Calabria Lives On

My interest in family dynamics stems from my belief that, for most people, the familial bond is perhaps our strongest emotion. Indeed, primatologists have indicated for decades that familial loyalty can also be witnessed among other species that share our phylogenetic Order (see, for example, (i) Kinship and Dispersal, (ii) Allomaternal Care). Hence, the analysis of familial situations in my writings, whether those situations be of the turbulent variety or of the kind that generate the proverbial 'warm fuzzies', ultimately connects with people who share my beliefs and interests—and hence my appreciation for the emotions at play when family dynamics are thrust into challenging circumstances. Two famous films that illustrate this point, for example, are: Madame X, and An Affair To Remember. Inevitably, viewers of those movies fall into one of two categories: (i) the ones whose throat chokes up, whose eyes well, and whose nose starts to leak like an old faucet; and (ii) the ones who show no discernible reaction. I cannot say whether or not people in the first group identify more personally with the characters in the film since several studies indicate that genetic and environmental factors contribute to a person's physiological response to situations (see, for example, Physiology and Neurobiology of Stress and Adaptation). Nonetheless, I believe that, for people in the first category, those kinds of scenes trigger emotions that are personal and relevant to their own lives, although some would argue that it is merely the difference between empathy and sympathy at play. Regardless, it is the existence of such a dichotomy that tells me that each of us shares similar feelings and emotional reactions with a substantial number of our fellow human beings; hence, people with the ability to put their emotions and experiences into words will often be sharing something valuable with their readers. It is that belief that served as motivation for me to write In the Twilight of the Moon, as the following paragraphs might suggest.

I suppose that, first and foremost, as a Calabrian male raised in an English–speaking country, I have always been fascinated by the notion that, according to some of my elders, certain members of our clan have allowed non–Italian issues to seep into our Calabrian household. A typical example would be a character with the following traits:

• dropped out of school
• has difficulty holding a job
• disappears for days at a time
• attracts unstable friends

Clearly, there can be many routes to the evolution of this type of personality. In my clan, and to the astonishment of my elders, the sources sometimes were traceable to depression, bipolar disorder, and even schizophrenia. Furthermore, each of these is an illness that my kin could not possibly be expected to understand. And to complicate matters, my older relatives were also not capable of factoring in the important notion that they were now living in a country where mysterious conditions that used to get their sufferers labeled adversely in their Italian hometowns are actually now addressed by what is regarded as currently appropriate scientific terminology. Hence, the removal of the 'we' versus 'they' barrier has brought those shunned labels close to home. Much less surprising, of course, was the appearance of alcoholism in some of our families, although the concomitant existence of substance–abuse usually generated denial. Those of you who have had similar experiences in your own clan will no doubt appreciate the relevant undertones in my novel. More precisely, there are certain behavioral expectations that Calabrian parents thrust onto their children, and when the inevitable clash of cultures makes its appearance in an immigrant family, everyone lands on unfamiliar territory. Hence, the parental expectations, coupled with the adolescent child's need for parental approval, result in some very powerful, sometimes conflicting, and occasionally violent emotions. The following is an excerpt from my novel that illustrates some of these dynamics at play:

<My brother Marco and my father had been arguing over his mysterious employment almost daily and it finally came to a head a few days after Marco failed to show up for a party in honor of Uncle Frankie's birthday. My father suggested that whatever illicit activities Marco was involved in were more important to him than his family. Marco burped in response and that set my father off. I was closest to him and he slapped me on the back of the head, sending me reeling; and when he pulled his hand away he aimed to give Marco a backhand to the face. But Marco caught his wrist, stopping his arm in mid air. That moment will remain etched in my memory for the rest of my days. Although fleeting, it defined our family dynamics from that day onward. Several things happened the moment Marco's hand and my father's forearm locked in mid air. For starters, my stomach went queasy. In that split second my mind assimilated and understood how my father would respond; he'd generate all the fury he could muster to regain control of his family. I was trembling, and although extreme anxiety had paralyzed my body, my brain searched frantically for a way to eradicate myself.

The second thing that happened in that moment was Marco's metamorphosis. It was even more frightening than my father's rage. Marco had crossed a forbidden threshold and a derogatory smirk etched a savage confidence into his eyes. There he was, holding our father at bay with one hand. The one person who had always been able to control him was now reduced to, at best, his equal. Marco didn't say anything. He just grinned disrespectfully. He didn't need to say anything.

The last thing that took place in that instant during which my father's authority was taken from him was something that, curiously enough, saddened me. My feelings remained confused for the longest time after that. During that moment, the world as I knew it changed indelibly and forever. As much as I feared my father's anger, I always believed that he loved  us, and I felt that, in his own way, he believed that he was disciplining us for our own good. I think he believed he was helping us become better people. Clinging to that thought had always been a source of stability for me throughout his many tirades. Cloaked in all those feelings, I fervently believed that, although I feared my father in our household, outside the house I felt that he could protect me—and that had always made me feel safe. The incident with Marco changed all that. After all, if one of my father's children could handle him, how could he protect me from the dangers of the outside world? My world crumbled that day and I would be spending every day thereafter trying to piece it back together.>

The underlying causes of this kind of behavior are often difficult to trace, especially for our aging parents, uncles and aunts who are convinced they did everything right. Indeed, they certainly could never be expected to understand their role in denying and enabling their child's behavior. More importantly, there is no denying that, in most cases, they did the very best they knew how to do—and as I got older, it is the realization of this fact that has helped me appreciate the deep level of caring that our Calabrian elders brought to the child–rearing table.

Until next time ... 'ndi vidhimu' (we'll be seeing you).

Note: In the Twilight of the Moon can be previewed through Amazon kindle

Calabrian sons have somewhat of a reputation for being their mama's favorite child. In fact, many of us have sisters who swear that is the case. But it really isn't, and there are countless non-Italians who will argue that Italians do not have an exclusive hold on special mother-son relationships. The late singer Townes Van Zandt, for example, alludes to this in his famous song  Pancho and Lefty, which gained wide popularity with the versions recorded by  EmmyLou Harris and subsequently by  Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. The very first verse ends with the following lines:

     You weren't your mama's only boy
    But her favorite one it seems;
    She began to cry
    When you said goodbye
    And sank into your dreams.

No sirree! The bond that Italian males have with their mothers is no different than that of their non–Italian peers, even though unmarried Italian sons are notorious for living at home well into their adulthood. But this is, in fact, to keep the family unit together. Indeed, many an Italian parent has said to a son, upon expressing his need to move out: 'but why do you have to leave? This is your home. This is where you belong'. Furthermore, there are always reasons for why that bond develops the way it does. Sometimes it is as simple as the emotional needs of the mother; and sometimes it is based in the son's response to his mother's needs; or it can also be rooted in the complex psychological and emotional structure of a son raised amidst the pull of two cultures competing for his attention—a situation for which an immigrant mother is usually ill–prepared. The common factor, of course, is always the basic instincts of love and loyalty to one's family—and this dynamic can sometimes express itself in 'creative' ways (although the parent would probably label them 'rebellious').

Having said all this, and as is the case with other ethnic groups, I firmly believe that the primary relationship for an Italian son is with his male parent. The father–son bond enjoyed by well–known celebrities like Walter and Wayne Gretzky, Tiger Woods and his late father (and many, many more), is mirrored in household after household; and where it isn't, I daresay that it is envied. Indeed, I firmly believe that we men, as much as we love our moms, either already enjoy, or strive for or even crave a strong bond with our dads. In one of my novels, In The Twilight of the Moon, a son is asked to eulogize his father on behalf of the family and he starts off with the following words:

     'I'd never trade my daddy,'
    Said the little boy one fine day;
    'He says I am a prince
    And that my kingdom's far away.'
    His child–like innocence made me smile
    And I began to say:
    'Would you trade your daddy if he weren't a king?'
    The little boy said: 'No way!'

As we boys turn into men (whether 20 years old or 80), that sentiment never leaves us. The fondness, the need to admire, and, as we age, the need to look after our dad are central themes in our lives. Perhaps it is a recognition of our extended self; or perhaps it is due to the fact that human beings are basically decent creatures who value and appreciate the sacrifices our parents make for us; or perhaps it is as simple as Harry Chapin's words in his famous song Cat's in the Cradle, whose refrain consistently has the son repeating 'I wanna be like you, dad'; and, eventually, the father, in his senior years, awakens to the following realization:

    'And as I hung up the phone
    It occurred to me,
    My boy was just like me,
    He'd grown up just like me.'

Despite the recurrence of this powerful theme, men have always been programmed to be emotionally strong, perhaps as a consequence of our responsibility to look after our families. Regardless, there is certainly no overabundance of literature on the father–son bond, although I believe that has been changing in recent years. I, too, in my aforementioned novel have made it a primary theme. In particular, contrary to the widespread belief that Italian sons have a special relationship with their mothers, I argue that what we really want is the approval of our father—and it sometimes manifests itself in 'funny' (or, to use my previous word, 'creative') ways, for, quite often, a genetically–inherited pride seems to rise up in displaced locations. In my case, I would be less than honest if I did not admit that, even as an adult, it was important for me to know that my father appreciated (or, preferably, admired) my achievements. And if he were to withhold his acknowledgment, I was deeply disappointed—although I would never let on publicly.

These kinds of dynamics strike me as those of the proverbial 'child within the man' and I have bounced this thought off many of my male friends—both Italian and non–Italian—and, to a man, they have all expressed the same sentiment. One of my Scottish friends, in fact, went so far as to say that he believes that all tension between him and his father was rooted in the deep love he felt for his dad, and the expectations he held were likely mired in his need for parental approval. I suppose that, on a subconscious level, I must subscribe to that theory as well since at least two of the brothers in my novel search for themselves through the turbulent relationships they have with their father.

Until next time ... 'ndi vidhimu' (we'll be seeing you).  Corner. Ciao for now.

Note: In the Twilight of the Moon, which deals with Italian family dynamics, including aggression, depression, the seeking of parental approval, unrequited love, and dementia in elderly parents, can be previewed at Amazon kindle  

I wrote a novel entitled In the Twilight of the Moon. The story is loosely inspired by the life and times of an uncle of mine, now deceased. In particular, my uncle was a jovial fellow who often concisely captured the essence of what he wanted to say by resorting to expressions  he grew up with in his native Calabria. As a child, many of those phrases seemed quite colorful to me and I absorbed their meaning mainly through osmosis after hearing them over and over again.

One of those idioms, 'nta 'stu lustru di luna, eventually gave rise to the title of my novel, although not a direct translation. My uncle, who never got angry, used that particular phrase metaphorically as a means of expressing his frustration through sarcasm. Literally translated, it means 'in this light (or sheen) of moon', which refers to the fact that even in the dark of night the moon is there to light our way. Hence, during moments of frustration, rather than admit that it may be time to throw in the towel, my uncle always whipped out that phrase, drenched in sarcasm, to cynically state that the situation at hand did not appear to have a solution.

There were many other Calabrian idioms and expressions that I learned from my uncle, not all of which are common to all the Calabrian provinces. Indeed, some were specific to my uncle's village. For example, there is the tale (apparently true) of a paesano (let's call him Joe) who apparently went through a lengthy period of constipation, which eventually led to complications that resulted in his death. That incident gave rise to an expression that, whenever one of us resorted to an 'if only' scenario (for example, if only I were 40 pounds heavier I would have made the football team; or, if only I had been born into wealth, I would be further ahead in my goals than I currently am, etc.), my uncle retorted with a strategically placed si Peppi cacava, non moria, which translates into 'well, if only Joe had been able to poop, then he would not have died'.

Although I recount these incidents with levity, my exposure to my uncle taught me many things about Calabrian culture, most aspects of which I'm extremely proud to claim in my heritage. To be sure, I was raised and acculturated in an English–speaking western society and I would not trade that part of my upbringing for anything; but the knowledge of the rich history and traditions from whence my gene pool originated became an important cog in the understanding of who we were and what we had to offer, much of which was unique to us as culturally Calabrian among the larger group of people that the world knows as Italians. At the top of the list, perhaps, might be the sense of family that has been imparted to us, generation after generation—and that is the dynamic that inspired my novel, for with a sense of family comes a responsibility to uphold its values, a task that includes looking after our siblings and taking care of our aging parents—all admirable qualities that are valued by virtually every culture and perhaps envied by some.

The following excerpt is the beginning of my novel, which hints at the turbulent turn that Luciano's eldest son begins to explore in his quest to find a means of connecting with his father:   

<The first signs that my family might be veering off the proverbial beam appeared at about the time my Uncle Frankie arrived in Canada. They were hard to pinpoint, mind you, not anything that you could actually put your finger on; rather, it was the kind of thing that you became aware of only when it was happening to you—sort of like when you feel sick but the doctor can't find anything wrong with you—or when your car suddenly responds differently from what you're used to but the mechanic has no idea what you're talking about. But you do. You know something isn't quite right because you're the only one who liveswith your body all day long and you're the only one who spends time in your care every single day. That's how I felt about what was happening to our family. On its own, each event did not draw attention to itself; but the sum total of their effect suggested that we might not be the portrait of stability that my father tried to paint.

Up until the day of Uncle Frankie's arrival we were just another family living in a downtown flat, which we shared with my mother's two sisters. But on that day, my perception of our family's dynamics received its first dent. On that day, my brother Marco, although he had never been a saint, showed the first signs of the aggression that would come to define him in a violent encounter at school. And when we got home, our father made his feelings on the matter abundantly clear. He and my mother were on our front steps, in overcoats, waiting for us. Ma, her handbag slung over her forearm, fidgeted nervously while my father, belt dangling from his hand and vengeance in his eyes, removed his fedora and pointed us into the house.

The first slap my father threw merely grazed Marco's shoulder, my brother having managed to elude it by twisting quickly away. The return backhand, however, landed full force on the side of my head, which left my ear ringing for several minutes.   

    "What did I do?"   

    My father responded by slapping me again.   

    "But I was with him." I pointed to my brother.   

     "You weren't where you were supposed to be." Then my father turned to my mother. "Did I not tell them this morning to come straight home? Now, instead, we have to go rushing all over the place just to get to the station on time. They just hold me to their ass, both of them, that's what they do."   

    "Luciano, please—"   

    "Luciano please my balls!" he countered. Then he kicked out his good leg, missing Marco but leaving himself teetering off balance on his sick leg. "Figghiu di puttana!" he growled as he struggled to retain      his balance. Son of a whore!>

As the story unfolds, Marco's behavior forces Luciano out of his familiar, previously safe, comfort zone and he, too, begins to struggle to keep his relationship with his sons intact. The traditional Calabrian dynamics had begun to fail Luciano and thenceforth the entire family battles to find common ground—until, one day, a traumatic event reveals that what they had all been seeking had also been under their nose the whole time. Their Calabrian upbringing had not failed them after all.

Until next time ... 'ndi vidhimu' (we'll be seeing you).    

Note: In The Twilight of the Moon can be previewed at Amazon kindle

Previously, I alluded to my fascination with some of the idioms and expressions that were passed down to me by my Calabrian ancestors. But our ancestral culture is rich in many other aspects as well. Over the centuries, its music and its folklore have certainly made their presence felt; but there are many customs whose rural qualities link them specifically to Southern Italy. Furthermore, I have always suspected that the Calabrian psyche has been at play during the evolution of these traditions. For example, the wailing ritual that I have seen at many Calabrian funerals has always struck me as an incredible phenomenon. I mean, no one sits at home practising such a ritual in order to be prepared to perform their duty the day a member of their household dies; yet, when the time comes, the womenfolk always seem to wail and chant with a remarkable, emotion-provoking similarity. Indeed, many a stoic soul has approached the family of the deceased with the intention of lending courage and support only to find himself/herself sobbing uncontrollably moments later. In my novel, In the Twilight of the Moon, one of the characters, a youth raised in North America, has difficulty witnessing these dynamics, for the first time, at the funeral of his grandmother. Here is an excerpt:

<The most difficult moment for Ma and her siblings was the moment in which the funeral director shut the lid on the coffin. A wail erupted throughout the room and my eyes, too, welled up in that instant. Somehow, while the coffin was open, nonna was still with us, unable to communicate personally, but she was there for us to look at, to touch, to kiss, to tell one another how beautiful and peaceful she looked, and so on. But once the lid came down on that coffin, all we had left was a wooden box with a stack of memories—for ever and ever.

"It's all right, Pina, she'll always be with us."

"Let her rest in peace, Renata, she lives on through the kids."

"We'll leave her bedroom just the way it is, Sofia. Her every memory will be preserved in our house."

And before we knew it we were in funeral cars on the way to the cemetery, where the hand of death would reveal more if its smug arrogance. As we walked towards the plot, the sight of the gaping hole in the ground triggered the eruption of another wail from some of our family members and relatives. I realized immediately where that pit would lead, and it would take nonna there for the rest of eternity, to be joined one day by the remaining members of our clan. One by one, nonna's relatives would reunite with her. And then it hit me. One day, I would end up in a pit just like that one. A shudder went through me and nonna suddenly seemed less important.>

From an anthropological perspective, I suppose that a symbiotic two–fold purpose  has been at work; namely, Calabrian customs appear to have been a means of keeping the social unit together while keeping ancient traditions alive. The Patron Saint of my ancestors' hometown, for example, is Saint Rocco. To this  day, people related in some way to our ancestral Calabrian home continue to celebrate his feast day annually, regardless of which country they curently live in. Indeed, a banner with Saint Rocco's image, provided by the local chapter of paesani, is often set up at social gatherings, funerals, etc.

I also suspect that to most Calabrians, the religious aspect of our history is the common thread behind the need to sustain these traditions. Certainly, as a kid, I could not help but notice that a primary role of our Marching Band was at the forefront of Church processions. I was also aware that certain baked goods made their appearance only at Christmas and at Easter, which suggested our family's intention to honor ancient religious customs and to pass on ancestral obligations to the younger generation.

As you can see, the Calabrian mindset fascinates me and each new insight quickly leads to another. In my novel, I try to share some of these insights. At one point, I refer to a famous folk-song that touches upon several themes. I believe the song to be of Sicilian origin, but it is certainly well–known to Calabrians as well. Traditional renditions include those of Rosa Balistreri and Domenico Modugno and Otello Profazio, while even Bon Jovi has paid tribute to it. Like many of the old songs, it tells a story—in particular, of a fascination with death ("I saw a skull atop a tower; being curious, I spied upon it"), of sorrow ("she replied with great pain: 'I died without even the knell of the Church Bells'"), of love ("when I die I am going to paradise; but if I do not see you there, I will not even enter"), of loneliness ("my years have departed I know not where") and of despair ("now that I've reached my eightieth year, life calls but death replies in its place"). Check out the aforementioned artists and I think you will agree that these efforts leave little doubt of the cultural and emotional depth of the rich customs entrusted to us by our Southern Italian fore-fathers and mothers.

Until next time ... 'ndi vidhimu' (we'll be seeing you).

Note: In the Twilight of the Moon  can be previewed at Amazon kindle

Some of the above postings have alluded to my fascination with Calabrian customs and traditions, with special mention of its idioms as expressed both behaviorally and through its artists. To a remarkable degree, these traditions seem capable of living on, even after emigration—at the very least for 2 or 3 generations after Calabrians leave their fatherland. To be sure, some of the customs, such as the wailing and chanting at a funeral, die off within the first generation or two. But these are, for lack of a better word, the phenotypic expression of the ancestral tradition. The deep respect for the symbolic meaning seems to live on. For example, my clan is now in its fourth generation of North American born offspring, and even the great–grandchildren of the original immigrants are still attending funerals of paesani they barely know, as representatives of the family. In other words, the family surname still appears in the Guest Book for the relatives of the deceased, as a sign of continuing respect.

I often ponder these dynamics, although I admit to not fully understanding their etiology. Still, the time invested seems to be something I need to do and I devote regular attention to it. Perhaps it is a means of remaining connected to my roots. Or maybe it is something more—a mysterious power that is in our genes, passed on to us by our ancestors who instilled a strong sense of family in us—a tradition that most of us still wish to pass on to our progeny. This latter thought gave rise to an interesting perspective for me recently. I was listening to the late Mino Reitano's version of  Calabria Mia, a song in which Calabria is personified as a mother, complete with the emotions that accompany that role. The lyrics speak directly to Calabria about her missing offspring:

     Eu preghu nott' e ghiornu lu signuri
    Ca tutt' i figghii toi ann' a turnari
    Lu sannu ca tu si malata 'i cori
    Lu sannu ca cussi non poi campari
    Calabria mia.

In this verse, the narrator is assuring a heartsick parent that he prays for the return of her children, who must know that she cannot go on this way. The last line reveals the intended listener to be 'My Calabria'. The song goes on to speak of the reasons behind the emigration that took Calabria's children away from her while the 'mother' pregha sempri a' Madonna (constantly prays to the Blessed Mother), but si 'nce lavuru cca su figghiu torna (if work could be found here, her son would return). All the while, the mother has no idea that, overseas, her son is speaking to her: ciangi sempri stu cori, Ma, ciangi sempri di nostalgia (this heart is crying, Mom, this nostalgic heart cries constantly).

As someone who was raised by Calabrians on both sides of the family, I can attest to the lofty status we place on our mothers; hence I find these lyrics, which speak to the tearing apart of a family, very moving. The vivid depiction of a mother's heartache, of the resulting sadness and despair that make up her grieving, result in a powerful image of what the immigration experience must have been like for many of the Calabrian pioneers who had never left their hometown previously, save for those who had performed their military duties during the War. The picture conjured is exactly that of an aggrieved mother praying for each and every one of her offspring to return to her, where they belong; and when I stop to think of the emotional impact that leaving one's fatherland for a world he/she knows nothing about must inflict, I always need to pause and appreciate what my parents and grandparents were able to accomplish subsequent to their leap of courage into the unknown. Those of us that followed have certainly never had to face those kinds of hardships as a result of the road they paved for us. And yet, on a lighter note, I must add that the image of a child leaving his mother struck a chord with me on another level as well due to having grown up hearing my own mother (who, like most Calabrian mothers, although they love us more than I can put into words, is intimately familiar with the powerful role of the proverbial 'guilt trip') resort to a favorite expression from the Calabria of her youth: 'na mamma fa pe' centu figghii, ma centu figghii non fannu pe' 'na mamma, loosely translated as 'a mother spreads herself to 100 children, but 100 children cannot add up to one mother'.

Perhaps a song by a Calabrian singer based in Toronto, Canada, who performed under the name Rocco Del Sud, sums up the emigrant son's feelings most appropriately. The song, entitled  Lascio La Mamma Mia, and which was quite popular in the 1970's and 1980's, begins like this:

     Io parto lontano
    Lascio la mamma mia
    Lascio la mia patria
    Pure la casa mia
    Sento fischiare il treno
    Chi chiamma con premura
    Col cuore addolorato
    Salgo su 'n' avventura
    M'affaccio al finestrino
    Col cuore straziante
    Vedo la mamma mia
    Con gli occhi lacrimante
    Non piangere mammina
    Perche quel pianto strano
    Io ti penso sempre
    Quando saro lontano.

The first four lines speak to the young man leaving his mother, his fatherland and his house behind as he is about to board a train that will eventually lead him to a distant land. As he hears the train's hasty whistle, he reveals that he is boarding this adventure with a pained heart. Once inside his booth, through the window he sees his tearful, broken–hearted mother and he calls out to her not to cry, for when he is far away he will always be thinking of her nonetheless. After another emotional verse, the departing young man ends the song by revealing the maturity that is inherent to the life cycle: ora che sono grande, ti dovette lasciare, which loosely translates into 'now that I've grown up, it is necessary that I leave you'. Thus, at least in my mind, the song ends on a hope–filled note in that the hard work the tightly–knit Calabrian parents had put into the rearing of their child is now on display as the son comforts the grieving mother, reassuring her that they have equipped him to take his place in the world.

Until next time ... 'ndi vidhimu (We'll be seeing you).

Note: In the Twilight of the Moon can be previewed at Amazon kindle.