Click here to see the one-minute reel of a presentation I gave in Florence, Italy, about wanting to be America.

While researching IT TAKES A LIFETIME, I interviewed the oldest grandmother in Rotondella so that I could better understand what the village was like during the time of the great diaspora when my grandparents left.

In my American mind, I imagined something dramatic – like a death or scandal – must have happened to make them abandon their families and country, cross the ocean in steerage to start an entirely new life in an entirely new country. 

I asked her, “Why did my grandparents leave? What was the real reason?” 

She looked at me as if I were from outer space. Then she said, clearly and without hesitation, “They wanted to eat. They wanted to EAT!” 

It was in that moment that I realized how little I knew about my own history or  about the depth of the abject poverty and harsh reality of life in Italy in those years, especially in the South and in Basilicata. 

My reflection: From 1876 to 1915, fourteen million Italians emigrated to countries across the globe. My grandparents came during the peak years of 1900 to 1915, when roughly two million Italians arrived in the United States. 

Something to think about: My grandparents crossed an ocean so their children and grandchildren could have a brighter future. However, my mother, who was born in Pittsburgh, told me, “I refused to live life according to rules from a time and a country that wasn’t mine.” She was determined to be fully American. But I came back, searching for truth and connection. I wonder why the past calls some of us home.

Nonna and I danced the tarantella               (Mom on the left, Dad on the near right, and Tim’s dad  on the far right)

I’ve always loved the tarantella, a traditional wedding dance in Southern Italy. Even as a child, I begged Nonna to dance it with me. She’d laugh, shuffle a few quick steps, then collapse into a kitchen chair, insisting she didn’t remember “t’is kind’a dance.”

Before my wedding, I pleaded with her to dance it with me, but she adamantly refused. Still, near the end of the cocktail hour, when Nonna announced she was ready to leave, Mom quietly cued the musicians, and the tarantella began.

Granddaughter Iysa and I in front of Nonna’s door

When my granddaughter Iysa visits me each summer, we return to the Mezzogiorno, back to Rotondella, the hilltop village where our family story began. We stand in front of the padlocked door in Via Cervaro, and I tell her about the hovel in which Carmela lived, the fields where she labored, and the water that she carried up the mountain.

During her first visit to Rotondella, when Iysa was in first grade, she struggled to understand the significance of this village to her life in America. “Sally, at my school,” she questioned me, “came from people who were famous Vikings. Are we famous for anything in Italy besides being poor?”

My reflection: She’s correct that our family history holds the narrative of poverty, but it also holds the narrative of hard-fought wisdom, pride of achievement, respect for education, love of family, and the dignity of living meaningful lives. These are stories I want Iysa to know—the sacrifices made by those who came before her, on whose shoulders she now stands. The ones who lift her up.

Something to think about: Sharing our past might feel difficult or painful, but is it valuable to pass on our family history? How do our histories shape the way future generations might see themselves? These are questions I return to each time I walk with Iysa through those hills, hoping she carries with her not just memories of hardship, but of the strength and light that come from knowing where she truly comes from.

Nonna Carmela, Mom, Bisnonna Laura Manfredi, Nonno Vincenzo

I wrote this in IT TAKES A LIFETIME: Above my head hung a picture of Nonno Vincenzo with my great-grandmother, Bisnonna Laura Manfredi, Nonna, and my mom when she was just four years old. I loved this black-and-white image because it proved to me that these people, two of whom had died before I was born, had once been alive.

Nonno’s birth name was Vincenzo, but when he came to America, he thought this sounded too Italian, so he chose to be called Jim, which he thought was a good, solid American name.

“Oye, my Jim is a good man,” Nonna had told me. “He comes a-first wit’out me to l’America and gets a big job in Pitts-a-burg. He helps many people, gives t’em jobs, and keeps water on to houses of our paesani even when some people tell him to close.”

“But why would people want to shut off the water to the houses of the Italians?”

Her voice became animated, “In t’ose days, t’ere is La Mano Nera, t’e Black Hand. T’ey tell all Italian people to pay a pizza, some money for many t’ings like water in t’e house. Many people are poor and cannot pay not-a-t’ing. My Jim always helps people from the old country. When people need water, he keeps t’e water on. Ma he dies too soon, when he is just a young man.”

“How did he die, Nonna?” I asked.

“A knife in t’e belly.” She looked away from me and refused to say more.

My reflection: The photo gave me a sense of whom I came from, my history. In the end, it truly led me home.

 Something to think about: When we lack accurate historical facts, our minds fill in the gaps with what we think, or want, to be true. That’s what I did. I took the little Nonna told me and invented a world around it.

Have you ever filled in family stories with what you wished had happened? Or have you started your own historical search to understand your past?

Searching ancient records: the Director of the Commune and Ombretta

Ombretta and I were like Thelma and Louise: two women—one American, one Italian—on an adventure. I was Thelma, needing help; Ombretta was Louise, organized, meticulous, fearless.

After Cousin Ferdinando refused to help me find Nonna’s remote village of Rotondella, Ombretta—a friend of his whom I’d met at dinner and who spoke fluent English—called me in Cortona, where I was preparing for my solo trip south to Basilicata.

“I have decided to go to Rotondella with you. Your cousin won’t budge. You don’t understand the language, the culture of the south, the problems with transportation. You cannot go alone.”

I was stunned. When I left the States, Rotondella had existed only in my imagination. Somehow, Nonna had sent a petite, strong, blue-eyed, blond-haired Italian woman to guide me.

“Ombretta, thank you.” My eyes filled with tears. “You have no idea what this means to me.”

“I must hang up now. I leave tomorrow for work and have much to do,” she said.

Then, softer, almost whispering, she added, “I know how important this trip is to you. We will find your grandmother’s Rotondella—and your origins. I promise.”

My reflection: Help sometimes comes from the most unexpected places – a passage in a book, a conversation with a stranger, an unexpected call from a loved one. Sometimes, a friend arrives just in time. Ombretta was that friend for me.

Something to think about: I’ve always loved the saying, “People come into our lives for a season, a reason, or a lifetime.” I’ve been blessed with friends from all three categories. Maybe we all have.