Wednesday, January 30, 2019

Vendetta and Dago Street

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

No comments:

Post a Comment