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On Tolerance
By Camillo Mac
Bica, Ph.D.
February 02,
2017 "Information
Clearing House"
- I am first generation born in the United States and I
grew up in what can probably be described
(affectionately) as an Italian ghetto. As a child, I
remember walking to Sunday mass on a warm summer morning
and enjoying the smells of sauce and meatballs, probably
simmering since the night before, radiating from many of
the homes along East 87th street. I knew my mother was
making sauce as well, so I was anxious to return home
after picking up a loaf of semolina bread, still hot
from the oven, from the local bakery. I knew dinner
wasn’t for a few more hours (the main meal on Sunday was
in the early afternoon), so when I thought my mother
wasn’t looking, I’d break off an end of the loaf, dip it
into the sauce, and quickly thrust it into my mouth to
avoid detection, inevitably burning my tongue.
My grandparents
didn’t speak English but just about everyone in the
family, and probably in the neighborhood, spoke and/or
understood enough Italian, usually a dialect, mine was
Sicilian, to get along. I was pretty much an adult
before I learned that “baqasu” wasn’t the Italian word
for bathroom, that it was broken English for “back (out)
house.” Though it wasn’t an issue at the time, I’m sure
that more than a few family members and friends were
“undocumented,” or “illegals” as some in the current
climate of intolerance would probably refer to them. My
father became a citizen while he was serving in the
American Army during World War II, fighting in the
invasion of Sicily, through the villages and towns of
his birth. Because, at the time, the job market for
immigrants with little education was so difficult, some
may have flirted with the mafia in order to make a
living. Though they were but a few, to this day, Italian
Americans are stereotypically portrayed on TV and in
film as gangsters and criminals. I can honestly say that
most members of my immigrant community were honest,
patriotic, honorable, and hard working people. Neither
of my parents graduated from high school, my mother
worked all of her life as a seamstress in a Manhattan
sweatshop, my father in construction. Because of their
sacrifices, I enjoyed a childhood rich, not in material
possessions, but in love, tradition, compassion,
understanding, and tolerance. For this I am truly
blessed.
Though I am not
sure why, many Americans have forgotten that we are all
from somewhere else, that we share more than what
divides us. I am saddened about how this nation has
forgotten its values and for what we allegedly stand for
as Americans. I grieve that even some of my friends who
share a similar background as mine have grown cold and
insensitive to the plight of the “new” immigrants. For
me, understanding and tolerance has nothing to do with
political ideology or who resides in the White House.
For me, it is about remembering my heritage and the
people I knew and loved. For me, it is about who I am,
and where I came from. For me it is about the values
that I learned from my immigrant family, fought for as a
Marine, and for which so many of my friends have died.
The views
expressed in this article are solely those of the author
and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of
Information Clearing House. |
