeries in Cranston, Rhode Island. How I miss the bread!


My sister Barbara, Dad, and me in happy times. Circa June, 1967.

In her essay, "How it Feels to Be Colored Me," Zora Neal Hurston expresses some of these same sentiments when she "feels" the music which white people are incapable of doing. She is richer for having retained her African American culture while she has mastered (and used to great effect) the "white" literacy. Her ancestors' passage to America was, of course, completely different than that of my grandparents'. Her people had no choice about their destiny being forced into servitude and subsequent assimilation. Hurston does have a choice and she appreciates all that her literacy has brought her, although her views put her in direct opposition with other prominent African Americans fighting for equal rights in her time. See her biography page from the Lakewood Public Library in Lakewood, Ohio:

http://www.lkwdpl.org/wihohio/hurs-zorx.htm.

My feelings run along the same lines as Hurston's. Sometimes what my advanced literacy has brought me does sting a little - as I previously stated, I live very differently than my illiterate grandmother and manual laborer father did. Some of the things that we value are diametric opposites, but who is to say which values are more important? My own children do not identify with the Italians at all. I married a non-Italian American and we moved away from the central family unit and started our own traditions. Separation does take its toll.

I would argue that, at least in my grandparents' case, the immersion into a foreign culture was by choice and they ran to it with eyes open and arms extended. Their situation was luxurious and unlike the plight of Hurston's ancestors, the "half-caste, stolen generations" in Rabbit Proof Fence, or the refugees that Ainslie (2002) and Taylor (2008) portray in their respective research. Arguably, our quality of life is exponentially better than that of my parents, but by whose measure? Again, it is a matter of values.

When it comes to cultural differences, values, and barriers, the implications for educators are significant and must be attended. Teachers, as Baker (2002) suggests, should be aware that there are different literacies (and most likely different values as well) in which their students may be immersed and embrace those instead of trying to quash them. If it becomes obvious that a student struggles with a language or ethnic barrier, teachers can and should make an outreach to the parents, who may be fearful of dealing with school personnel, or may be unaware that in this country there is an expectation that parents will advocate for their children. In any case, teachers should not ignore situations such as these. There are inevitable losses when people become acculturated in lands foreign to them. Educators must help with this assimilation by acknowledging and celebratiing diversity in the classroom.

Link Citations:

Digital History Home Page:

Mintz, S. (2007). Digital History. Retrieved 25 June 25, 2011 from
http://www.digitalhistory.uh.edu

Mintz, S. (2007). Italian Immigration. Digital History. Retrieved 25 June 2011 from
http://www.digitalhistory.uh.edu/historyonline/italian_immigration.cfm

Lakewood Public Library:

Women in History. Zora Neal Hurston biography - extended . Last Updated: 6/25/2011. Lakewood Public Library. Date accessed 6/25/2011 . http://www.lkwdpl.org/wihohio/hurs-zorx.htm.

References:

Ainslie, R. C. (2002). The plasticity of culture and psychodynamic and psychosocial
     processes in Latino immigrant families. In M. M. Suarez-Orozco & M. M. Paez (Eds.),
     Latinos: Remaking America, Berkeley: University of California Press.

Baker, J. (2002). Trilingualism. In L. Delpit & J. K. Dowdy (Eds.), The Skin That We Speak:
     Thoughts on Language and Culture in the Classroom, New York: The New Press.

Hurston, Z. N. (nd). How it feels to be colored me. Retrieved June 25, 2011, from
     http://www.jjuriaan.com/How_It_Feels_to_be_Colored_Me.pdf

Noyce, P. (2002). Rabbit Proof Fence [Motion Picture]. United States: Miramax Studios.

Rose, M. (1989). Lives on the boundary: A moving account of the struggles and achievements of
     America's educationally underprepared. New York: Penguin.

Taylor, S. (2008). Schooling and the settlement of refugee young people in
     Queensland: '...The challenges are massive'. Social Alternatives, 27(3), 58-65.