In braccio alla mamma--chapter 1

Robin Pickering-Iazzi, who was kind enough to take the time to write something about me to be included in my novel "In braccio alla mamma," wrote this:

Reading your chapter gave a wonderful start to my day--something for me, some pleasure before tasks. The chapter will surely capture readers' attention and thoughts, with the last line driving them to get the novel and discover more. The pozzo! The site is also impressive, and a wonderful "store window" for your novel's display.

She's referring to the first chapter which Pina Piccolo was kind enough to put on her online magazine, www.lamacchinasognante.com, issue 14. Pina also wrote the introduction.

I don't know what I'd do if there weren't nice people in this world.

Un brano dal romanzo "In braccio alla mamma"

La prima volta che aveva scritto il suo nome, Edith Catherine Pozzuoli, su un foglio, il primo giorno del primo anno di scuola, quando nessun altro della classe sapeva scrivere proprio niente, la suora irlandese-americana quasi le sgridò.

“No, no!” disse la suora. “Sarebbe meglio scrivere Pozzuol, senza la i alla fine. Così, sembra più americano e tutti ti penseranno americana. E’ meglio essere americano che italiano.”

Edith voleva ridere ma non osava. Con il suo naso napoletano, con la sua pelle scura, con i suoi capelli neri, come avrebbe fatto a fingersi americana soltanto togliendo il vocale finale dal cognome? Si guardò intorno. Quasi tutti i bambini erano italo-americani, ma nessuno di loro disse niente. Sembravano tutti impauriti. C’era anche la bambina che aveva pianto quando aveva veduto la mamma che si allontanava dalla scuola quella mattina; c’erano ancora le tracce delle lacrime sulle guance.

Edith guardò negli occhi della suora. Non aveva mai paura quando era arrabbiata, anche se dopo, quando non era più arrabbiata, era terrorizzata.

“A me piace essere italiana,” disse in una voce che nessun bam-bino aveva mai usato con una suora, almeno, non un buon bambino. “Anzi, mi piace essere napoletana. E ho il naso che lo prova.”

“Ecco,” disse la suora, troppo sorpresa per reagire a quello che sembrava a lei una mancanza di rispetto e anche l’insubordinazione, “Proprio di quel naso devi fare ammenda con il cognome togliendone la vocale dalla fine.”

“Il mio nome,” disse Edith, scandendo bene le parole, “è Edith Catherine Pozzuoli. Sono napoletana e ne sono fiera.”

Tutti gli altri bambini guardavano il proprio banco. Quasi tutti gli italo-americani erano addirittura napoletani ma nessuno osò dire niente. La bambina che aveva pianto quella mattina stava quasi per piangere di nuovo, anche se aveva i capelli biondi, gli occhi azzurri, e un naso piccolo piccolo.

La suora, che aveva perso la pazienza, disse, “Allora, di’ alla mamma di venire da me domani dopo scuola, e ne parleremo.”

“La mamma,” disse Edith, sempre scandendo bene le parole, “è di salute cagionevole. E’ stata in ospedale perché ha il cuore debole. Mi rifiuto di farle fare la fatica di parlare con lei, anche perché sarebbe inutile. La mamma direbbe la stessa cosa. Il nostro cognome è Pozzuoli e si scrive P-o-z-z-u-o-l-i!”

Cagionevole? pensò la suora. Ma che razza di parola per una bambina di sei anni! Perché questa bambina non parla come una bambina normale?

“Anche se la tua mamma è in salute cattiva,” disse la suora, “dovrà venire domani dopo scuola e ne parleremo. Siamo in America e dobbiamo essere americani. Altrimenti, perché i tuoi genitori sono venuti in America se volevano essere italiani? Sarebbero potuti benissimo rimanere in Italia se volevano essere italiani.”

“I miei genitori sono di Brooklyn,” disse Edith. “Non avevano scelta. Sono nati qui.”

“Ecco,” disse la suora, trionfante. “Non sono nemmeno italiani, i tuoi genitori. Perché una persona sana di mente vorrebbe essere italiana se non fosse necessario? E poi, addirittura napoletana! Il tuo cognome adesso sarà Pozzuol, senza il vocale alla fine. Così, è più americano, per una bambina americana, come te.”

“Io sono napoletana,” disse Edith, scandendo bene le parole. “Il mio cognome è Pozzuoli e si scrive P-o-z-z-u-o-l-i-i-i-i-i!”

Gli altri bambini, sempre guardando il proprio banco, sorridevano per gli i-i-i-i-i. Suonò come il riso di un asino. Anche la bambina che prima stava per piangere, non stava più per piangere.

La suora non sapeva cosa dire. Non aveva mai avuto a che fare con un bambino che non ubbidiva subito. Non capiva più niente. Era una suora, non una persona qualsiasi, ed Edith era soltanto una bambina, vale a dire nemmeno una persona vera.

Mentre la suora cercava qualcosa da dire, Edith disse, “Mia mamma è di salute cagionevole. Ha il cuore debole. Non deve fare troppe cose in un giorno. E domani deve fare il bucato.”

Veramente, Giulietta aveva già fatto il bucato quella mattina, ma questo non c’entrava.

“Va bene,” disse la suora, abbastanza contenta di finire con quella discussione, e anche con una buona scusa per non farsi perdere la faccia, “Se la mamma è in salute cattiva, non dovrà venire a parlare con me,” con una leggera enfasi sulla parola cattiva.

Il sorriso degli altri bambini, sempre guardando il proprio banco, diventava un pochino più grande. Anche la bambina con i capelli biondi, gli occhi azzurri, e il naso piccolo piccolo, fece un accenno di sorriso. Forse la scuola non sarebbe stata poi così cattiva, dopotutto.

Edith aveva la sensazione di avere vinto qualcosa di importante, anche se non sapesse precisamente che cosa. Ma era qualcosa da pensarci quella notte a letto.

Dopo, quando i bambini aspettavano, nel cortile della scuola, le mamme per riportarli a casa, un bambino premuroso si avvicinò a Edith per darle un consiglio importante.

“Non dovevi dire niente,” disse a Edith quando l’aveva rag-giunta. “E’ sempre meglio fare l’americano, per non mettersi nei guai. Devi sempre fingere di essere americano per evitare i problemi.”

Ma come riesco a spacciarmi per americana con questo naso napoletano, con la pelle un po’ scura, con gli occhi e i capelli neri? pensò Edith. E poi, perché dovrei farlo? A me piace essere napoletana. E se non piace agli altri, è un problema loro, non mio. Questo bambino stupido è soltanto un razzista contro il proprio popolo. Pozzuol! Ma come suona ridicolo!

“Abbiamo già un problema,” disse Edith, “nel caso che tu non l’abbia notato. Quella suora è una razzista.”

“Ma come una razzista!” disse il bambino, inorridito, con tutta la faccia spalancata e non soltanto gli occhi. “Non è possibile che è una razzista. . .”

Sia, pensò Edith.

“. . .perché è una cattolica praticante e per giunta una suora. I miei genitori, che sono napoletani e fieri di esserlo, dicono sempre di tenere la bocca chiusa. C’è troppo pregiudizio contro gli italiani in questo paese.”

“Non nascondi una cosa di cui sei fiero.”

“Tu non capisci niente del mondo,” l’assicurò il bambino. “E poi, mio fratello aveva questa suora come insegnante l’anno scorso e raccontava a casa sempre tutto quello che diceva e faceva. Secondo la mamma, a questa suora non piace che i suoi alunni sanno. . .”

Sappiano, pensò Edith.

“. . .le cose che lei non aveva insegnato loro. La suora ha le sue ragioni e devono avere qualcosa a che fare con il sesso perché quando i genitori cominciano a parlarne, parlano sempre in napoletano invece di inglese. E tu hai scritto tutto il tuo nome il primo giorno di scuola, e un nome proprio napoletano. Se io ero in te. . .”

Fossi, pensò Edith, con un sospiro.

“. . .non direi mai più di essere italiana e non direi mai le cose troppo intelligenti. Era una cosa sbagliata, scrivere tutto il tuo nome, e come se questo non bastava. . .”

Bastasse! Mamma mia! pensò Edith. Ma a che serve avere il congiuntivo se nessuno lo usa mai?

“. . .proprio un cognome napoletano!”

“Ah, sì?” disse Edith. “Allora, vuoi sapere una cosa? Oggi, a pranzo, mangeremo il brasciol’ avanzato dalla cena di ieri sera!”

Edith gli mostrò la lingua.

“Edith,” disse la mamma.

Edith si girò a guardare la mamma, gli occhi spalancati, la faccia un pochino impallidita.

Ma da quanto tempo è qui, la mamma? pensò Edith. Mi ha visto mostrare la lingua a questo bambino? La mamma dice sempre di non farlo. Dice che non è gentile, e non è per niente da signora.

“Ciao, mamma,” disse Edith, coraggiosamente. Cercò di sorridere ma soltanto un lato della bocca si alzò, e solo un pochino.

“Ciao, Edith,” disse la mamma con un bel sorriso.

“Buongiorno,” disse la mamma al bambino. “Adesso io ed Edith dobbiamo andare a casa perché ci aspetta un bel pranzo con il brasciol’ avanzato dalla cena di ieri sera!”

“Poi,” disse la mamma a Edith, “se fai la brava bambina, ti do un pochino di caffè fatto con la cuccumella. Ma solo dopo pranzo, solo questa volta. E sai cosa facciamo stasera? Facciamo una bella pizza per la cena, proprio come la fanno a Napoli.”

All’improvviso, come per magia, entrò nel cervello di Edith un nuovo pensiero. C’entrò tutto intero, senza la necessità di grattarsi la testa, come una spirale di luce, tutto piacere ed eccitazione, mandando un formicolio dalla testa di Edith fino ai piedi.

Queste parole, pensò Edith, questo tono di voce, questo sorriso, tutto questo, è così che gli adulti mostrano la lingua alla gente. Che bella sensazione quando un nuovo pensiero entra nel cervello! Quando sarò grande, sarò come la mamma. Mi piace tanto questa sensazione.

Edith sorrise alla mamma, questa volta con tutta la bocca e anche gli occhi, e anche con tutto il corpo.

“Vieni, Edith,” disse la mamma, “Dobbiamo trovare quel tuo fratello che sparisce sempre.”

Prese la mano di Edith e fece per portarla via. Si girò al bambino, rimasto immobile, stecchito, a bocca aperta, e disse, “Ciao!”

Edith si girò al bambino, con la tentazione di mostragli di nuovo la lingua, però, essendo un genio, decise che sarebbe stato meglio non farlo. E poi, non sembrava più necessario.

“Ciao,” disse Edith al bambino, con un sorrisetto carino.

“Mamma,” disse Edith, quella sera mentre stava guardando la mamma che stendeva con il matterello la pasta per la pizza, “perché a certi napoletani non piace essere napoletani?”

“Non lo so,” disse la mamma. “Forse perché fingere di essere inferiori, come quel bambino che non ti aveva detto di essere stupida ma soltanto di fare la stupida, sembra un modo di combattere il pregiudizio. Sembra più facile vivere con i tuoi difetti finti che con quelli veri, perché sembra più facile fingere di correggere i tuoi difetti finti e sembra impossibile correggere davvero i difetti veri. Francamente, non l’ho mai capito bene. Ma capisco questo: Se non sei contento di quello che sei, non puoi essere contento di nient’altro nella vita.”

Edith non disse niente. Doveva ricordare tutto questo per pensarci bene a letto.

“C’è un’altra cosa che capisco,” continuò Giulietta. “Tutti i popoli hanno una bella cultura, una bella lingua, una bella cucina, i bei dipinti, le belle sculture, la bella letteratura. Quando c’è qualcosa di cattivo in una cultura, non è una vera parte di quella cultura. E’ soltanto uno sbaglio che deve essere corretto.”

malafemmina press presenta

In braccio alla mamma

un romanzo di Rose Romano

ISBN 979-12-200-4242-0

Quando Edith Catherine Pozzuoli aveva otto anni uccise sua madre e niente fu più come prima. Aveva perso non soltanto la sua amica migliore, ma era caduta da una famiglia relativamente contenta e sicura in una famiglia pazza e maligna. Quando prega la Vergine Maria di trovarle una nuova madre, promettendo che questa volta avrebbe fatto in modo che niente di cattivo sarebbe successo alla mamma, la Vergine Maria stessa viene per aiutarla. Poi, credendo che sua madre non fosse morta ma dormisse il sonno speciale e, stufa di aspettare che si svegli, decide di uccidersi per raggiungerla.

Include una Prefazione di Pina Piccolo (I canti dell’Interregno, Lebeg Edizioni); Postfazione di Maria Pallotta-Chiarolli (Tapestry: Interweaving Lives, Random House); Antologia critica di Robin Pickering-Iazzi (The Mafia in Italian Lives and Literature, University of Toronto Press), Antonio D’Alfonso (poeta, romanziere, saggista, traduttore), e Ferdinando Alfonsi (critico letterario). Il dipinto sulla copertina è di Robert Bharda.

In braccio alla mamma è disponibile a:

www.libreriafernandez.it

Libreria Fernandez

via Mazzini, 87

01100 Viterbo (VT)

Italia

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

How and Why I was kicked off the Editorial Board of VIA

When I was invited to be on the editorial board of VIA I was happy to say yes. When I found out that it didn’t mean I’d have anything to say about what they published, that all they wanted was lots of names on their masthead, I didn’t know how to feel. On the one hand, I felt left out; on the other hand I felt relieved that I wouldn’t have to do any work. I could just mention in my curriculum that I was on their editorial board and it would make me look good.

Fred Gardaphe and Anthony Tamburri and the third founding editor, whose name I can never remember and who I always thought of as the shadow man because he never did anything for the magazine that I could see, immediately began offending me. I think that half the time they were unaware that they were offending me partly they were oblivious to the ethics of small press publishing and partly because they were just too arrogant towards someone as unimportant as I was.

They sent me a copy of each issue of VIA and so I sent them a copy of each issue of la bella figura. My little magazine, what you might call a zine, consisted of ten sheets of letter size paper stapled in the corner and then folded in half so that some pages were presented in the common size of a little magazine and some pages were presented in the common size of a letter. It certainly didn’t measure up to VIA in regard to visible prestige. VIA was bigger, thicker, printed on glossy paper, lots of full color illustrations and full-page, half-page, and quarter-page ads.

I always had the impression that they were more concerned with power than with literature and it took a while before I realized that VIA wasn’t a small press publication; it was an academic publication. It took even longer before I realized that these three men wanted to be the mafia bosses of Italian-American literature and didn’t want to be contradicted by a little lady nobody. They demanded compliance, sniveling ass kissing, and flattery from everyone around them, which they apparently got from everyone around them, except me, and which they thought was respect, and saw no need to show any respect to me and my crappy little two-bit zine.

I folded la bella figura to go live in Italy, leaving for my second trip here. My first time here I was a tourist. The second time I was here, for almost a year and a half, I was an illegal alien. This time I’ve got citizenship.

They had a special page in which they claimed to want Italian-Americans to write in about whatever was on their mind. But nothing ever appeared on that page except their lament—Why don’t Italian-Americans write?

They said in VIA that lbf had folded for lack of subscriptions. They never bothered to ask me why I had folded. I guess they thought that a crappy little zine couldn’t make it and you had to be a real magazine, bigger, thicker, printed on glossy paper, lots of full color illustrations and full-page, half-page, and quarter-page ads. It was their idea of a sales pitch—subscribe to VIA to keep it from folding.

I wrote and told them that I folded lbf because I wanted to live in Italy, thinking they would publish it in VIA on their special page.

When I started lbf, I bought a copy of The Directory of Poets and Writers, or whatever it’s called, and I sent flyers to everyone listed who had an Italian last name. Not only did I get a lot of submissions but I had 200 subscribers before the first issue came out. This number was maintained throughout its run and I ended with a mailing list of 800. This is very successful for a zine of its kind.

I mentioned this when I wrote to them, also saying that I didn’t think that preventing a magazine from folding would serve as an incentive for people to subscribe.

They never printed what I had sent them for their special page. Instead, they just continued to say on that page, issue after issue—Why don’t Italian-Americans write?

When I mentioned this to Lucia Chiavola Birnbaum, who, like me, was on their editorial board, she said that they received lots of things for that page; they just didn’t want to print them. She also mentioned to me that, at that time, VIA had only 100 subscribers, something that they never mentioned when they asked people to buy ads. An ad that reaches only 100 people, at $1,000, is way overpriced.

The policy at VIA was to print only unpublished work. When I noticed in one issue that they had included a poem by Maria Gillan which had previously appeared in lbf, I wrote to Fred Gardaphe. He wrote back in anger, wanting to know why I hadn’t told him. (Excuse me, Fred, but I just told you. That’s how you found out and why you’re writing to me now.)

In the small press community, and I’ll bet in the academic community, it’s the writer’s responsability to inform, in his cover letter, the editors of the magazines to which he’s submitting work, whether or not the work being submitted has already been published. Little magazines especially, not having too much money and wanting to publish as much unrecognized stuff as possible, often don’t like to reprint work. But sometimes this isn’t mentioned in their calls for manuscripts and the writer is expected to mention it just in case.

Did Fred make up this rule just for me? Did he mean to ask why I hadn’t told him, before they had agreed to publish it, that Gillan’s poem had already been published? Did he even wonder how I would have known that? Did he actually think that all editors follow their writers around to see whether they’re sending out work that they had already published in their magazines?

A normal editor would have printed, in the next issue, a little notice saying that Gillan’s poem had been previously published in lbf, with a reminder that VIA prints only previously unpublished work, and a little apology for the oversight. But they printed nothing.

Fred Gardaphe doesn’t seem to know the difference between power (Gillan could do things to help his career along and I couldn’t. Therefore, she was right and I was wrong.) and reality.

This was a slap in my face, one among many. But I didn’t say anything.

Although $1,000 was a lot of money for me to spend on any one thing, including advertising, I had a full-page ad put in VIA for my first book of poetry, Vendetta. It wasn’t as impressive looking as the other ads but it said what it needed to say. That’s been a big part of my goal as a writer—not to impress on a superficial level but to say what needs to be said.

I noticed that they moved the other ads around, each ad getting a chance to be in a more visible space, while my ad was always stuck in the back where people rarely look. I wrote to them and asked whether they could please put my ad in a more visible space once in a while, as they did with all the others.

I received a letter from Anthony Tamburri saying that if I didn’t like where they were placing my ad they’d be glad to drop my ad and refund my money. Apparently, he was offended by my gall in requesting the same treatment that they gave to others who had ads in their magazine. I thought it was a completely unjustified response and even abnormal.

I was unemployed at the time and I could find other uses for that money. So I wrote back and said, okay, drop the ad and refund my money. In any case, I added, that ad had only sold about two or three copies of the book.

They dropped the ad and refunded my money. Tamburri sent me what I thought was a strangely worded letter, saying something about how he was sorry that I had chosen to leave them. He also said that they would be reporting this expense when they did their taxes and so I’d better be sure to report this income on my own tax returns to be sure that I didn’t get into any trouble.

But that $1,000 was the only money I had received that calender year so I wasn’t required to pay income taxes. I just laughed and threw the letter into the trash.

A few months later I received the usual letter they sent out to everyone on their editorial board asking me to vote for what I thought was the best piece in the most recent issue.

I looked at the list of the names of everyone on their editorial board, printed on the left hand side of their letterhead. My name was no longer on the list. Apparently they had sent me this letter using the accidently-on-purpose method of getting even.

Accidently-on-purpose was what we, as children in the neighborhood, called subconscious revenge. For example, if someone you were playing stickball with insulted you, the next time you threw the ball you’d hit him on the head with it. When he complained, you’d say, “I did it accidently,” and he would say, “Yeah, accidently on purpose.”

I guess that that $1,000 I paid was not only for my ad but for the honor of being on their editorial boad, although I’d bet that no one else had to pay $1,000 to be listed on their editorial board.

One of the first times I spoke to Fred, he asked me whether I had a university degree. I said no. He said, “Well, it doesn’t matter.” If it didn’t matter, why did he ask? Because he wanted to know whether I belonged to their little club.

Anthony Tamburri very rarely spoke to me first and very rarely even answered me when I spoke to him. He would usually just grunt or ignore me completely. And he always did it with a look that seemed like a combination of self-satisfaction and disgust.

But once, when he saw me at a conference of the American Italian Historical Association, he ran up to me and with a gleeful look in his eyes, happily told me that an Italian-American newspaper had laughed at the idea of an Italian-American radical poet.

He also advised me not to write so much about prejudice against Italian-Americans. This is very important in both Italian and Italian-American culture: forget the past if it’s negative.

For both these reasons, the lack of fancy initials after my name and my complaining, one of the most serious sins in both Italian and Italian-American culture, I was becoming an embarrassment to them.

They did other things to offend me. I guess they were expecting me to complain, giving them an excuse to take me off their editorial board. But I didn’t complain about those things. Apparently, my request to have my ad rotated as all the other ones were, seemed like a good excuse to them.

So they kicked me off the board, pretending it was my choice to leave, and didn’t even bother to tell me.

Maybe they’re unaware that in the small press community there are a lot of editors who publish their little magazines because they think that certain work, which they thought was worthy of being published, would not be published in the mainstream press. These people have integrity and they’re honest. They make up reasonable rules and expect everyone to follow them.

One rule is that, if you lie in your cover letter in the hope of impressing them, they will not publish your work and they rarely bother to tell writers why their work is being rejected. If I had put in my cover letters that I was on the editorial board of VIA, and these editors found out that I wasn’t, I would have my work automatically rejected. It might have even spread around that I was a liar and my work would always be rejected and I would never know why.

Maybe they didn’t know that. Or maybe they did.

If I had complained about those other times that they had offended me, I probably would have been kicked off their board a lot sooner. It just goes to show you that you should never keep your mouth shut when you’ve been insulted.