It has been some time since my last blog entry. I guess "being too busy" seems a good enough excuse even though that is exactly what it is.. an excuse. I had lunch with a very dear and long time friend the other day and as he politely listened to my Cole's notes version of what had been happening in my life, he asked me."have you ever thought of writing a memoir"? I haven't stopped thinking about it since.
So as my thoughts drifted from excited to are you crazy.. who would want to read your memoir? I realized that my life is not really all that fascinating to me, nor is my history really.. but to my kids, I think it might be. Just as I was intrigued when my mother and father would tell us stories of their past, glued to every word... so might my children be,and one day, maybe my grandchildren as well. For whatever reason, the notion of writing a memoir feels good. It feels right. So.. here goes nothing.. or perhaps something really amazing.
The distance
The distance between Italy and Canada is approximately 6800 kilometers by air, bearing Southeast. The distance between loved ones.. infinitely greater. My father left Italy in May of 1963. My mother followed almost two years later. But before them, my maternal great grandfather Gaetano Russo traveled to New York some time at the turn of the century or early 1900's. He would eventually settle in Rochester, NY with his wife Gaetana, one of his two daughters,Dora and son in law Giuseppe Berardi. The daughter that stayed back in Italy was my grandmother, Evelina. This was the first of many separations that would occur over the next two generations,
Immigration was going to affect my life long before I was ever even a thought.
I don't know exactly why my parents chose Canada. Perhaps in some way, Canada chose them. There were many that went to the USA, Australia, Venezuela but my family would begin most of their adult lives, here in Toronto, Canada and I am happy, most of the time anyway, that they did. Countless times I have thought or tried to imagine what my life would look like had they not come here. Many scenarios have played out in my imagination. But then I realize that it really doesn't matter. Spending time on what could have been and what is, is futile. The important thing I believe is to remember. Remembering where we came from, so we have an idea who we are, that's the important thing. Passing that information on to our children is even more important. Not knowing your history, is like being an oyster with no pearl inside..just an empty shell.
My parents, Eligio Paris and Antonia (Tonina) DiTommaso, unlike many other couples that were married back then, were in love. This may seem a simplistic statement but I know that the fact that they were actually in love and wanted to be married played a huge role in the formative years of life as immigrants. And consequentially, the affect this love would have on their children was exemplary. Building, working, carving a life out in a foreign land was hard. It was hard. And I am so certain that the "being in love" part, was the one thing that kept them sane, kept them focused, kept them from giving up, packing it in and going home. They had each other, they loved each other and they were not going to fail. And they didn't.
My parents' story is typical. They got married, rented an apartment, had their first child.. and worked. Family gatherings on the weekends were sacred. Staying connected with others from back home was like having essential oxygen to survive. Their children would benefit immensely from this need, because the bonds that were formed between cousins was unparalleled to any other bond imaginable. Siblings and cousins were your first best friends. And to this day, the closeness and affection between us runs deep, thanks to those weekends off.
Thanks to our parents, we wanted for nothing. We never felt the pain of hunger, cold, never felt threatened or alone.
But what I do remember feeling is their sadness from the distance of home. The distance was torture. A pain that would never go away. It was there, all the time. And the worse part was when the overwhelming joy of going back to visit, would be squashed and wounds ripped opened again the day they had to say good bye and come back.
The thought of loved ones that were far away, was ever present. Because of this longing, we grew up knowing our family in Italy even without being physically together. They talked about them all the time. Those family members were a part of our lives every day. A connection was nourished from a very young age. Our Italian identity was always a part of our existence. We felt Italian even though we lived 6800 kilometers away. And yet, despite this strong sentiment, we were also instilled with a love for Canada. I do not remember one negative word my parents ever uttered about their decision to be here. Their love for this country was one of commitment and gratitude and we knew it. We always felt it. They made us proud Canadians with a strong Italian heritage.
My sister arrived in Italy today. To visit. To share. To be with loved ones. When I hung up the telephone, after saying a few words to everyone celebrating her arrival in my Zia Linda's joyful home,.. the pain of distance came over me like a raging torrent. From 6800 kilometers away, I cried. Joyful and sad all rolled up into one big overwhelming emotion. Cherishing the time we have with one another is always important. Treasuring and passing on the memories we make from afar, is like discovering that shiny, exqusite, unique pearl in the oyster. Simply amazing.
