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Monday, December 28, 1998 By Peter Leo
So quel che pensate oggi. Vi domandate perche . . .
Oh, mi dispiace. Let me start again, this time in English.
I know what you're wondering this morning. You're wondering why I am so exuberant, so unrestrained (note the animated gestures), so outgoing in an intimate way with no trace of that cool, critical facade of the columnist.
I am getting in touch with my Italian side. This fall, I took basic Italian through Pitt's Informal Program. Most of the students had a trip to Italy ahead of them and were looking for a few phrases to get by. My trip was more of a mystery but here's my guess: My guarded Irish side has held sway for all these years. I felt the Italian me bubbling to the surface. It would not be denied. And so I found myself in an Italian class.
There's irony here. Most people, on hearing the name Leo, assume I'm Italian. Some find it hard to believe that Leo is Irish. Indeed, Leo sounds Italian but not as Italian as Trincellita, as in Maria Trincellita.
This was my mother's name growing up in a New Jersey factory town. The neighborhood had been settled by immigrants from Calabria, but her upbringing was not the stuff of those warm, hearty spaghetti sauce commercials. She wanted out from an early age.
The norm was to quit school by the eighth grade, get a job to help the family and marry young. But she was bright, and her teachers convinced her parents to let her go to high school - in that day and place, the equivalent of going to Yale. They acquiesced but later thought she spent too much time reading. Her father would hide her books. Once, he even buried them.
She went on to teachers' college and married a man with Ireland in his background. They worked hard and ran as fast as they could to the suburbs and the middle class, shucking the trappings of extended family and ethnicity. All things considered, they wanted to be Americans.
Adopting the fervent Irish Catholic ways of my father, Mom set aside her career and assertiveness for a life at home. She was Mary Leo now, mothering a shaky coalition of witty sons and daughters who, tilting to their patrimony, took on Irish ways of self-protection. Ridicule, judgmentalism and concealment would be our weapons in a hostile world.
In a family built around banter, word play and one-liners, my mother happily assumed the role of straight man and foil. Italianism never had a chance with this crowd, and she was a willing accomplice in seeing to that.
My mother was so intent on rejecting her heritage she became the worst Italian cook in America, no easy feat. She could barely manage a respectable lasagna. Even though she grew up speaking Italian - a Calabrian dialect - she seemed intent on forgetting. She did take an Italian course in her 60s. Even knowing there was no guarantee of a straight answer, I wish I'd made the effort to find out what that meant to her.
Oh, yes, there were fun times back then, and we Leos have the gift of words. But something was lost in all this, something to do with living, not just observing. And so a couple of years ago, my restless, midlife self started feeling around for new directions.
I found myself looking for connection beyond family, hosting writing groups at work, forming gatherings of friends to talk about books, play poker, listen to jazz. Maybe I was reaching for my lost inner Italian. The Italians have always been good at the art of living.
Now that I can manage several sentences in Italian, I am like an actor taking on a role that awakens a slumbering part of the soul. Consider yourself lucky that you don't live with me.
Unprompted, I bellow elaborate Italian greetings to anyone in sight. Or "Mangi! Mangi!" I exhort, even if the person is stuffed or simply reading a book. I ask our cats where the train station is or fill them in on salient details of my life - name, marital status, number of children, what I had for breakfast. The fellas are indifferent to my Italian ravings. Just the same I know I'm making a firmer connection with these guys and for that I say, "Grazie, molte grazie."
Peter Leo is the Post-Gazette's writing coach. His column appears on the last Monday of each month. You can reach him at 412-263-1561 or at: pleo@post-gazette.com.
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