“LINES: The Lived Experience of Race,” is a devised piece of ethnographic theatre. Sometimes called “theatre of testimony,” this theatrical genre uses only actual words of real people, culled from personal interviews to create the play’s narrative. This style has been popularized in recent years in the work of Anne Bogart and in the work of Anna Deveare Smith, most recently with her off-Broadway hit “Let me Down Easy.”

Actor’s Theatre (a local community theatre in Grand Rapids, MI) has produced ethnographic works twice before, first with “Exonerated,” and then with Stephanie Sandberg’s world premiere work three years ago: “Seven Passages: The Stories of Gay Christians.” “LINES” was conceived as a follow-up project toward the end of the “Seven Passages” run, initially intended to be focused on the issue of poverty and class. The first test interviews and research were done by Dr. Sandberg and fellow Calvin College professor Gail Gunst-Heffner, a social anthropologist, more than two years ago. Stemming from that initial research, the focus shifted to a broader idea of the role that race plays in these issues,as well as in other social issues.

Stephanie Sandberg, Ph.D.

“LINES” has followed a devising process similiar to that of “Seven Passages,” with Dr. Sandberg and her team conducting approxiamtely 150 personal interviews over the past two years. The interviews were designed to create a broad sample of voices from throughout the West Michigan area. Interviewees all responded to questions regarding their understanding and perceptions of how their own racial identity has shaped their life experiences in greater Greater Grand Rapids.

Over the past several months, the devising team has read and discussed transcripts of the interviews, categorizing and organizing them into thematic sections, and then editing them to a managable length. The initial “cut” of transcripts that were deemd to have significant narrative potential (in other words, ”the good stuff”) totaled over 500 pages of material. After a rigorous process of cutting, arranging and rearranging, and debate, the performance script now totals 42 pages, and consists in the stories from approxiamtely 40 of the interviews, which will be portrayed by nine actors.  

Though the stories are edited and shortened to distill them to the core ideas, the entirety of the script remains only the actual words of the interviewees. Careful ethical consideration is paid in order to keep the context and intent of the stories intact. The script is structured by using various metaphors of “lines” to describe the experience of race: the actual physical lines or boundaries we draw around our communities; the theoretical  or perceived lines that divide people; and the ideas of “staying in the lines,” “breaking the lines,” “how we learn the lines,” et cetera. Ideas, topics, and issues addressed in the script include:

• the housing situation (can people in Grand Rapids really choose to live wherever they want?),
• the education system (experiences in public, private, and charter schools, along with how the community understands these),
• the justice system,
• how race issues affect the broader West Michigan religious community,
• the various ideas and understandings surrounding the concept of “white privilege,”
• and the various reactions to the economic redevelopment along Wealthy Street.

Voices represented in the script include a wide range of racial, economic, and age demographics from throughout Grand Rapids, from teachers and educators to police officers, contractors, pastors, and other community members. Prominent individuals from the area whose stories will be heard include (among many others):

• real-estate developer Guy Bazzani,
• Reverend Jerry Bishop,
• Grand Rapids Mayor George Heartwell,
• and Sharon LaChappelle, director of Baxter Community Center.

It is important to note that the focus and intent of the devising team has been to create a play that is not about the idea of racism, but rather is an honest account of the actual, lived experiences of real people, and their own accounts of how they feel race has or has not affected them. The play will be an open call to the community for deeper understanding, better communication, and more honest dialogue about these issues: issues that continue to create lines within our city and around the nation.

~Calin Skidmore

Visit the Actor’s Theater website for showtimes and ticket information. “LINES” opens on September 30, 2010, and runs through October 9, 2010.

Imperfect Birds, by Anne Lamott

It’s not exactly a series, but the books all follow the life of Rosie and her parents, Elizabeth and James. In Imperfect Birds, Rosie is now 18 and struggling with separating from her parents and discovering who she is. Along with this tumultuous process, Rosie brings a genetic predisposition to alcoholism and the emotional baggage of growing up with her parents.  Of course, her parents also have their own issues to deal with–the book comes together around Rosie getting into some big trouble, and her parents having to put aside their problems to tend to their child.

It is a painful book to read, and not only because painful things happen in it. Being omniscient (as the reader is) means that we see all those communication points where one thing could be said (the right, healthy thing) but the words that come are the absolute worst ones. Or we see the things that aren’t said, but should be. Or we see the “mind reading” that goes on, and ends in disaster–because, of course, we are all terrible at mind reading. Decisions are made, or behaviors are done, based on what the character believes the other character is thinking or planning. But the other character isn’t thinking those things, or planning those behaviors, and so everything gets muddled.  Sounds like a soap opera, right?  But those are the things that drive a novel along, that create tension and, ultimately, create the story. Anne Lamott is great at it, and especially if you’ve read the first two in the series, you will certainly enjoy seeing your little girl growing up.  But you do not need to have read the earlier books in order to enjoy Imperfect Birds.  (However, if you are the parent of a teenager in the throes of adolescence, you might want to wait a few years…!)

To take off from that subject, and to add to it, I just came back from a funeral in my home town. This was the funeral of the husband of a relative, and I didn’t know him very well (though I liked what I knew of him), and so I was not deep in mourning.  I was able to be supportive, to take a walk down memory lane and reminisce, and also able to be a sort of “fly on the wall” at the dinner following the funeral.  What I learned there, as that fly, was poignant.  It almost didn’t matter what conversation I was involved in – whether they were members of my family or complete strangers to me. The content of the conversation might be different, but the process was almost identical.  Story after story included elements found in Anne Lamott’s book and millions of others, and soap operas on television.  The common elements go something like this:

• Thirty years ago, someone said something to another person and used a sharp tone.
• The listener heard the comment and was immediately made angry, or sad, or both.
• That person, the listener, then clammed up and walked away to nurse their wound or to find a third party to express their grievance to. The first person never knows any of this.
• The listener pulls away from their relationship, and it’s never the same again.
• The grudge is held for those thirty years, and at this funeral, they tell the story again – as if it happened yesterday. In their telling, it is clear they were completely justified, and the person who made the offending statement is clearly the “bad” one, STILL.

 What I also know–from being a therapist for 20 years, from being the youngest in the family (so I got to hear everyone’s story growing up) and even from being, at times, the offender, the offended, and the third party–is that almost 100% of the time the offender didn’t mean it, or was momentarily angry, or was misunderstood by the listener. I know that the listener may sometimes be, maybe often be justified, but just as often is probably being really sensitive. And the heartbreak to the situation is that probably, just probably, if the listener had taken a breath, held their emotional response for a moment and asked a couple of questions, the whole thing might have been resolved right then and there. Usually a question like, “You sound really upset, is it something I did?” or, “Boy, that hurt – did you mean what you said or did I just interpret it wrongly?” can begin to diffuse a hot situation. Even if you did something the other person is angry about, just listening and staying with that person can serve to calm the situation.

What we know now about how the brain works is this: when we have a perception of danger, like if someone says something that sets you off, our brains react first and intensely, to protect us from danger. The brain actually heats up, just like an overheated car. But if we give it a minute, and don’t just react, then our prefrontal cortex kicks in. That’s the part of our brain that helps us make thought-out, logical decisions. Then we can ask ourselves questions like, “Is this dangerous?”, “Does this person have a real grievance?(whether I like it or not?)”, “Do I KNOW that this has anything to do with me?”, and other questions along those lines. And then we can come back to the offender and check things out calmly. 

Practicing taking a breath and asking a few questions could save a lot of us 30 years of loss in relationships. It could even stop some wars…

Until next time–

C.

“Space” can be understood to refer to geographical or topographical space–whether you live in East Asia or in France, whether you live in the mountains, in the midst of a broad plain, or on the coast of the sea. But the buildings we live our lives within (homes, office buildings, shops and markets) are also an important part of this sort of space, and, whether we are aware of it or not, they shape our experiences and perceptions of the world—and perhaps even of ourselves.

Deborah Berke: Architecture of the Everyday

Deborah Berke has been designing homes, hotels, villas, galleries, and various other structures for over 25 years. In 1997 she co-edited a text outlining her architectural philosophy of the “everyday”: a sense that architecture should reflect, and not usurp or overshadow, the environment in which it is built. 

In her later work, Berke has articulated a vision that she calls the “here and now.” For Berke, this means that every piece of architecture ought to be firmly anchored to its time and place–we may be aware that a designer’s hand was influential in shaping the structure we observe, but that designer’s “signature” should not overwhelm or mask the site itself. Berke aims, with every project she takes on, to design a building that could not exist anywhere else but here, and now–that is, the building itself is fulfilled, or completed, only by being precisely where it is. 

Box Studios, by Deborah Berke & Partners

If this sounds abstract, well, it is. Tracy Myers, for example, points to the phenomenological underpinnings of Berke’s work as some of the most interesting features, and most of us just aren’t conversant in phenomenology. But what Myers and Berke are trying to speak about are the ways in which the buildings we inhabit either remind us of where we are, or hide it from us. So many of the structures we pass through on a daily basis are utterly commercial, utterly replicable: Starbucks are all meant to look more or less exactly like one another. Chain grocery stores, too. Even shopping malls, as much as they may differ, have much more in common than not. Some streets we drive down have nothing but a series of houses that are all made after the same model, perhaps only differing in color. There is a comfort in all this familiarity, and perhaps that’s at least part of why we are drawn to homogeneity and similarity–it feels comfortable, relaxing, reassuring. 

Marianne Boesky Gallery, by Deborah Berke & Partners

What Deborah Berke wants to accomplish is something slightly different. Not “opposed,” because she does want her buildings to be comfortable, in the end, in their environments. But Berke designs buildings that remind us of where we are–and because every place is different, every building she constructs must be different, too. She doesn’t fall back on the same shapes, the same forms, the same colors. She tries to understand each environment for exactly what it is, and for what it could be, and then use her designs to enhance and underscore those unique qualities. It’s an admirable and ambitious goal, and if you are able to visit her website or take a look at this monograph, we think you will find she’s done a remarkable job in accomplishing that goal.

Louis Kahn: Monuments of Spirit

Louis Kahn (1901-1974) is widely held to be one of the most influential architects of the 20th century. Though he was educated in the Beaux-Arts tradition, he eventually began to work in the line of the more severe, modernist, International style. But by the time he had reached his mid-fifites, Kahn had developed a personal style that–while still influenced by modernist convictions about space–was distinctive in its monumental size, in its ability to capture and play up the effect of natural light, and in its remarkable resonance with the human spirit. In spite of the huge scale of his pieces, Kahn’s work is somehow also in tune with the human condition, and his work reflects both the strength and the receptivity of that state.

Salk Institute, by Louis Kahn

 ”For Kahn, the study of architecture was the study of human beings, their highest aspirations and most profound truths. He searched for forms and materials to express the subtlety and grandeur of life. In his buildings we see the realization of his vision: luminous surfaces that evoke a fundamental awe, silent courtyards that speak of the expansiveness and the sanctity of the spirit, monumental columns and graceful arches that embody dignity and strength.”

Rather than create structures that “belong” to their environments, as Berke tries to do, Kahn’s buildings reflect an ethereal interconnectedness between humans and the heavens. These structures are immense and striking, requiring us to consider what they mean, what they express, what relevance they have for our own experiences. Kahn’s pieces point to the profound depths of the human spirit, and remind us of ourselves even as they overwhelm our senses.

Paulo Mendes da Rocha and Brazilian Brutalism

Finally, we would like to mention Paulo Mendes da Rocha (1928- ). Da Rocha is a hugely acclaimed architect of the last 50 years, and has been awarded a number of prestigious prizes for his work, including the Mies van der Rohe Prize (2000) and the Pritzker Prize (2006). Da Rocha works almost exclusively in his native Brazil, and his pieces are often made entirely of concrete and steel: enormous creations that convey a sense of power and strength, but whose elegance of form expresses a surprising degree of delicacy and grace.

Loja Forma, by Paulo Mendes da Rocha

Da Rocha’s style has been called “Brazilian Brutalism,” a style that emphasizes the hard curves and edges of the medium (typically concrete), while also exposing the function of the structure–there is no attempt to disguise the use to which the building is being put, no attempt to mask the utilitarian relationship between human beings and the structures they employ. It is in this sense that Brutalism is as much a philosophy of architecture as it is a creative style; unlike Deborah Berke’s intention to allow her pieces to subtly enhance their surroundings, or Louis Kahn’s reminders of the ethereal depths of human spirit,  Brutalist architects are often criticised for creating structures that ignore their environment completely, and as a result seem alien and, sometimes, grotesque. But Brazilian Brutalist works also have a political undertone; concrete is inexpensive, sturdy, and readily available–important qualities when working in a country that has been economically stymied for so long. And, too, the unabashed power of these structures may be a testment to the fact that even the poor and the oppressed can rise up in sweeping arcs, supported by materials as humble as limestone, sand, and water.

Transforming Spaces: Do We Change as the Places We Inhabit Do?

In spite of all of this discussion, it nevertheless remains to each of us to consider how, and whether, the structures we live in determine or shape our lives. The intentions and philosophies of the architects do not necessarily result in an actual effect in terms of daily living–but this is what makes art, literature, architecture, and all of the creative pursuits so fascinating. Every author has something in mind when he/she sits down to write, some feeling or idea or conviction they want to express. But the author having that intention does not necessarily mean that the readers will understand the intention; often, what a reader takes from a poem, for example, is somewhat different than what the poet had in mind. We each bring our own experiences and beliefs to bear on the works of art we contemplate, and architecture is no different.

What are your experiences? Are there houses you’ve lived in that felt more like a home than others? Why? Are there buildings you feel more comfortable in than others? Are there buildings you find perhaps discomfiting, but still fascinating and wonderful to look at? When you look at the photos posted above, what are your reactions–perhaps emotional, perhaps intellectual, perhaps visceral–to the structures you see?

–The Open Mind Staff

Robin Meyers' latest book: Saving Jesus from the Church

My own experience has been that even in this liberal denomination–within which my husband, Ron, served for 25 years as a minister–no one really wants to let go of what Ron would call the “supernatural” ideas of virgin birth and literal resurrection – primarily because of the sense that “that’s the way it’s always been.”

So my questions are these: can you imagine a church that doesn’t spend its time worshiping Jesus, but rather acting like Jesus? Can you imagine eating among the poor and the tax collectors in modern day United States? Does it feel freeing to love your enemy as yourself and to remove the log from your own eye before dealing with the twig in someone else’s?

What would the world look like if we lived like Robin Meyers wants us to, which is how Jesus lived?

Until next time,

C.

For some reason I always feel better in Connecticut. The land calls to me, the narrow winding roads, and with the Michigan sensibilities I’ve developed, I’m aware that nothing in Connecticut is very far from anything else (despite what the natives would like me to believe!).

A road through Cheshire, CT, my hometown

I always make a stop at my parents’ graves, in the burying ground that includes my maternal grandparents and great-grandparents.  This time we discovered that 8 of the 10 children of my grandparents are buried there, 6 of them alongside my grandparents! So I was able to show my daughter her great-aunts and uncles, her great and great-great grandparents all at the same time. She didn’t know any of them, but she did know my mother, so we sat with her for a while, missing her together. I love that they are all together, and wherever I am when death comes, part of me needs to be buried with my family, both for my comfort and for the ease of future generations to find us all together. 

The New York trip carried more significance than I had originally expected. We met my nephew Steven for dinner – he is only 7 years younger than me, and an artist. His father, my eldest brother, was my mother’s first-born from her first marriage. Again, I wanted my daughter to know her cousin, since I knew there would be similarities between them. What he said, though, that amazed me, was that it was my brother and me who were his role models growing up. He told me that because of us he pushed the limits of the expectations of his parents (which hadn’t included college) and made the life he has today. I was aware, and said as much, that he made the life he had, in part, because of my father (who is not his grandfather.)

When my father joined the family by marrying my mother, he brought an ethic of life-long learning that we, his children, breathed in daily, and that Steven, who hardly knew my father, took from us. We never know the effect we have on people. Most of the time we never really know what we mean to others, and it is a powerful thing to learn what that effect has been.  

While we were in New York City, we went to Ellis Island with a high school friend, Lisa, that I hadn’t seen in 40 years. We found my father’s name on the manifest of the ship that brought him to this country in 1924, at the age of 23. While he didn’t write the answers to the 28 questions on the manifest with his own hand, still they were his answers, and I felt deeply connected to that young man who would be my father.  Since then, Lisa has found out more information on my father on a genealogy site, and so the mystery of my father’s life between arriving in the United States and meeting my mother 16 years later begins to clear a little.   

I have been able, in these two trips, to make some continuity in my life. Before, my life seemed to consist of disparate segments: in the United States and in Italy, on the East coast and in the Midwest. There were stair-step relationships between cousins and aunt and nephew, which meant we didn’t really know each other at the same times; now, those relationships are filled in somewhat and seem to bring order to my life, the depth of which I probably won’t be fully aware of for a long time. 

What I do know is that home is where one has a sense of belonging. That sense of belonging may have no connection to how long we have lived in a place, or to who lived there. I also believe that family is not determined by genetics, at least not all the time. But genetics can show us our family even when we have never seen them before, by showing us the similarities between us, the comfortable silences, the moments that matter to each of us, the shape of our faces and the sound of our common laughter.  The more I know about whence I came, the more I learn about myself.

What are your experiences of self-discovery as you go through life? Do you recognize yourself in your blood relations, or do feel yourself a bit of a stranger in spite of genetic ties? Which people in your life do you consider to be family, whether they are blood relations or not? How do your answers to these questions affect your sense of self, or who you know yourself to be?

I look forward to hearing from you!

C.

Map of Italian peninsula

Genoa is nestled in between the Gulf of Genoa (the northern-most part of the Tyrrhenian Sea) and the Ligurian portion of the Apennines, a mountain range that stretches the length of the Italian peninsula. Because it is both near the sea, and protected from the rest of the mainland by the mountains, weather is typically mild in Genoa; summer temperatures usually top out in the low 80s, and winters rarely get colder than 40F. There is plentiful rainfall, which means the area is lush and green, covered in thick foliage and a wide variety of Mediterranean flora.

The Apennine Mountains

In fact, one of the loveliest parts of Cecilia’s apartment in Genoa was the small terrace off of the kitchen. We could open up the doors while cooking breakfast or supper, and let the soft sea breeze waft through the apartment. The water was visible from this balcony, in spite of the surrounding apartment buildings. And every terrace in view, including Cecilia’s, was full of plants, flowerpots, and clean laundry hanging to dry. It was so peaceful, and even comforting somehow, to be surrounded with the colors of both the flowers and the brightly painted buildings, with the clothes swaying in the breeze. (Except for the last few days of our trip, when some men started a construction project on the street outside!)

Classic photo of laundry hanging in Genoa

Of course, we took a million photographs, many of which only recorded little glimpses of our days–moments that were lovely at the time, but in hindsight don’t make particularly compelling pictures! I’ve collected a selection of some of those photos, and invite you to take a look at them and let me know what you think! 

http://photos.skidmoregr.info/Slideshow.aspx?gallery=210557

There is such a powerful bond we humans make with the spaces we occupy; whether with the houses that we arrange and fill with momentos or beautiful things, or with the towns and cities we live in, the places we inhabit influence us and shape us. I don’t know if that influence is only an individual bond, or whether such a connection can somehow be passed on generationally–but my daughter’s immediate familiarity with a land she’d never been to before makes me think that maybe there is something in the bl0od that calls us back to the lands our family came from.

Have you ever visited the country/countries of your ancestors? Were there living relatives left, and were you able to reconnect with them? What do you think about the connection of people to the spaces they inhabit? Do you feel you have been shaped by the place or places you have lived, and if so, in what ways? 

I hope to hear from you about your own experiences–it is a fascinating process of discovery, and one more facet of a life that keeps on unfolding in often surprising ways.

Until next time:

Cecilia and the Open Mind Staff

Nadkarni’s account covers humanity’s cultural relationship with trees in mesmerizing collections of  symbols, artistic representations, and personal anecdotes. She traces the historical significance of trees to human life not only in terms of symbolism, but also with respect to the deep biological interdepence of humans and trees. She explains the inner-workings of trees, the many goods and services they provide for us–from shelter and protection, to medicine and healing, to the very oxygen we breathe–and ends her exploration with suggestions on how we can develop a more attuned, mindful approach to trees.

Some of Nadkarni’s motivation to write this book came from her background as a resarcher of forests, and forest canopies. Forest canopies are the thick “rooftops” of old growth forests and jungles. Though the individual trees stand very close together, even in so-called “closed” caopies their branches almost never touch. The canopy is one of about five recognized areas of growth in these forests: the overstory, which consists of the highest branches that stretch out into the drier, breezier climate high above; the “true” canopy; the understory, protected by the canopy from the harsh sun, is where much of the forest’s moisture is retained; the shrub level, which is profoundly important from a botanical perspective, as there are over 1,400 medicinal shrubs and other plants housed here, some of which are believed to be potential cures for cancer; and finally, the forest floor, which is dark, fairly clear of vegetation, and where leaves are composted naturally into rich soil.

Tropical Forest Canopy

From the Olympic National Forest website:

“Forest canopies are important because of their significant contribution to forest productivity, ecosystem health and climate conditions…photosynthesis in the canopy provides the basic building block, carbohydrates, which fuel the ecosystem. Trees pump these nutrients into the underground ecosystem.

The forest canopy also acts as a buffer between the soil and the atmosphere. This buffer contributes to the health of the ecosystem by protecting the soil from erosion and by removing particles and pollutants from the air and rain.

The canopy is important for local and global climate because of its ability to transfer large volumes of water through its network of needles or leaves. This evapotranspiration cools the forest while contributing to cloud formation and thereby regional rainfall. One study showed that fog drip from temperate old growth canopies produced a 30% increase in measurable precipitation over one year.”

An old-growth forest

In other words: without the canopies of old-growth forests, our entire ecosystem suffers. Oxygen levels in the atmosphere are depleted, while carbon dioxide levels increase. Global precipitation levels drop dramatically, leading to droughts and shrinking water supplies. Biological diversity of both flora and fauna is reduced, and many plants that have proved, or may yet prove, to be powerful cures for some of our most frightening diseases may be lost forever. Protecting the forest canopy is tantamount to protecting the lives of all humans on earth.

But Nadkarni’s goal is not simply to educate. It is also to inspire. Her own love affair with trees led her to write a book that, she hopes, will provoke a sense of wonder in her readers: wonder at these wonderful, complex, deeply important organisms that populate our world. In her introduction, Nadkarni relates a story about an Inuit, Emil, and his first experience with old-growth cedar trees. In the Inuit language, there are over 25 words for different types of snow, but the only word they have for a tree is “pole.” After spending days around, and in, an old growth forest, Emil came to see the power and grace of these trees, and their importance for human life and learning. Nadkarni goes on to state:

“This book expands on Emil’s statement about the powerful connections between humans and trees, exploring the many ways humans use trees and the lessons they teach us. It has grown from my years of teaching and conducting scientific research on the ecology of rainforests. But just as importantly, I wrote it because I love trees: how they look, how they behave, how they smell and sound, and how I feel when I am around them. When I place my own strong brown hand on the trunk of a tree, I feel connected to something that deserves my curiosity, care, and protection. It is my hope that this book might do for readers what those cedar trees did for Emil: awaken–or reawaken–a sense of wonder and respect.”

~The Open Mind Staff

Immigrants deboarding at Ellis Island

Last May my eldest daughter and I took a trip to Genoa, Italy, to visit my cousin Cecilia. We are both named Cecilia because in was traditonal (up until recent years) to name one’s first-born son after the father’s father and the first-born daughter after the father’s mother. Cecilia is the eldest daughter of my uncle Vincent. She is 11 years older than me, and my first memories of her are when I am 7 and she 18. In my memories, she lived with us for a year, but she says it was only a summer. I thought she was wonderful and cried all night when she left, fearing the ferry taking her to the mainland from Sicily would sink. I’m still melodramatic in that way, afraid to lose people. 

In spite of my childhood fondess of her, I embarked on this most recent trip to visit Cecilia with some shyness, since we hadn’t spoken in 25 years. She was excited that we were coming, but still – how would we live together for 9 days? Would we have enough to talk about? My other worry was that I wanted to make sure that my daughter, Jessica, would experience Venice, Florence, Pisa and more, and I was afraid that wouldn’t happen. 

Of course I was wrong on all counts. We had plenty to talk about, and plenty of time to not-talk. I discovered that she is very easy to be around, not needing small talk, so there were many times when we were all quiet together. Jessica said that she would prefer to spend most of our time in Genoa, and only take one trip, to Venice. She wanted to soak up the atmosphere of being here, not doing a lot of things, so I could relax on that account.   

The coast at Genoa, Italy

Cecilia has a son, Flavio, who is 24 years old. She gave birth to Flavio when she was in her forties, and having had a son later in life means that she is young in many ways–not the least of which is her comfort with texting! (She always drove like a maniac and still does – age has only meant that she doesn’t drive in fog.) Flavio is wildly extroverted, and knew enough English that we could have conversations immediately. He would drive us some places, spending afternoons with us, and then after dinner, at 11 p.m. or midnight, would go dancing until 7 in the morning. 

One day we visited my cousin Salvatore, Cecilia’s brother, who is named after our grandfather. He gave me a photo of my father that he’d found in a book. My father had sent it to our grandfather, and I’m guessing it is his naturalization photo, so I date it to 1937. That photo, along with photos of my Uncle Vincent (Salvatore’s father) in his Italian military uniform, sparked conversation about both our fathers. This was a first – a conversation between cousins about our fathers – and it would never have happened otherwise.   

When we returned to her apartment after visiting with Salvatore, Cecilia went to change. I had a thought and followed her to her room to share it with her, but before I could she came back out of her room, saying, “I just had a thought!”  She looked at me and said, “I think we had the same thought.” “I wonder,” I said, “What did YOU think?” She said, “I thought, if our fathers are in heaven and looking down at us, they are very happy.” 

That was my thought, and it made me happy that it had occurred to us both at the same time. I’m sure our fathers are happy, and I’m sure my father is happy that his granddaughter is coming to know his country, and that she finds herself so comfortable here.

Until next time:

C.