Sicilian Crossings

Yesterday, Rose and I went to Stony Brook's Yang Center to see the exhibit on the Sicilians migrating to USA. (By the way, the center is a beautiful piece of archetecture.) The exhibit consisted of a huge series of posters, pictures, replicas of documents and statistics. ( It ws tough for both of us to stand and read them all.) But my recollections of La Mano Nera ( the black hand) were reenforced, and I didn't realize that I grew up in the heart of a Sicilian community in Brooklyn (Bruculino) as it was called. In fact Montrose Avenue was the meeting place of groups of Sicilian men who formed mutual societies for lending money to buy passage to the USA, for
Piasani who wanted to bring their relatives here. These societies, and one was called theFior di
Marsala, lent money, gave mortgages, and sold insurance at nominal rates to their countrymen
who couldn't get financial help in any other way. My father was one of founders of that organization. Some of the people in the area were first generation immigrants, but most of them were second generation. They were doctors, lawyers, pharmacists, dentists. And all got their education by the toil of their parents. The fathers did the paving and the laying of railroad tracks, and the mothers sewed linings for coats in their flats. But both parents wanted their sons to be educated and professionals, and a few ( very few) even educated their daughters. The Nicosiani, the people from Nicosia, an inland town, with much French influence, were among the few mountain "guinnies" who were forward thinking. Most of the other community minded were from the western part and coast of Sicily. They had more contact with the outer world. Judge Pecora, somehow related to my in-laws, brought them together. He introduced my father-in-law to my mother -in-law. Both in America from Nicosia.
We are witnessing the same struggle by the Latino legal and illegal aliens coming here, now. However, the qualifications for admission were stringent. In many ports in Palermo, Messina, Naples and Genoa, proof of vaccination to prevent small pox, and a general health okay had to be met and besides payment before passage. A sponsor in this country had to guarantee housing and a job, as well as if the person sponsored could not take care of himself and his family, he would be shipped back at his sponsor's expense.
It was a fascinating exhibit and well worth the effort to view it.

Book group meeting

The book we read was SATURDAY by Ian McEwen. The discussion was lively. Because Henry Perowne, a brain surgeon, recognized his assailant had Huntington's disease. The propositon posed by the author was that the mind and the soul are all part of the brain. The brain is an organism, matter. If we could solved all the intricacies of the brain, we would learn the origins of human behavior. So the discussion went, is all behavior decided by our genetics or is it governed by our social environment? Can we be educated to be peaceful and responsible or is that part of our DNA? The new member of the group expressed the idea that newborn infants already have their personalities in place. That children have the same mannerisms as their parents. But couldn't that be learned. The story of Dr. Perowne's Saturday is all absorbing. His squash game is described in such vivid detail, that you know it is a metaphor. He is expressing the anger and
humiliation he experienced with his confrontation with Baxter, a thug, as a result of a minor auto accident. He is purging himself with the ferocity of the squash game. The rest of the story has
exciting action and a conclusion that leads to much discussion. We had a most exhilarating meeting. I highly recommend the book.

Midnight visit

It's along story, but this was the beginning of my disenchantment with media, newspapers in particular. The morning after that visit and my Dad's return. He had identified the body of Charlie his law partner who apparently killed himself. The newspaper headlines were he shot her for a kiss and ended it all. Actually Charlie and Sylvia had been living together for years, and had exchange much more than kisses. In fact this incident put my father in debt for $10,000. a very tidy sum in 1931. The real story is Charlie had defended an embezzlewho got a ten year prison term. Mr. X had given Charlie $10,000 to hold for him when he got out of jail. Mr. X was to be released in 10 days. Charlie had invested the money, and of course couldn't use his name. So it was in Sylvia's name. When he asked Sylvia to sell the bonds and get him the cash. She flatly refused. His plan was to kill her. He drove to a deserted spot near the beach in Coney Island. (This was premeditated, because he had taken the handle off the door on the passenger side of the car so that she couldn't jump out .) When she still wouldn't get the cash for him, he shot her and then himself. But she ducked and was shot in the face. She was totally disfigured and underwent much plastic surgery. I remember her always wearing a hat with a veil to hide her scars.
My father had just become Charlie's partner in his law firm. That's how he got stuck with a huge debt, and that's when we moved from Dekalb Avenue. Uncle Louis bought my mother's half of the house. From then on we lived in a new and different world.

Barack's speech

Barack's speech exposed the elephant in the room and challenged all Americans to look at it squarely and rationally. Times have changed. People do change. Geraldine was talking from her perspective (her time). What she said is true, and perhaps that's why we need Obama.
He may be the man of destiny who was meant to be here in this time with his mixed race, his unique heritage, his intelligence and education. The fact that he did not reject his pastor speaks of his understanding of the past and his hope for the future. Young people take advantage of the progress we have made. Listen with tolerance to the bitterness of those who have had a differnt experience, but don't get mired into the hate and the extension of anger, bitterness and the need for revenge they express. Don't become the suicide bombers in America. Let hope and change live.

DeKalb Avenue

When I was about 5 years old, I thought it was the most exciting street in the world. The trolleys went clanging be, open air ones in the summer. The long red brick wall that housed the Old Ladies Home. The row of houses with porches and at least 13 steps per stoop to the porch, little square front yards, and dark mysterious airy-ways ( entries) to the basement floor, with
huge wrought iron grills for protection. There was a Rose of Sharon tree in the center of our front yard, the rest of it was cemented over.
Late summer nights were the most fun. It was too hot to stay in the house, so everyone on the block would sit on the steps or drag chairs to make a group and gossip or tell jokes and eat
Italian lemon ice. Uncle lOuis was the mayor of the block and the star comedian.
One night he told a really scarey story. The "black hand", la mano nera, collected protection money from local workers. Someone didn't pay up and these villains left a package on his doorstep, that looked like an Easter present. The man's children picked up the package. It blew his little girl's head off. The head landed on the fireplace mantel. This tory was in the Daily News with pictures. The Shadow of fear decended on the entire group.

Midnight visit.

We were all fast asleep at 1225 Dekalb Ave., when the door bell screeched its usual screech. Nobody ever used the doorbell, because the door was usually open. Daddy ran to the door and we, Mom and I, scrambled after him. Uncle Louis and Aunt Mary were already at the head of the stairs.
Two men were at the door in dark overcoats and fidora hats, brims covering their eyes. The taller man flashed a badge, and said, "Are you Mr. Marinello?" "Yes," Daddy answered
"What 's the problem?" "Get dressed and come with us to the Police Station?"
Dad who had just gotten his Law Degree and started his practice did as he was ordered>
Mom, screamed. Uncle Louis, "What the hell is going on?" Aunt Mary whispered to me, "Don't be scared, sweetie. I'm sure it isn't anything."
Dad went with the two men. Mother called after him, "Call us as soon as you can."
The rest of us huddled on the steps. Of course, I was put back in my crib, and had to strain my ears to try to learn what the grownups were talking about. (By the way I was about 5 years old and slept in a crib in my parents room until I was six , i.e. until my sister was born.)The phone finally rang. ( Uncle Louis' phone, the only one in the house.) I gathered Dad was in the morgue to identify the body of Charlie Paterno his partner in law, and to give information about Sylvia
Charlie's girlfriend who was in Coney Island Hospital in serious condition.

I'd like to learn more about it.