I love this man!!!

Yeah, I know. Haven't been here in a while. Just one of those things. Life has interfered, and not in a good way. That's the breaks.

But in the meantime, 'till I get my groove back, you should go here and read one of the best columnists of our day. I have no idea why he isn't as well known as some of the others; he consistently kicks ass and takes names. And he's sicilian too, so what's not to love?

This Is Not My Holiday

Another Columbus day. Another Columbus day going by with a serious lack of critical commentary from the italian-american community. Why? Good question. Frankly, where and when I grew up, Columbus day meant nothing....it was a day off from work or school. Like Thanksgiving, it was not viewed as our holiday. Obviously, that wasn't/isn't the case everywhere. The images of Columbus day offered up in the mass media pit american indians vs. old italian men in K of C garb....genocide vs. "italian pride"....let's take a look at that.

No bones about it....Christoforo Columbo was a real butcher. Before sailing for Spain, he was a slaver for Portugal...sailing down the coast of Africa and bringing back enslaved africans for sale in Lisbon. After gaining a certain amount of shipboard experience and picking the brains of more experienced sailors, he figured his sure thing for fame and fortune would be finding a faster route to Asia....the Portuguese already had a lock on the route around Africa, and were busy keeping ships away from the eastern Mediterranean (no, it wasn't the turks who wanted to shut down that lucrative trade route!). Columbus had a hard time coming up with funding, but his ship came in....in the persons of Ferdinand and Isabella. Leaders of an up-and-coming nation state, they were hungry for what Columbus promised them....more wealth, more gold.

He set sail for Asia, and stumbled upon some Caribbean islands that no one told him existed. It didn't take him long to determine that these islands were not owned by an empire, and probably not east Asian. This did not discourage him; if these islands were not previously claimed by anyone capable of fighting off spanish soldiers and irregulars, why, they could be his! Or ten percent of the proceeds, anyway, per the deal. He set himself up as the Boss, and got down to the real business at hand---enslaving indians to hunt for gold. Those who did not bring in enough gold were either killed or mutilated. Ears and noses were cut off; runaways or serious offenders (those who perpetually didn't make their haul) had their hands chopped off. Mothers had their babies chucked headfirst into rivers by laughing solidiers. Soldiers took bets on whose sword was the sharpest, based on how many cuts it took to carve an indigenous person in half. Rape was endemic. Fields lay sallow and nets stayed dry---with the heavy penalties exacted for lack of gold, no one had time to farm or fish. They did have time to die.

Estimates of the indigenous population prior to Columbus' landing range from three to eight million people. There is less controversy about the number on the numbers that remained. Bartolome de las Casas wrote that in 1508, there were 60,000 indigenous people on the island that became known as Hispaniola. By 1550, there were 500. By 1650, there were none. None.

Modern day revisionists are quick to claim that genocide is far too strong a word for what Columbus presided over and took part in. That Columbus was a "man of his times". Yet, the behavior of Colombus, and by extension the spanish Crown, was heavily critiqued in his day, in far stronger language than we hear in modern media histories of Columbus. Bartolome de las Casas gave thorough eyewitness accounts of the butchery on Hispaniola; Francisco de Vitoria wrote extensively on the rights of native peoples (before he also contracted gold fever and changed his opinion--and writing--to reflect the glint of gold the spanish policy of seizing everything). Columbus was brought back from his third voyage in chains, accused of brutality (among other charges). Oh, and the reward of 10,000 maravedis for life to the first man to spot land? Colombus stole that too. Contrary to pro-Columbus propaganda, he did personally bring arawak slaves back to the court of Spain; he liberally lied about his findings and stated that (with some funding, of course!) with his next trip he would bring in (for his padrones benefactors), "as much gold as they need....and as many slaves as they ask."

What of the popular claim of Columbus being from Genoa? No one really knows. There is no record of his birth. He would certainly be mystified by claims of "italian pride" in his honor....there being no Italy in his day, and he not having much if any ties to any location there. The fame is something he could appreciate, however.

So...how did Columbus day get to be a holiday, anyway? The first celebration of Columbus was by the Tammany Society in New York City in 1792, long before any significant numbers of italians started showing up on U.S. shores. There wasn't another celebration of Columbus day until 1866, again, in New York City. Another celebration took place in San Francisco in 1869. These are labeled as celebrations of the italian-american community, but at that time there were very few italians in the United States; those that were here were mainly northern italians who were artists or artisans, not the poor peasants from the Mezzogiorno who came later ('nother words, my people).

And therein lies the rub. There wasn't much (if any) anti-italian prejudice in the U.S. before the swarthy masses started swarming in. Italians were thought of as being educated, artistic, cultured people. When poverty and starvation brought shiploads of uneducated peasants with dark skin and calloused hands to the docks, this presented a problem to the older (northern) italian residents. A system of noblesse oblige developed in larger cities, with established northern italian residents acting as the "talented tenth" for the great unwashed masses. Social clubs and mutual aid societies cropped up, with (more often) northern italians at the forefront, acting as go-betweens from the italian to the anglo world, and again between italians and other ethnic groups, most notably the irish who were politically dominant. Some of these clubs were helpful to newcomers. Some of them were baldly exploitative. New residents from the Mezzogiorno would invest money with banchiste, hire legal services from notaie, and contract with other prominenti who would more often than not steal their money. An increasing number of these prominenti were fellow southerners who learned the ropes of capitalism, and how to hang their paesani with 'em. But whether northern or southern, the blame in the popular imagination went to the northern italians, as the conditions that drove immigrants to l'mmerica were still fresh in mind.

The preexisting ethnic pecking order of the day had the irish at the top, in every city. The irish had the ear of city hall, the patronage jobs, and large parades on St. Patrick's day. Italians had parades too, usually festas on various saints' days. Processions were held through italian neighborhoods that took all day and blocked traffic. This irritated the hell out of city hall, and out of various employers who suddenly found themselves without a workforce when a saint was being feted. But more...it really pissed off irish priests. Irish priests who were already ticked about the anticlericalism demonstrated by southern italians and sicilians. Irish priests who viewed southern italian and sicilian religious expression as paganism.

In 1882, an irish-american priest founded the Knights of Columbus. Columbus was chosen as patron to reinforce "americanism" amongst catholics. In the northern U.S., the Knights started as a mostly-irish organization that simultaneously expressed american loyalty while maintaining the ethnic pecking order. In the southern U.S., the Knights had their work cut out for them proving to anti-catholics that they were as american as they were catholic. Christoforo Columbo, a supporter of aristocracy, was reified as the symbol of "america". And here was a ready-made lobby for "Columbus Day".

Italian-american communities were not so much interested in Columbus at that time. There was no recognition of Columbus even being italian, let alone someone who accomplished anything that a person from the Mezzogiorno would recognize as heroic. He was genovese, a thief, a slaver, a murderer. Bah! But there was a universally recognized hero in italian-american communities across the U.S.: Giuseppe Garibaldi, the hero of the Risorgimento. There was a push to have Garibaldi be the noted figure for italian-americans, and for good reason. Not only did Garibaldi fight to unify Italy to be a representative democracy like the United States, he had even lived here and applied for citizenship! Already distinguished in battle in Brazil, Uruguay, and Italy, he was considered for a position as general in the Union Army by Abraham Lincoln. Outside of the italian-american community, there was no call for any recognition of Garibaldi. People from outside, and later from inside, the italian-american community began the push for Columbus as the italian-american holiday. And just back in the Mezzogiorno, those who disagreed turned their heads and rolled their eyes; after all, those with the power are going to do whatever-the-hell they want anyway, aren't they?

So now here we are, with another Columbus day. Another day of eye-rolling and head-turning, while self-appointed leaders of the italian-american community feel free to spew racist invective against indians. What of the rest of us? Are we going to let those in Columbus garb speak for us? Where are our tongues?

Well, here's a brother with a voice. Tommi Avicolli Mecca is calling for a "Sacco and Vanzetti Day" to be a source of real italian-american pride. How about it? How about honoring Sacco and Vanzetti, who stood flat-footed in their community and told flat-footed truths? Sacco and Vanzetti are heroes I can get behind. Not Columbus. He's not my hero and this is not my holiday.

UPDATE: visit this site for all kinds of news and information on Columbus day. And Rethinking Schools has some tools for blowing the myth out of the water.

Umana Cosa: Maria Mazziotti Gillan

Maria Mazziotti Gillan is the Executive Director of the Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College; she is also a Professor of Creative Writing at Binghamton University, State University of New York. She has seven books of poetry to her name, including Where I Come From and Things My Mother Told Me. Along with her daughter, Jennifer Gillan, she has co-edited three anthologies: Unsettling America: An Anthology of Contemporary Multicultural Poetry, Identity Lessons: Contemporary Writing About Learning to be American, and Growing Up Ethnic in America. With her daughter and Edvidge Giunta, she has co-edited Italian American Writers on New Jersey. Currently, she edits the Paterson Literary Review and is working on a memoir, My Mother's Stoop. Her newest book is Italian Women in Black Dresses.

She has been widely published and much acclaimed, but is not generally known outside of literary circles and the italian american press.

Samples of her poetry can be found here. One of my favorites is here; it's titled "I Dream of my Grandmother and Great-Grandmother". Her homepage can provide more info and links to books.

Back around ten years ago, I was bumming around the bookstore (as usual), seeing what might need reading, when I stumbled upon Unsettling America. I opened it up, and could. not. put. it. down! I saw something really special....the words of italian american women. I couldn't believe it....it was like picking up a book and seeing my own name. I'd been searching for books like this for a while, ever since reading No Pictures in my Grave by Susan Caperna Lloyd...but to no avail. I flipped through the back of the book and read the autobiographies of the writers. It was there that I learned of Helen Barolini's The Dream Book: An Anthology of Writings by Italian American Women. My spirit soared and my mind shouted, "There is a God!!"

Growing Up Italian

When I was little girl,
I thought everyone was Italian,
and that was good. We visited
our aunts and uncles,
and they visited us.
The Italian language smooth
and sweet in my mouth.

In kindergarten, English words fell on me,
thick and sharp as hail. I grew silent,
the Italian word balanced on the edge
of my tongue and the English word, lost
during the first moment
of every question.

It did not take me long to learn
that dark-skinned people were greasy
and dirty. Poor children were even dirtier.
To be dark-skinned and poor was to be dirtiest of all.

Almost every day
Mr. Landraf called Joey
a "spaghetti bender."
I knew that was bad.
I tried to hide
by folding my hands neatly
on my desk and
being a good girl.

Judy, one of the girls in my class,
had honey-blonde hair and blue eyes.
All the boys liked her. Her parents and
grandparents were born in America.
They owned a local tavern.
When Judy's mother went downtown
she brought back coloring books and candy.
When my mother went downtown, she brought back
one small brown bag with a towel or a sheet in it.

The first day I wore my sister's hand-me-down coat,
Isabelle said, "That coat looks familiar. Don't
I recognize that coat?" I looked at the ground.

When the other children brought presents
for the teacher at Christmas, embroidered silk
handkerchiefs and "Evening in Paris" perfume,
I brought dish cloths made into a doll.

I read all the magazines that told me
why blondes have more fun,
described girls whose favorite color was blue.
I hoped for a miracle that would turn my dark skin light
that would make me pale and blonde and beautiful.

So I looked for a man
with blonde hair and blue eyes
who would blend right in,
and who'd give me blond, blue-eyed children
who would blend right in
and a name that could blend right in
and I would be melted down
to a shape and a color
that would blend right in,
till one day, I guess I was forty by then,
I woke up cursing
all those who taught me
to hate my dark, foreign self,
and I said, "Here I am--
with my olive-toned skin
and my Italian parents
and my old poverty,
real as a scar on my forehead,"
and all the toys we couldn't buy
and all the words I didn't say,
all the downcast eyes
and folded hands
and remarks I didn't make
rise up in me and explode

onto paper like firecrackers
like meteors

and I celebrate
my Italian American self,
rooted in this, my country, where
all those black/brown/red/yellow
olive-skinned people
soon will raise their voices
and sing this new anthem:

Here I am
and I'm strong
and my skin is warm in the sun
and my dark hair shines,

and today, I take back my name
and wave it in their faces
like a bright, red flag.

---Maria Mazziotti Gillan (from Unsettling America)

Ma, Who Told Me You Forgot How To Cry

Soothsayer,
healer,
tale-teller
there was nothing you could not do.

In your basement kitchen,
with the cracked brown and yellow tiles,
the sink on metal legs,
the big iron stove with its pots simmering,
the old Kelvinator from 1950,
the metal kitchen table and plastic chairs,
I'd watch you roll out dough for pastichelle.
"Be quiet," you'd say,
and work at super speed.

Today, when we walk into your hospital room,
you do not speak of your illness,
do not mention the doctor
who tells you bluntly,
"You have three months, at most, to live."

Your shrewd, sharp eyes watch us,
but you do not cry.

Soothsayer,
healer,
tale-teller,
always ready with a laugh and a story,
ready to offer coffee, cakes,
advice at your oval kitchen table,
your chair pulled close and your hands
always full.

We are like little children gathered
around your bed. Al, with his doctor's bag
full of tricks and medicine,
Laura, in her nurse's uniform,
her hands twisting, and me,
my head full of words
that here, in this antiseptic room,
are no use, no use at all.

We wait for you
to get up out of that bed,
to start bossing us around,
the way you always did.
Tell us a story
with a happy ending,
one in which the oil
of Santo Rocco that you put on
your swollen belly each night
works its elusive miracle.

Soothsayer,
healer,
tale-teller,
there was nothing you could not do.
Tell us again how the bluebirds
came to sing at your window
that January, when Al was so sick
all the doctors said he'd die.

---Maria Mazziotti Gillan (from The Milk of Almonds: Italian American Women Writers on Food and Culture)

New links and conspiracy theories

There's a good article on conspiracy theories, their history, and why we shouldn't buy into them over at Z Magazine. Z magazine is in a financial bind right now, so the first page you see will be an explanation of their plight. I'm a subscriber to the magazine and find it to be a great source for news we don't get enough of in the U.S. It would be a shame to see them shut down the website. If you can afford to, and you like what you see (they post many articles on the net), consider subscribing. You won't be sorry.

Other howl-outs include Hugo Schwyzer's blog, where I've been running my mouth on the reg, and Skipping Stones a multicultural children's magazine. Both are in the blogroll. Amanda at mousewords (how did she come up with that name? she's far from mousey in her opinions!) has been featuring a different female musician daily. Today's is Poly Styrene of X Ray Spex. (...shifting inta neighborhood girl mode....)"You Fuckin' A!" (....ahem...). So, I'm gonna shamelessly lift her idea, and feature a different Italian American Woman Writer every Friday. Salud!