Wake Forest Magazine, December 2004 - Past Issues - Wake Forest ...

World War II made the children,
then young adults, far more American
than Italian. They had macaroni.
They had the Catholic church. But
they had no connection whatsoever
to their cousins in Calabria, just
one generation removed.
I always figured this was just the
way of things. Either my elders weren’t
storytellers, or it simply wasn’t important
to know about our not-sodistant
Italian heritage. The reality
is that my immigrant grandparents
never romanticized their homeland.
It wasn’t romantic; it was brutally
difficult. And neither the prime
ministers in Rome nor the popes in
the Vatican cared enough about
southern Italy to slow the tide of
those leaving. During the great U.S.
migration between 1880 and 1920,
some thirty million southern Italians
left their homes, representing an
astonishing 83 percent of all Italian
immigrants. America, not Italy, offered
salvation and hope. They were grateful
and they didn’t look back.
Then a funny thing happened
in 1997. Word flitted across the
Atlantic to my family that a Catanoso
had been beatified by the pope in
a huge ceremony at the Vatican.
A near saint in the family tree? My
goodness. How did this happen?
But more to the point, how could
we not know about him?
The train ride from Rome to
Reggio Calabria took six hours.
We were uncertain of what to
expect. I had been in contact with
a Catanoso cousin by e-mail in
the months prior to our trip. We’re
coming, I told her, my wife and
three daughters and me. But given
the Italian nonchalance toward confirming
plans, I couldn’t assure my
three kids that there would be anyone
waiting at the train station.
As we got off on the platform The din never fell below a roar,
with our bags, I looked around. with some English spoken, but
Other passengers were instantly mostly Italian. We learned that
greeted, but not us. I quickly this was a typical Sunday lunch at
calmed myself. I had phone num- Pina’s—food, family and revelry.
bers and addresses written down. Only on this day, five more seats
We’d take a cab to the hotel and— were wedged around two long
just then an older woman less than tables in the dining room.
5-feet-tall ambled up to me.
As the women cleared the plates
“Catanoso?” she asked, beauti- and brought in a wave of fruits
fully enunciating every syllable. and desserts, I could feel a film-
Yes.
maker’s hand at work again. My
“Pina Catanoso,” she said, before wife is a musician and singer; a
reaching out with soft hands to kiss few of my cousins knew this.
me on both cheeks.
Soon, one of them emerged with
We were the first Catanosos a beat-up guitar held aloft. He
from America to set foot in Reggio presented it to Laurelyn like a
Calabria in more than thirty years. scepter as the room erupted with
Of course they would meet us. accented chants of “country music,
Three more cousins appeared, country music!” She and I exchanged
as if from the mist. I could barely glances as if to say, ‘Can you believe
see them through the tears in all this?’ As I snapped pictures and
my eyes.
Laurelyn began to sing, I noticed
When we arrived at Pina’s apart- my daughters falling comfortably
ment for lunch, the place was into the embrace of this lovely
jammed. I couldn’t
family, our family.
shake the thought
It was clear to
that someone was
me that there was
scripting every
no poverty in that
moment. More
room. Whatever
than twenty-five
suffering and depri-
people awaited
vations Pina and
us, three genera-
her parents endured
tions, all clapping
years ago, her
and cheering,
children, and their
all Catanosos.
cousins—my peers—
Everything felt
are happily middle
familiar; everybody
class with nice clothes,
looked familiar.
And the food could
Gaetano Catanoso
cell phones, and professional
jobs. They
have been straight
are all also close rela-
from my mother’s kitchen—grilled tives of Father Gaetano Catanoso,
eggplant slices in olive oil, peppers whose presence is still felt in this
and eggs, macaroni in tomato sauce, home. When Pina was a young
macaroni with tuna and olive oil, woman, her cousin was her priest,
sliced pork, spicy sausages, baked the man she entrusted with her
fish, all enjoyed with homemade confessions. Surely he was a part of
red wine.
these Sunday meals a generation ago.
E S S A Y
DECEMBER 2004 23