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Poems For The
Quincentenary By: Anne
Paolucci, Maria
Mazziotti Gillan, Joseph Tusiani,
and COUNTDOWN: 1992 You ask what I felt? My tracks are epic, I’m told, But, really, I stumbled into fame. Shores are simply a need, A lure, a claim. You ask what I want? Oceans closing behind me, Wind singing before me Filing canvas with promise. On land I grow dizzy, My shadow on the ground tells me I have yet to keep my
bargain. . . . You ask what I dream? A map that proves me right, The heavens chartered, Another ocean sea to the moon, New storms to be outraced, I long for grace of waters Softly folded over sleep. Who else dares (you ask?) Ah, many sought new lands Sifted through so many sands Back to the sea! Even Ulysses Sailed the length of Venus And measured his will against the sky, Every star fixed to his purpose, His orbit. Touching land is daily bread. What matters is definition Of the event— Giving birth is only the first Dim sighting of earth. Land scattered before me Each time I tried; I battered my way through a wall Of islands strung out to wear me down— Indians were there to greet me (As Indians are there in India), Unthinking, unknowing; I thought out their life, Ours too, and all to come— Surely that’s worth something? Well, we know the rest. So: Let me ask you this: Is reaching Ithaca really best? COLUMBUS AND THE
ROAD TO GLORY In fourth grade, we chanted “In Fourteen Hundred and Ninety-two, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.” We recited the names of his ships, the Niña,
the Pinta, the Santa Maria, and gave them back on test after test. In our history books, Columbus was a
hero, part of the fabric of our American lives, the lump in our throat when we heard The
Star Spangled Banner or recited the Pledge of Allegiance. In Paterson, my father joined the Società
Cilentanna formed by those Southern Italians spewed out of mountain villages in
Campagnia, those people that Henry Cabot Lodge called an
“inferior species,” though they were welcome in America, cheap, unskilled labor for the jobs no one else wanted. My father was grateful to get a job as a dyer’s helper in a silk
mill. And when he hurt his back lifting the heavy rolls of silk, he became a night watchman in a school and when he could no longer walk the rounds ten times a night, he got a job in a rubber factory, gauging the pressure on steam boilers to make sure they didn’t explode. He worked the night shift for 19 years, the boilers so loud he lost 90% of the hearing in both ears. My father, who at 86 still balances my checkbook, worked for a man who screamed at him as though he were a fool, but by teaching himself the basic laws of
the U. S. A., he learned to negotiate the system in his broken English, spoke up for the immigrants when they were afraid to speak, helped them sell property in Italy or send for their wives and children. On Columbus Day, dressed in his one good suit, his shirt, starched and white, his dark-colored, sedate tie, appropriate for solemn occasions, my father stood at the podium, loving America, believing it to be the best and most beautiful country in the world, a place where his children and the children of the others could go to school, get jobs. On Columbus Day, he could forget the laughter of the Americans who spit at him on the street, called him “Dago, Guinea, Wop, Gangster, Garlic Eater, Mafioso,” their eyes sliding sideways when they came near and the rules— “No Italians need apply.” For those Italians, living in their tenements, surviving ten hours a
day at menial jobs, Columbus Day was their
day to shine, like my father’s tuba, polished for the occasion, my father, grinning and marching, practicing his patriotic
speech. When I see the Italians’ need to cling to Columbus as their hero, I remember that the biggest mass lynching in American history was of Italians and I remember the Italians of Frankfurt,
Illinois, dragged from their houses and beaten and
lynched, and their houses burned to the ground, and the Italians lynched in Wiltsville,
Ohio and New Orleans and Florida but most of all, I remember the men at
the Società, the way they brought Columbus out once a
year, dusted him off, and presented him to the world as their hero, so that on that one day, they, too, could walk tall and be proud. And in this year of political
correctness, when I am asked to sign a petition written by Italian American Writers boycotting Columbus, I am angry and I wonder: Have things changed so much
for us? Why are we always last in line, either,
ginzoes in gold chains or mafiosos, found guilty by reason of our names. Now even this one day set aside for Italian pride is being ripped from our hands. Sta
Citta, Don’t make
trouble! Non
far mala figura,” my
mother always said but I say: Let us tell our mothers “Sta Citta,” Let us tell them we don’t care about mala figura Let us put the pieces of Columbus back
together, and if the cracks show, the
imperfections, can we blame him for not seeing with 20th Century eyes? Let us pick up our flawed hero march him through the streets of the
city, the way we carried the statue of the Blessed Virgin at Festa. Let us forget our mother’s orders. Not to make trouble, Not to call attention to ourselves and in honor of my father and the man of
the Società and in honor of my mother and the courage and pride she taught me, I say: No to being silent, No to calling us names No to giving up Columbus, we have a right with our Italian American voices to celebrate our American lives. COLUMBUS DAY IN
NEW YORK Poor Joel Barlow your Columbiad unwrote itself for lack of salty spray. Here is the epic of Columbus Day reduced to an innocuous parade where mayoral dreamers grin in
competition, endorsed (or almost) by the Governor, and politicians who are neither-nor turn on Italian smiles as cars’ ignition. It does not matter. This is gente mia, for I can see (is there a lump in my
throat?) dear Christopher Columbus on a float called for all time to come Santa Maria. How beautiful he beams! He has the eyes of my Grandfather, and his callous hand; he is the immigrant of every land unhappy in his happy paradise, misunderstood in all this understanding gold of the Indian summer round his brow, unable to forget the Ocean now when he should but recall the joy of
landing. Look closer! There’s Grandfather, come
this year to represent Columbus on his float. A hero and the worthiest of note, he is the very one no crowd will cheer tomorrow when the town goes back to work; but look at him today, today at last, in all the greatness of his humble past— the new Columbus conquering New York. He brings the best credentials to be he— faith in his glance to win the fighting
waves, dream of free people and despair of
slaves to conquer a new land ultimately. So here he is today, today at last, riding atop his bright Santa Maria, the navigator of the gente mia, light of my future, darkness of his past, the one who came to dig (for dig we must) for the high glory of the subway tracks, the immigrant who died and yet still
lacks identity with his American dust. A PROTEST OF BURNING SAGE Columbus Day
parade, a nervous tension tickles my
awareness— I watched my people stand silent and proud— a protest of
burning sage. Their
statement a contradiction to the flags, floats and marching bands
. . . a
contradiction to the moment . . . a contradiction to the
celebration of the Italian/Americans
. . . a hero they seek and so honestly
deserve . . . but what of my people? is our past to dissapate like the smoke of burning
sage? discovered??? the word twirls in anger
. . . the concept flutters about on injured wings. discovered??? by a soul lost and dizzy; weakened by confusion . . . crawling and crying on bleeding
knees. I watched the smiles of marchers dissolve
. . . I stood, sometimes silent— a muted pain
. . . sometimes laughing arrogant and
loud, but still my heart beats in throbs of remorse. I watched the others look away from the accusation not to be
denied . . . the protest of
burning sage . . . a spirit rides the smoke . . . a silent
message ripples like whispering
thunder toward father sky. a message sighs softly in October
winds . . . lies lies lies
. . . a protest of
burning sage. the smoke an offering of respect, that kisses the air and seduces the mind
. . . a sharp
reminder . . . “Five Hundred Years!” when comes the justice? when? when?
when? |