January-December 2010, vol. 1

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An archaeologist learns that most of an object's meaning lies inits context; where it was found, what it was found in associationwith. In the case of an archaeological dig, painstaking attentionis given to changes in soil layers and the mapping of theassociation of objects. The position of the object when found is,after all, the final link to the living person who may have lasttouched the object, the final link to an event upon which thearchaeologist stumbles sometimes thousands of years later.Sifting through a deceased estate is very much like anarchaeological dig. One of the hardest tasks I have had toundertake was sorting through my parents’ possessions aftertheir deaths. Yet what I thought would be a sad and terrible taskturned out to be an amazing time of discovery, a chance toreflect on my parents’ lives as a whole and my own life withthem. My sister and I spent days sorting through the stuff ofthese two lives now completed, and the stuff of our own livesas children. We cried and laughed, argued a bit, comparedstories and marvelled at the things our parents had kept and athow quickly these objects triggered associations, emotions andmemories. To my archaeological eye, it became clear that therewas a group of things within the things, small personal treasurestucked away and guarded, things that told a story of their own,a story bigger than just that of our family. These were thedocuments, photos and other bits and pieces which formedpart of my parents’ experience as Italian migrants to Australia inthe 1950s. Barthes suggests that in order to look at history wemust be excluded from it. 4 This rings true for me, illustrated bymy decision to donate items from my parents' estate to theItalian Historical Society (IHS) collection. The items donated tothe IHS are from before my time. In a sense they are not mine,were never mine, and thus can be given away with a sense ofobjectivity. Such objectivity would be impossible in regards to,for example, the brush with which I brushed my mother's hairin the hospital the day before she died, an act of intimacy ratherthan history.kept his past in a small, bright orange cardboard chocolate box,with MacRobertsons Old Gold Chocolates and a pirate's cheston the lid, added to the aura of the objects within.When Dad migrated in 1956, his older sister gave him a prayerbook, complete with many holy cards tucked between theyellowed pages – she had consigned her little brother into God'scare. My father always had great faith in his santo, Sant’Antoniodi Padova, and after his death we found one of these holy cardstucked deep inside his wallet. To me, the holy cards werebeautiful yet creepy, especially those which showed thereliquary of Saint Anthony's holy tongue. Even though I havebeen to the great Basilica of St Anthony in Padua several timesover the years, I have yet to fulfil a childhood obsession, that isto see Saint Anthony's tongue in the flesh. In true Italian style,each time I have attempted to see it, that part of the basilicahas been chiuso per restauro (closed for restoration). I wasbrought up as a Catholic but have since embraced a kind ofpantheistic new-age spiritualism. However, I do not deny thatthe power of these saints can be formidable. As my father layquietly in his bed, cancer spreading through his bones and in agrip of pain that only he could fathom, he had a massive strokeand died three days later. His stroke happened on the feast dayof Sant’Antonio di Padova. I like to think that Saint Anthonycame to help my Dad and spare him from further suffering.When I think like this I catch myself. It is amazing to me to findevidence of such deeply ingrained cultural tradition within myown psyche. In fact, as I write this, a tacky tourist plaque fromthe gift shop at the basilica sits just inside the front door to myhome in Tasmania, imploring Sant’Antonio to bless my littlehouse.My father, Pietro Pasquale Maniero, was born in Mestrino,Padova, in 1933. In 1956, at the age of 23, he boarded theArosa Kulm and migrated to Australia. An extremely hardworker, Dad felled trees in South Australia, picked grapes inMildura and worked seven seasons on the sugar cane harvest inIngham, North Queensland. During this time he also worked onthe building of the Callide Dam at Biloela in Queensland. Daddecided to return to Italy sometime between 1963 and 1965,but for some reason he decided not to stay, he decided that hislife lay in Australia. Either late in 1964, or early in 1965, Dadboarded the Galileo Galilei and set off for Australia again.The photos and objects which pertain to this part of my father'slife have fascinated me since childhood. They were kept hiddenaway and when I had the chance to see them it was like sharinga secret, a glimpse into an unknown world. The fact that Dad4 Roland Barthes, p. 65.Fig. 1 Holy Card, c1940s, reliquary of the holytongue of St Anthony of Padua.Dad's sugar cane photos were also kept in the chocolate box.These images both attract and repel me. There is my dad as ayoung man, strong and lean. He stands proud and defiant atopa ladder with a load of cane on his shoulder and he looks like heis enjoying himself. He has the poise of a movie star, a male20 | IHSJ ITALIAN HISTORICAL SOCIETY JOURNAL VOLUME 18 <strong>2010</strong>
version of Anna Magnani in the poster for the classic Italianmovie Bitter Rice. Yet, I cannot even begin to imagine how hardthat work must have been; dripping sweat in the tropical heat, arelentless rhythm of cutting, lifting, hauling; a razor sharpmachete wielded with brutal force and dangerously close tolong, bare legs.and repulsion. There is such a bleakness to them, a vast wall ofconcrete rising above earth freshly carved by the tracks ofheavy machinery. In one photo, two figures stand on thehorizon, their silhouettes dwarfed by the scale of theirsurroundings. They seem to symbolise the futility of all humantoil, while at the same time showing just how much of animpact humans can make on the earth when they worktogether. It was these things that my dad loved about Australia,the vastness of it all, the possibility that one who was willing towork hard could really build something. On this ancientcontinent everything seemed new, everything was anadventure.Fig. 2 Peter Pasquale Maniero, Ingham QLD, 1957-1963.The machete itself is a beautiful tool, sturdy yet light, thewooden handle sits smoothly in your palm. Dad always had agreat respect for tools. In the photos, the machete seems like anatural extension of his powerful right arm. My eyes keepreturning to his sneakers which don't have laces in them andthe tattered top he wears. I don't know this man. Could it reallybe my dad? He looks so savage and wild. I know this man well;this is my dad and I am proud of him. Dad hung his sugar canemachete on the wall in his last shed in southern Tasmania. Idon't recall ever have seen it before and it only surfaced afterthis last move, two years before he died.Fig 4. Construction of the Callide Dam, Biloela, QLD, c early 1960s.Who could have ever seen what lay ahead for the small boywhose 1943 school report seems to show a good student. Thereport’s cover displays a striking example of mid 20 th centurygraphic design and states Mussolini’s vision for educating thechildren of the new Italy.Fig 3. Sugar cane machete belonging to PeterPasquale Maniero.The nine small photos of the construction site of the CallideDam in Biloela, Queensland also hold that quality of attractionFig 5. Cover of school report of Peter Pasquale Maniero.I can only wonder at the kind of ideology my dad was exposedto as a small child and how this may have shaped him, or not.IHSJ ITALIAN HISTORICAL SOCIETY JOURNAL VOLUME 18 <strong>2010</strong> | 21
Page 2 and 3: A LIMITED NUMBER OF HARD COPIES OF
Page 4 and 5: “Everything can change, but not t
Page 6 and 7: antonino and antonio santospiritoof
Page 8 and 9: whole of Australia. 13 The number w
Page 10 and 11: he left for Australia. Then, after
Page 12 and 13: two nearby hotels after the “6 o
Page 14 and 15: wife and daughter to spend a week a
Page 16 and 17: provinces of the region of Calabria
Page 18 and 19: Italian-born Shire Councillor and l
Page 22 and 23: My dad was a character almost too b
Page 24 and 25: faded flowers stuffed into tiny vas
Page 26 and 27: We arrived at the wharf with our tr
Page 28 and 29: Several English passengers had comp
Page 30 and 31: the time in the world. We were the
Page 32 and 33: kissed as we had seen done in the m
Page 34 and 35: lost in the collection16mm italian
Page 36 and 37: speaking community. 13 In Italy at
Page 38 and 39: Two other key figures, represented
Page 40 and 41: e-discovering freedomby anna cerret
Page 42 and 43: works citedCresciani, Gianfranco. T
Page 44 and 45: The Altreitalie Centre was founded
Page 46 and 47: Permanent Study Centre on Emigratio
Page 48 and 49: up according to 9 themes), which hi
Page 50 and 51: ITALY’S MEMORY LIVES IN ROME by C
Page 52 and 53: publications receivedThe following
Page 54 and 55: the essays aim to expose Italian re
Page 56 and 57: This volume publishes some presenta
Page 58 and 59: ack issuesA limited number of copie
Page 60: Master of Preservation and Enhancem

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