Let me tell you about the basics of being Italian American by telling you what we aren't so you can understand who we really are...and love us as much as we do.
We are not all connected to the Mob, and if we were, we wouldn't tell you...that's where omerta kicks in to the equation. Don't fucking ask. Yes, the Cosa Nostra is real. No, not every Italian man living in NY is a member. Our male family members often held regular jobs, like the rest of you white folk. Mostly blue collar back in the day, but all honorable jobs. Which brings me to the next stereotype...Italian men all work as: construction workers, garbage men, pizzeria owners, marble workers, or bakers. So maybe I had an uncle who owned a bakery, but that was not the norm. Italian men are police officers, firefighters, doctors, lawyers, accountants, and tennis instructors. Imagine that, not everyone named Tony was in waste management. And let me further refute the nonsense that all Italian women were housewives. Yes, many sacrificed to stay home with their children during the early years of their lives. But most went back to work when they deemed the children independent enough to unlock the front door on their own, get their homework done without prodding, and fix their own after school snack. They did worry about us not eating enough. Hence my mom's ever popular question over the phone, "Jjeeet?" Which translates to, "Did you eat?" As though I would forget to partake in the stuffing my face process. Hell would have frozen ten times over before that happened.
It's been said that we talk with our hands. I have no idea from where that nonsense originates. Does the fact that my own husband thinks its funny to ask me to "sit on your hands and say that" reveal anything about my heritage? Mind you, he's Italian, too. But his Italian is more in his appearance and his last name. Based upon his pronunciations, I'd swear he was raised by Eskimos. My way of being definitely screams Italian in every sense of the stereotype. Hands flying; loud excited expressiveness; peppering my speech with bastardized Queens Italian; that crazy twinkle in my eye that can be found in most of us. Yeah, I'd say I embody the fucking stereotype. But that doesn't mean that everyone from Queens and Brooklyn born of Italian heritage acts that way. Some are quite embarrassingly subdued. Actually, many are far quieter and less animated than I. Most of my family members are no longer living so that gene might die with me. I know my kid doesn't have the gesturing down as she should. Christ Jesus, she can't even answer basic questions about The Godfather correctly. I think she may be losing her membership in the nationality shortly. That's a whole other story that I don't want to dive into right now because it makes me very emotional.
Do you think Italian women are hot tempered? Spicy meatballs? I hate that phrase as used to describe one of us, by the way, so don't ever use it on me. I daresay if you piss off many women of a variety of national origins, you'll get your balls handed to you in some way. Maybe not with the flair that we can and do, but it happens. Perhaps what we view as honest and open with our feelings, you see as being hot headed. Perhaps you are just a fucktard who grew up in a milky white, Wonder Bread eating, Leave it to Beaver, boring ass family. In my house, screaming and crying, then laughing so hard you had tears streaming down your face was considered an average Thursday. Emotions worn on the sleeve, that was a fact of life and it was good. No bullshit, no hiding behind a wall of indifference. That didn't exist in my world and I'm damn glad. I'd hate to be one of you dispassionate, cold-blooded. phony assed shit bags. Would you rather I lie to your face? I think we've gone over this and I would like to believe that you have come to expect quite the opposite from me. Actually, I think down deep inside, you like it.
On the flip side of that fun little coin, do you also believe that all Italian men are violent? That, to me, is absofuckinglutely hilarious. Let me start by saying that the men in my family were among the most affectionate people I have ever met in my entire lifetime. Ma's side of the family was always hugging, kissing, cheek pinching, hand holding...some form of loving touch. Much to my disgust when I was very young. My uncle would chase me around the house trying to pinch my cheeks and kiss me. The more I resisted, the more he pursued. A fun game to him, a stressful episode that made me cry every goddamn time he came over. He became my favorite family member over the years, and thank the newborn baby Jesus he never gave up on me, that he never stopped chasing. That abundance of affection was just an outpouring of love for his goddaughter, his niece, his surrogate daughter. God, I miss him. Back on track, the only man I knew with a quick temper and quicker hands was my dad, a French Canadian, not Italian. So think before you judge us, dickweed.
Let me think about the last time someone was shocked that I was Italian...yeah, it was just as frustrating as the first, second, and 3,145th. Yes, I have red hair, freckles, and blue eyes. Yes, I am half Italian. My grandpa had blue eyes. My Uncle Tommy was a platinum blond as a young boy. My mom burned with even the slightest sun exposure, she was so pale. Am I blowing apart your predetermined view of us as olive skinned, chocolate eyed, raven haired inhabitants of this planet? Do you know how many times Italy was invaded and by whom? Moors and Arabs to the south. Are you aware of who borders Italy to the north? Switzerland! Loads of darkies in Switzerland, right? No, far more Nordic looking aren't they? Combine us all somewhere in the middle and then spread us out over the countryside once again. Not what you saw in Good Fellas now is it? Get over it. Lose the preconceived notions of what we are supposed to look like. And for the last time, I'm NOT Irish. Christ on a fucking cracker.
The whole Jersey Shore thing drives me fucking bat shit. Let me back up and tell you I loved that show. It entertained the shit out of me. If they weren't so much younger than I, I'd swear I went to high school with them. Christ the King RHS was a hotbed of guidos. That being said, they do NOT exemplify all Queens and Brooklyn or Jersey Italians in the least. They are the low rent, classless breed that we all try not to be. Yes, we all go through the phase, even if briefly, at some point in our lives. But, if we are even remotely intelligent and slightly educated, it doesn't last long and we become the amazing people you see before you now. We are college-educated, well-rounded people on the whole. Not the bumbling buffoons you see on TV. Not all of us have those thick, mildly retarded sounding accents, either. And not just those of us who moved out of Dodge. Some still live in the thick of the gravy and don't sound like Rocky Balboa. What kills me, what really rubs my ass in the wrong direction is when non-Italians try to sound like that. Why the fuck on God's green earth would you WANT to sound like that? First of all, you don't sound like us. You'll never have the proper inflection and intonation to sound Italian. Secondly, and even more to the point, you sound completely fucking idiotic.
I don't disagree with our food obsession. To deny that would be to deny my entire life and the family I love. Food and I go way back. My fondest memories of family all relate to some kind of eating frenzy. Bowls, platters, dishes everywhere! Filled with the most delicious and mostly homemade delights imaginable. I say mostly because we didn't cure our own meat. We did live in Queens, not on a farm with our own goat. But between Grandma Rose's cooking, Ma's cooking, and Aunt Dolly's cooking...you were in an eater's paradise. There was no "Thanks, but no thanks, I'm full" bullshit going on in my family. You ate till your eyes were about to pop and then you had dessert. And it was good. We used the Queens Italian words for everything on that table and everyone knew exactly what we were talking about. "Pass the ricott'" "Who has the scungeel?" "Who wants more sawzeech?" "Have another dish of gavadeel" and yes, "Where's the gabagool?" We ate and laughed and yelled over each other and never tired of the present company. That's how it should be. Polite, quiet dinner conversation over boring meatloaf and other white food is not for me. I need sensory overload, dammit. I need a Las Vegas dinner experience. Fill my senses and don't stop until I explode. That's how we do, no apologies.
Being Italian is such a huge part of who I am, of how I am, of my every day life. I know of no other way to be. If we are being totally honest, and when am I not, I am thankful to be Italian and not any other nationality. We have our own way of looking at things and handling the things that life throws at us. We are strong, yet sensitive. If you get on our bad side, just keep on walking, we do not tolerate shit and are very slow to forgive and definitely do NOT forget. Family comes first, don't you dare try to test that theory. Friends are just extended family and get treated as such. We love with such abandon and full hearts you won't know what hit you if you are lucky enough to be on the receiving end. It may sound prejudiced, but we actually prefer to be around our own kind. It's not that we don't like you, we are just more comfortable with those who embody the awesome that is a fellow Italian. They understand us, they get where we are coming from, appreciate the references, relate to the point of view, and can keep up with the conversation. Face it, you all want to be Italian, even for just one day. Think we don't know? Are you friggin kidding me right now???
For more reasons to find Italians better than anyone, or simply for a better understanding of how we speak because God knows you have no idea about half of what we are saying:
Queens/Italian English, a lesson in linguistics
Queens/Italian English, lesson #2
Queens/Italian English: Lesson #3, the final chapter
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