I was well into adulthood before I realized that I was an American. Of course I had been born in America and had lived here all my life, but, somehow it had never occurred to me that just being a citizen of the United States meant that I was an American. Americans were people who ate peanut butter and jelly on white bread that came out of plastic bags. Me? I ate pepper and egg sandwiches on Italian bread. I was Italian!

For me, and, I am sure, for most second generation Italian American children who grew up in the 40's and 50's, there was a definite distinction between us and them! We were Italian. Everybody else .. the Irish, Germans, Polish, Jewish .. they were the amedigans. There was no animosity involved in that distinction, no prejudice, no hard feelings, just .. well .. we were sure ours was the better way. For instance, we had a bread man, a milk man, a coal and ice man, a fruit and vegetable man, a watermelon man, an egg and cheese man and a fish man; we even had a man who sharpened knives and scissors who came right to our homes or at least right outside our homes. They were the many peddlers who plied the Italian neighborhoods. Amedigans went to the stores for most of their food. What a waste!

When it came to food, it always amazed me that my American friends or classmates ate only turkey on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Or, rather, that they only ate turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce. Now we Italians also had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce .. but only after we had finished the antipasto, soup, "homemades" (homemade macaroni), meatballs, sausage, bracciole, salad and whatever else Mama thought might be appropriate for that particular holiday! This turkey was usually accompanied by a roast of some kind (just in case somebody walked in who didn't like turkey) and was followed by an assortment of fruits, nuts, pastries, cakes and of course homemade cookies. No holiday was complete without some home baking .. none of that store bought stuff for us! This is where you learned to eat a seven course meal between noon and four PM, how to handle hot chestnuts and put peaches in red wine. I truly believe Italians live a romance with food.

Speaking of food, Sunday was truly the big day of the week. That was the day you'd wake up to the smell of garlic frying in olive oil. As you laid in bed, you could hear the hiss as tomatoes were dropped into a pan. On Sunday we always had macaroni (the amedigans called it pasta) and sauce. Sunday would not be Sunday without going to Mass. Of course you couldn't eat before Mass because you had to fast before receiving Communion. But the good part was we knew that when we got home, we'd find hot meatballs frying; and nothing tastes better than freshly fried meatballs and crisp Italian bread dipped into a pot of sauce.

There was another difference between us and them. We had gardens. Not just flower gardens, but huge gardens where we grew tomatoes, tomatoes, and more tomatoes! We ate them, cooked them and jarred them. Of course we also grew peppers, basil, lettuce and cagoots (zucchini). Everybody had a grapevine and a pear tree and in the fall everybody made homemade wine .. lots of it.

Of course those gardens thrived so because we had something else our American friends didn't seem to have. We had a GRANDFATHER! It's not that they didn't have grandfathers, it's just that they didn't live in the same house, or on the same block. They visited their grandfathers. We ate with ours and God forbid we didn't see him at least once a day!

I also remember the holidays when all the relatives would gather at my grandfather's house and there'd be tables full of food and homemade wine and music. Women in the kitchen, men in the living room and kids, kids everywhere. I must have a half million cousins, first, second and some who aren't even related, but, what did it matter. And my grandfather would sit in the middle of it all grinning his mischievous smile, proud of his family and how well his children had done.

He had achieved his goal in coming to America and now his children and their children were achieving their goals in this great country because they were Americans.

When my grandfather died years ago, things began to change. The differences between us and them aren't so easily defined anymore and I guess that's good. My grandparents were Italian Italians, my parents are Italian Americans, I'm an American Italian and my children are American Americans. Oh I'm American alright and proud of it, just as my grandfather would want me to be. We are all Americans now .. Irish, Germans, Poles and Jews.. US citizens all .. but somehow I still feel ITALIAN! Call it culture, call it tradition, call it roots. I'm really not sure what it is.

If you like this story, you can copy it onto your word processor or go to The Cucina where you can order a 11x17, professionally printed version that's suitable for framing (it's a lot nicer looking than what you see on this screen).