Vendetta
1
Modern American women talk
about
having a career, while
Italian women
stay quietly at home,
taking care
of fathers, brothers,
husbands, and sons.
Whose grandmother
endangered her life,
her sanity, and her
dignity, and gave up
her home, for freedom
and the opportunity
to work eighteen hours
a day,
six days a week?
Whose grandmother
raised twelve children,
did all the cooking and
cleaning,
washed the clothes by
hand,
and, in her spare time,
ran her husband’s
restaurant?
Whose grandmother
couldn’t work
outside the home
because she
had to watch her
children and
had the neighbors pay
her
to watch theirs while
they worked?
2
I’m tired of being cute.
I’m tired of being
introduced to people
who think they’re
amusing me
by adding an a
to the end of
every word they say.
I’m tired of being
expected to solve
all my problems with
pasta,
however efficacious
that may be.
I’m tired of being
overlooked and then
categorized as
colorless,
as though I’ve never
had
a good spaghetti fight
in my life.
I’m tired of being told
to
shut up and assimilate.
I’m tired of being stirred around
in a melting pot as
though
I’m not a human
being,
but a plum tomato.
3
Women into spirituality
call on
African Goddesses, Asian
Goddesses,
Native American Goddesses,
while
Italian women kneel
heavily
in the oppressive church
of
organized religion.
Whose grandmother had a
statue of
the Virgin Mary,
Blessed Mother, Madonna,
Goddess on her dresser,
a votive candle
before it and a
crocheted scarf
under its feet?
Whose grandmother hung
a rosary
from one corner of the
mirror,
a scapular from the
other, and
tucked a tiny palm
cross into the bottom?
Whose grandmother
worshiped
before an altar to
honor the Goddess,
looking into the mirror
at her own
reflection, herself an
aspect
of the Goddess, as she
tied her hair
tight at the back of
her neck?
4
I’m tired of being asked
by insensitive fools
who get their news from
movie star
gossip newspapers
whether I know
anyone in the Mafia.
I’m tired of being
assured by
know-nothing
non-Italians that
every women’s bar in
the
entire history of
mankind
has been owned and
operated
by the Mafia.
I’m tired of hearing the Mafia
referred to as the
Sicilian Brownies.
I’m tired of being
expected
to apologize for the
Mafia.
I’m tired of not knowing
anyone
in the Mafia.
5
Women into radical causes
put together
newspapers for the benefit
of all women,
while Italian women gossip
over the backyard fence.
Whose grandmother knew
what was happening
to every other woman on
the block,
and responded as though
it was happening to
her?
Whose grandmother was
deeply offended
if her best friends did
not assume
she would help them
whenever
they needed her?
Whose grandmother asked
her husband’s
permission to cut her
long, bothersome
hair, and smiled
serenely, accepting
his denial of approval
and acknowledging
his right to decide and
command,
and then went out and
cut her hair
anyway, returning home
with all
her
women friends as an honor guard?
6
I’m
tired of being cute.
I’m
tired of not knowing anyone
in
the Mafia.
7
Italians
chose to come to this country,
chose this land of
opportunity,
chose this land of
plenty,
chose this land of
freedom,
chose this land of
respect
for different cultures.
Italians did not come here
because they were
starving
in caves with the
livestock.
Italians did not walk
across
Europe to get to the
boat,
did not pay more for
their
passage than it was
worth,
did not sleep on bunks
like book
shelves, were not
confined below
decks, did not have
greasy rat shit
floating in their soup,
and were
not raped by the crew.
Italians were not bought
by the Padrone
when they arrived, were
not kept
constantly in debt, did
not live
under conditions worse
here than
at home, were not
raped, were not
lynched, were not run
out of town.
Italians got up from their
wine one day,
strolled to their
yachts, sailed to the
piazzas of their
cousins, opened
a chain of pizzerias,
and danced
the tarantella all the
way
to the bank.
8
After driving all day and
half
the night, he pulled up to
a motel.
The sign flashed: Vacancy.
He wrote his name in the
book:
Sorrentino.
The desk clerk smiled and
explained politely, “I’m
sorry,
but we don’t allow
Italians
in this motel.”
Saying nothing, my father
turned and left.
9
In secrecy there is
strength.
In secrecy there is
survival.
In secrecy there is the
preservation
of a culture.
We trust only those in our
family.
If we must, we will trust
other Italians.
If we are forced into a
difficult position,
we will smile and nod and
pretend
to trust those who are not
Italian.
There is never a need to
explain
ourselves to the
non-Italian,
and there is often a need
to be silent.
Now there are those who
think
that because they do not
know us
we do not exist.
10
My aunt Italia and my aunt
Emilia
were discussing something
important.
I knew, because they were
speaking Italian
in the kitchen. My aunt
Emilia,
to make a point, called to
me
where I was playing on the
floor.
She asked, “What’s the
difference
between spaghetti and
macaroni?”
I looked up and said,
“Spaghetti
is the long kind and macaroni
is the different shapes.”
My aunt Emilia and my aunt
Italia
turned to each other. My
aunt
Emilia smiled, and she
nodded slowly,
and she said, “You see?
They’re
American.” I bent over
my toys,
to hide my face.
11
I know why you hide
from the government
because I’m Italian.
I know why you hide
from the non-Italians
because I’m Italian.
I know why you hide
from those outside the
family
because I’m Italian.
I know how you protect
yourselves
because I’m Italian.
I know how you protect
your culture
because I’m Italian.
I know how you protect
your history
because I’m Italian.
I don’t know
what made you think
you had to protect
yourselves
from me
because I’m Italian.
12
Now I’ve been told that
Italians
have no history, no
culture
beyond pasta and wine.
Now I’ve been told to be
grateful
that I can pass for
white.
Now I’ve been told to
forget
everything and take
advantage
of what the bland,
apologetic,
constipated, gutless
white culture
has to offer.
Now I’ve been told that
the oppression
of my people is of no
consequence
because we are neither
dark enough
nor light enough to be a
real people.
Now I’ve been told that
our talent
for secrecy has been so
well honed
we no longer exist.
13
My grandmother never
became
an American citizen. Every
January
she had to fill out those
forms,
go to that government
office,
swear her deepest feelings
to strangers.
She grumbled in Italian
all the way,
asking the Madonna to
witness
what a bunch of fools
these
people were, how little
they knew
of what is loyalty, how
stupid
they must be if they
forgot
from one year to the next,
what she’d signed and
sworn to,
year after year for over
fifty years.
I asked my father, “Why
doesn’t she
just become an American
citizen
and then she won’t have
to do that?”
My father smiled, and he
shrugged,
and he said,
“She’d rather be
Italian.”
+ + +
Dago Street
He worked in his parents’
store
ten hours a day
six days a week,
worked more on Christmas
and Easter.
I sat around in bleached-
blonde hair and
mini-skirts
listening to folk songs
protesting conditions for
every non-white people
in the land of the free.
“I never complained,”
he said.
“When I went down south
and they refused me a
room,
I never complained,” he
said.
I said nothing and left.
On the night of October
15, 1890
David C. Hennessy, walking
toward Basin
Street, not too far from
Dago Street,
was shot. O’Connor
asked,
“Who gave it to you,
Dave?”
Hennessy whispered,
“Dagoes.”
It was clearly a Mafia
murder.
I ironed the curls
right off my head.
Mediterranean curls: Greek
curls, African curls,
Sicilian
curls, Neapolitan curls.
I ironed the curls
right off my head—
sometimes literally.
Mayor Shakspeare told his
men:
“Scour the whole
neighborhood.
Arrest every Italian you
come across.”
Of the dozens of Italians
arrested,
Antonio Bagnetto was
arrested
for being away from his
fruit stand;
Antonio Scaffidi was
arrested
for owning an oilcloth
worn as a raincoat;
Pietro Monasterio was
arrested
because he lived across
the street
from where Hennessy was
shot;
Antonio Marchesi was
arrested
because he was a friend of
Monasterio;
Gaspare Marchesi was
arrested
because he was the son of
Antonio Marchesi;
Bastian Incardona was
arrested
because he looked
suspicious.
These six were identified
by witnesses
who claimed to have been
unable
to see their faces. The
arrests continued;
hundreds of Italian homes
and shops
were raided.
The apartment was mine—
mine, with my straight,
blonde hair
and dark eyes; mine, with
my
mini-skirt and my rock
posters; mine,
with my folder of poems
denouncing
the treatment of people of
color,
of women, of gay people. I
was just
about to sign my name when
the landlady confided she
was
so happy to have such a
nice girl.
She never worried about
blacks,
or Puerto Ricans or
Chinese—they
wouldn’t dare try to
take her
apartment. But
Dagoes—sometimes
they sneak right past you.
And you know what Dagoes
bring—
Mafia.
I said nothing and left.
Nineteen Italians were
accused.
Nine were tried and found
not
guilty. Ten had not yet
been tried. All were
returned
to prison. Six Italians
were shot,
their bodies ripped apart,
by sixty
men, white and black
alike. In
the pile of bodies,
Monasterio’s hand
twitched. Someone came
close, aimed,
and shot away the top of
Monasterio’s head.
Someone
laughed. One Italian was
shot
in the head. One was hit
in his
right eye by a shotgun
blast, half
his head blown away. One
was
shot in the head, his
right hand
blown away when he raised
it
to defend himself, the top
of his
head gone; he waited nine
hours
to die. Two Italians were
shot.
Only half dead, they were
brought
outside, tossed overhead
by the
crowd to the other end of
the
street, and were hanged,
and were shot,
and were left hanging to
be viewed.
Some of the women dipped
their lace
handkerchiefs in the
Italians’ blood
for a souvenir.
Eight Italians escaped by
hiding.
Most Italians escape by
hiding,
don’t teach the children
Italian,
use Italian to tell the
old stories,
and never complain. Now
most Italians pass
and don’t know it until
someone
denies them something in
fear
of the Mafia. Most
Italians conclude
we shouldn’t have hidden
so carelessly.
After a discrete look
around
at another discussion of
racism
in the lesbian community
I chose her
and settled down to wait.
There was the Mexican
woman
who was enraged to be
asked
whether it was safe to
travel in Mexico.
I know that pain.
They tell me it’s not
worth
the risk of going to
Sicily
to look for my family.
There was the Jewish woman
who was horrified to be
told
to forget the Holocaust.
I know that pain.
They tell me it’s
pointless and
morbid to think about the
lynchings.
There was the black woman
who was shocked to be
advised to
pass, to ensure her own
survival
through cultural suicide.
I know that pain.
They tell me I have white
skin privilege.
When it was over I
approached,
told her I found her
remarks
stimulating and wondered
whether
she’d like to discuss
this further
over drinks. Oh, I’d
love to, she said,
but I have this date with
this
other woman and this is
the second time I put it
off,
and I hate to keep doing
that,
she’s so over-emotional,
she’s
Italian—you know how
they are—
she’d probably get the
Mafia
after me. But give me your
number and I’ll call you
next
week and we’ll get
together then.
I said nothing and left.
Now my roots grow faster
than I can hide them.
Now I know why my
grandmother
never spoke to me in
Italian and why
my father never
complained. Now
I know what I should have
grown up with. Now I know
the shame
of learning my culture and
heritage
from a book. Now I know
what I should have said—
If the Mafia were as
strong,
as powerful, as well
organized
throughout this country,
as you
think, you wouldn’t know
anything about it.
+ + +
These two poems are copyrighted Rose Romano and appear in my book Neither Seen nor Heard
