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Sicily Leaving Palermo the tour bus passes a town
set on a hill—the guide calls out Calatafimi. My grandparents’ birthplace! My
heart pounds, stories remembered from Sunday family dinners rush to my head.
Grandma, an 18 year-old peasant woman denied education, awaits the return of
the village children from school. She asks them to show her their lessons.
That’s how she learns to read. My great grandmother tells her, “Why bother to
learn, you don’t need to read, I don’t.” The reply—“Maybe it’s all right for
you to die illiterate, but I will not.” A few minutes later the bus reaches
Segesta. The beige temple columns stand stark against the bright blue sky.
Landscape drenched in sun—air piercingly clear. The guide weaves a tale of
this Greek colony. The stones shrouded in mystery, bear mute witness. Again
my body stirs. I see my grandmother as a little girl playing at the base of
these ruins. For her this place set the boundaries of her universe, familiar
yet silent. For the assembled tourists these relics frame a view into
antiquity. My thoughts wander to the special meaning these stones have for my
family. Our connection with a land beautiful, but barren of opportunity. This
gentle misery echoed when sometimes in the spring grandma would remember, “Ah,
how beautiful Sicily when the almond trees bloom.” Then grandpa’s bitter
words, “Sicily owes me nothing, I owe Sicily nothing. I never want to see
Sicily again.” I stare at these people, aliens in my land, clambering over
ancient, sacred stones to admire the grandeur of the past. They step gingerly
over the roots of my family tree. I peer at their faces. Their dreams lie
elsewhere and they join this odyssey to record captions for their slides. I
go with them leaving part of me among the stones. Vincenza Scarpaci Petaluma, California |