In the last quarter of the 19th century, millions of immigrants flooded into the United States from Europe. This massive influx included my father’s parents. Many settled for convenience into areas where other immigrants from the same country or region lived. Some of those areas still bear the distinct characteristics of their immigrant populations. Boston’s North End, settled by Italians, still celebrates Italian feast days and has numerous Italian groceries and restaurants. These “little Italys” were much more distinct in the 1950s and 60s. In 1967, I had friends who lived in New York’s Italian neighborhoods, and had family elders who spoke no English. Some had lived happily in New York for many years still speaking only Italian. They were able to navigate life in the city quite comfortably. Everywhere they had to go, there were other Italian speakers.
I had friends in college, whose families were recent Hungarian refugees arriving after the 1956 Hungarian Revolution. They were often the only English-speaking members of their families. My friends would give me their phone number and tell me to just ask for them by name and wait while someone was summoned to the phone. There were no mobile phones to make direct contact easy.
My father was born in Philadelphia, PA, but spent his early childhood living in Italy during World War I. The family was abroad when the war broke out and did not return to the US until just before the war ended. My father’s first language was Italian. He also spoke Spanish, French and German. He was a very affable man and would respond in whatever language you addressed him in. He was sought after as a doctor by the Italian speakers in the area where we lived. He often treated older patients who spoke only Italian.
During high school one of my friends was at our house having dinner with us. My older sister had several friends visiting who spoke Italian and German. I will never forget my friend’s perplexed look as the conversation whirled around her in several languages. I was accustomed to it, for it was not uncommon to hear multiple languages spoken all at once in our home. You simply tuned into the conversation that was important to you.
My mother on the other hand was stubbornly monolingual. She only spoke English. I know that she grew to understand the Italian, spoken around her by my aunts, uncles and father, but she would not answer or even let on that she fully understood what they were saying.
As for myself, I never learned to speak Italian and focused my language learning on ancient languages – Greek and Latin. Now, here is the kicker. As a child I rapidly learned to understand exactly what was being said in Italian. My father, aunts and uncles spoke very quickly and clearly. Their speech did not include dialect or slang. This made it easier to understand. It was also one of the reasons that I never learned to speak Italian. Every word had to be perfectly pronounced, every sentence perfectly constructed. This was a big ask for a child.
There was another dimension to all of this. Italian was the language of secrets. Just as people spell out words like “leash” or “walk” so their dogs don’t get excited thinking that an outing was in the offing, my Italian-speaking relatives would jabber away thinking/assuming falsely that their conversation was not being understood by the children. I learned quickly to stare at the floor or put my head down when the chatter began so that I could eavesdrop without being detected. This worked for the most part. If they could not see my eyes and expression, they would be for the most part unaware that I was following their conversation. My father always claimed that: “the eyes are the windows of the soul.” In short, by watching someone’s eyes, you can read what they are thinking or understanding. So, they seldom saw the whites of my eyes.
One time when I was very ill, my father and my beloved aunt were in my room. My aunt was asking my father in Italian what the doctors were saying about my illness. At that time the news was not good. I had just been released from the hospital with pneumonia, and they did not know what the future held, for I was not getting well. My father told my aunt in Italian that unless I got better, I might not live to be an adult. She clutched me and wailed to my father. I was stunned by my father’s admission and by my aunt’s response. I did get well, for here I am today writing about my life, a life that some thought I would never fully enjoy.
Another Twist
As I grew older, the use of the language of secrets changed. It became the language of orders. When we had company, I was often sent to help with clean up from whatever meal had been served while my siblings performed. My perceived lack of musical talent was a profound embarrassment to my father, and he would order me in Italian to leave the gathering so that I would not be called on to play my non-existent recital piece or whatever. The tone of my father’s command told me that he was not sparing me embarrassment, but himself.
We often had gatherings of my parents’ “quartet groups.” These were informal musical groups that would convene at a member’s home to eat and play music. Our home was often the site of these events. There was usually a buffet served midway through the event, then, as the adults took a break and socialized before playing more music. Someone would inevitably ask to hear my brother and sisters play. I learned to quickly excuse myself so my father would not have to order me in Italian to go to the kitchen to help clean up and do the dishes.
More to come on the endless musical events that were a part of my youth.
Comments