Departure
Leaving my home and Polizzi Generosa forever was
a heartbreaking moment. Standing proudly on the butt
of a solitary cliff, the town and its streets had
been the center of my life experience, a warm and
safe nest, and a place of friendships and wonderful
childhood memories.
I still remember, with a lump in my throat, the
early morning departure for America. Several times
I crossed the threshold, and as many times I crossed
it back, as if I had left something behind or had
forgotten to say good-bye. In my soul I felt like
Ovid, who described his heart-wrenching feelings in
his well-known poem My Last Night in Rome,
before he had been banished to exile in Bythinia.
“Tristissima noctis imago qua mihi supremum tempus
in Urbe fuit…Ter limen tetigi, tersum revocatus.”
(I remember the very sad thought of my final hours
in Rome. Three times I reached the threshold… three
times I turned back inside.”)
I was only eighteen years old when I crossed the
threshold of my “warm haven” forever. Its recollection
still hurts me today fifty years later. At four o’clock
in the morning, I was leaving everything behind to
emigrate to America, land of hopes and dreams, in
search of a better future.
My mother and sister Rosa were coming with me, and
in them I found encouragement and strength to face
a new life in another country that was going to be
different from ours in language, customs, and laws.
We rented a car to take us to Palermo, capital of
Sicily, to begin the first leg of the trip, which
was an eye-opener for this junior college student,
who had never traveled before for paucity of money.
We began our journey on a tiny plane that flew us
to Rome. That flight marked our first time in the
air and our most courageous step towards another world.
We were leaving one society and one culture to be
shocked by the encounter of another, which was more
complex and cosmopolitan.
In Rome our departure for New York was delayed.
While we were waiting to board the plane, a TWA representative
gave us coupons to get something to eat. We saw a
restaurant nearby, made our way to an empty table,
and sat down for lunch. We had never been to a restaurant
before! As the most savvy of the group, I took a menu
and read it over and over again like you would read
a prayer book, up and down, and left and right. Then,
of common accord, we decided to order the most economic
meal listed on the menu. I took out a pencil -that’s
incredible but true- and checked out with large, scholarly
asterisks the items that listed hard-boiled eggs,
bread, and wine. Poor village travelers! What a scene!
We were trying to save the little money that we had,
not realizing that the airline was paying for our
meals!
I still wonder today what the waiter’s reaction
must have been at the sight of those provincial, simple-minded
and inexperienced travelers!
Our flight over land and sea was an extraordinary
experience for me and my sister, but not for my mother,
who worried all the time about crashing, and wondered
how hard it would have been for her to live without
us, forgetting all along that she was flying on the
same plane.
I will always remember my first transatlantic flight,
which was the beginning of many numerous ones in the
years to come. I loved to fly over endless fields
of cotton-like clouds, to eat my first meal in the
air, and shave –Can you imagine? - with an electric
razor that a flight attendant had graciously lent
to me, upon overcoming the language barrier by gestures
and smiles.
We landed at Idlewild Airport ( today JFK International
Airport) in the afternoon of June 21, 1958, after
a tiring trip that had taken us on refueling stops
from Rome to Paris, then Shannon, and finally to New
York.
It was raining when we touched down. We deplaned
and quickly proceeded on the tarmac towards the terminal
building, a little distance away. I vividly remember
the large umbrella that a steward was holding over
our head to protect us from the rain. What a fascinating
scene it was! That deferential treatment made us feel
like nobility, as we walked towards the arrival building
where something very unique was waiting for us in
our first encounter with America.
When we got to the entrance of the air terminal,
I extended my hand to push the glass doors to the
side. What happened next, I will never forget. When
I reached out for the handlebar, both door swung wide-open.
For a split second I stood there, surprised and speechless.
I had never seen an automatic eye before, and had
no idea of its magic powers. What an unforgettable
moment it was for me and what significant step forward
it was for us, who were coming form a tiny, mountain-town
with its prickly pears and oleanders!
After so many years, those miraculous doors still
stand vividly in my mind as a great and symbolic expression
of love. They were the arms of America welcoming us
with a maternal embrace in that humid and hot afternoon
of June 21, 1958. I will never forget the unique and
sacred moment when my feet touched the American soil.
Since my arrival to these shores, I continue to
celebrate June 21st as my “American Birthday” in commemoration
of this significant event in my personal life. On
this date I display, with heartfelt gratitude and
thanksgiving, the American Flag on the front lawn
of my house to commemorate the beginning of my romance
with this great country.
Family members came to meet us, and together we
drove to Brooklyn where there was a very well-established
Italian community. There, I attended services at Saint
Joseph Patron Roman Catholic Church, and spent time
in Bushwick Park where, sitting on a wooden bench,
I began the arduous task of reeducating my ear to
the cacophony of strange Brooklyn sounds that people
called English. (pp.114-117)
Mario Macaluso, PhD
Prickly Pears and Oleanders
-Memoir of an Italian American-
