My Heritage Part I: A Rosa By Any Other Name...
In early September, 1984, I had an experience that, for the first time in my life, caused me to question my own heritage.
It was my second day at Iona Preparatory School in New Rochelle, New York. I was a thirteen-year-old freshman sitting in a second floor classroom. Being a Roman Catholic school, I was wearing the necessary tie and jacket that everyone else in class was wearing. Also, with my last name beginning with the letter ‘A’ I was seated at the first desk nearest the doorway. The teacher, a short man with a goatee, was seated at his desk reviewing the names on his roster. The class was Italian I.
“Eric Anderson?” the teacher asked.
“Here,” I said.
“Why are you in this class?”
“To learn Italian.” By now I was worried and took out my schedule. The last thing I needed was to be in the wrong class on my first day. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of classmates. Not that early, yet, anyway.
“You want to learn Italian?” the teacher asked me. “With a name like ‘Anderson’?”
A few students later, a friend of mine with a German last name was asked more or less the same thing, and was further embarrassed when the teacher snickered at him when my friend announced he was 100% Italian.
The fact that the teacher’s name rhymed with ‘Anderson’ and not ‘Esposito’ or ‘Massa’ didn’t register with me at that point. What did was that, for the first time, I wasn’t Italian.
I get reminded of this a lot, despite the fact that I probably know more about Italian culture than at least 95% of the people who love to tell me otherwise. Most recently, someone told me I wasn’t Italian just as she was arguing with me that she never heard of struffoli and it wasn’t an Italian holiday dessert.
My mother’s mother was 100% Italian. Her mother was born in Piacenza, in the Emilia-Romagna region (the region noted for, among other things, Prosciutto di Parma and Parmeggiano-Reggiano). My step-grandfather (the only grandfather I ever knew) was born in Catania, in Sicily. My father’s mother was German, but learned how to cook when she was first married from a Sicilian woman living in the apartment next to hers. My Sundays growing up consisted of mass, followed by playing outdoors until three, when I went in to eat dinner. Every Sunday was rigatoni with “gravy” and meatballs and sausage. All my cousins growing up ate the same way. My friends did as well.
My mother’s father, however, was Polish, making my mother ½ Italian and me ¼ Polish. I knew nothing of my Polish heritage, other than where my grandfather was born. As I said earlier, my father’s mother’s family comes from Germany – Heidelberg and Stuttgart. The only German culture I knew was very bad mistranslations of dirty jokes.
Until I was about thirty, I thought I was ¼ Finnish as well, but it turns out that I am ¼ Russian Jewish instead. For more on that, read Walter Anderson’s Meant To Be and Part IV of My Heritage.
The fact is, and I’m very proud to say this, I am American, not Italian. Italians live in Italy. However, I am an Italian-American. I’m also a German-American, Polish-American and Russian-Jewish-American. Also, I am very proud of my Italian heritage. I am not ashamed of having German, Polish or Jewish blood, mind you, but being Italian-American was all I ever really knew.
You’ll notice, in the From My Kitchen To Yours section, the vast majority of recipes are Italian-inspired. I make my own sausage. I, with my best friend’s family, make wine. My son rolls the meatballs with me. I won’t allow jarred sauces or ready-made Italian meals in my house. Even my wife, who has no Italian heritage, has come to frown on “Italian” restaurant chains like Olive Garden. One ancestor of mine was Marcello Cervini of Montepulciano, aka Pope Marcellus II. Another was Roberto Bellarmino, also of Montepulciano (St. Robert Bellarmine). A relative of mine is a Conte in Tuscany.
So to those of you, from my freshman teacher on, who judge me based on my last name, I say, “Vanno al’ Inferno.”
It was my second day at Iona Preparatory School in New Rochelle, New York. I was a thirteen-year-old freshman sitting in a second floor classroom. Being a Roman Catholic school, I was wearing the necessary tie and jacket that everyone else in class was wearing. Also, with my last name beginning with the letter ‘A’ I was seated at the first desk nearest the doorway. The teacher, a short man with a goatee, was seated at his desk reviewing the names on his roster. The class was Italian I.
“Eric Anderson?” the teacher asked.
“Here,” I said.
“Why are you in this class?”
“To learn Italian.” By now I was worried and took out my schedule. The last thing I needed was to be in the wrong class on my first day. I didn’t want to look like an idiot in front of classmates. Not that early, yet, anyway.
“You want to learn Italian?” the teacher asked me. “With a name like ‘Anderson’?”
A few students later, a friend of mine with a German last name was asked more or less the same thing, and was further embarrassed when the teacher snickered at him when my friend announced he was 100% Italian.
The fact that the teacher’s name rhymed with ‘Anderson’ and not ‘Esposito’ or ‘Massa’ didn’t register with me at that point. What did was that, for the first time, I wasn’t Italian.
I get reminded of this a lot, despite the fact that I probably know more about Italian culture than at least 95% of the people who love to tell me otherwise. Most recently, someone told me I wasn’t Italian just as she was arguing with me that she never heard of struffoli and it wasn’t an Italian holiday dessert.
My mother’s mother was 100% Italian. Her mother was born in Piacenza, in the Emilia-Romagna region (the region noted for, among other things, Prosciutto di Parma and Parmeggiano-Reggiano). My step-grandfather (the only grandfather I ever knew) was born in Catania, in Sicily. My father’s mother was German, but learned how to cook when she was first married from a Sicilian woman living in the apartment next to hers. My Sundays growing up consisted of mass, followed by playing outdoors until three, when I went in to eat dinner. Every Sunday was rigatoni with “gravy” and meatballs and sausage. All my cousins growing up ate the same way. My friends did as well.
My mother’s father, however, was Polish, making my mother ½ Italian and me ¼ Polish. I knew nothing of my Polish heritage, other than where my grandfather was born. As I said earlier, my father’s mother’s family comes from Germany – Heidelberg and Stuttgart. The only German culture I knew was very bad mistranslations of dirty jokes.
Until I was about thirty, I thought I was ¼ Finnish as well, but it turns out that I am ¼ Russian Jewish instead. For more on that, read Walter Anderson’s Meant To Be and Part IV of My Heritage.
The fact is, and I’m very proud to say this, I am American, not Italian. Italians live in Italy. However, I am an Italian-American. I’m also a German-American, Polish-American and Russian-Jewish-American. Also, I am very proud of my Italian heritage. I am not ashamed of having German, Polish or Jewish blood, mind you, but being Italian-American was all I ever really knew.
You’ll notice, in the From My Kitchen To Yours section, the vast majority of recipes are Italian-inspired. I make my own sausage. I, with my best friend’s family, make wine. My son rolls the meatballs with me. I won’t allow jarred sauces or ready-made Italian meals in my house. Even my wife, who has no Italian heritage, has come to frown on “Italian” restaurant chains like Olive Garden. One ancestor of mine was Marcello Cervini of Montepulciano, aka Pope Marcellus II. Another was Roberto Bellarmino, also of Montepulciano (St. Robert Bellarmine). A relative of mine is a Conte in Tuscany.
So to those of you, from my freshman teacher on, who judge me based on my last name, I say, “Vanno al’ Inferno.”
posted by E-Luv at 7:33 AM
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