Friday, November 21, 2008

Dad at the Mall

I took my dad to the mall the other day to buy some new shoes (he is 92). We decided to grab a bite at the food court. I noticed he was watching a teenager sitting next to him. The teenager had spiked hair in all different colors: green, red, orange, and blue. My dad kept staring at him. The teenager would look and find him staring every time.


When the teenager had had enough, he sarcastically asked, 'What's the matter old man, never done anything wild in your life?'


Knowing my Dad, I quickly swallowed my food so that I would not choke on his response. Dad did not bat an eye in his response, "Got drunk once, and had sex with a peacock. I was just wondering if you were my son."

~Author Unknown~

Thursday, November 20, 2008




It's my birthday

and

I'll cry if I want to...

Is that writing on the wall I see ?

The darkest places in hell are reserved for those

who maintain their neutrality

in times of moral crisis.

~Dante


A cult of personality or personality cult arises when a country's leader uses mass media to create a heroic public image through unquestioning flattery and praise. Cults of personality are often found in dictatorships but can be found in some democracies. A cult of personality is similar to general hero worship except that it is created specifically for political leaders. The development of photography, sound recording, film and mass production, as well as public education and techniques used in commercial advertising, enabled political leaders to project a positive image like never before. It was with these circumstances in the 20th century that the best-known personality cults arose.
Generally, personality cults are most common in regimes with totalitarian systems of government, that seek to radically alter or transform society according to revolutionary new ideas. Often, a single leader becomes associated with this revolutionary transformation, and comes to be treated as a benevolent "guide" for the nation, without whom the transformation to a better future cannot occur. This has been generally the justification for personality cults that arose in totalitarian societies of the 20th century, such as those of Joseph Stalin and Adolf Hitler. The criticism of personality cults often focuses on the regimes of Stalin, Hitler, Mao, Ceauşescu, Saddam Hussein, Kim Il-sung and his son Kim Jong-Il. During the peak of their regimes, these leaders were presented as god-like and infallible. Their portraits were hung in homes and public buildings, with artists and poets legally required to produce only works that glorified the leader.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

One Man's Meat...

“No man really knows about other human beings. The best he can do is to suppose that they are like himself.” - John Steinbeck (American Novelist)

This is so true in that I form opinions of others by virtue of my own self-perception, which is comprised of my perceptions of life, my individual moral and social codes and my overall cultural exposure. When I share my thoughts of someone else’s behavior whether it be a positive or a negative evaluation aren’t I merely sharing my opinion based on expectations derived from the above? What I know of someone else is so purely subjective. It is by this subjective process that I am tempted to label another’s behavior as good or bad, sane or crazy, brash or demur, overbearing or submissive, giving or self-centered and the list goes on.

When I deem someone else’s behavior as positive, it stands to reason that I see them as being in alignment with my own sense of self and my awareness of life. And, typically that is comfortable for me; they behave in a manner much like myself. But, when I deem someone else’s behavior as negative, their conduct is not in alignment with my perceptions and will most likely cause me to feel uneasy or afraid.

Now I am not saying that I must strive to make myself feel comfortable in all situations and with all types of human behavior. It is okay to know my limits of tolerance and set boundaries that will promote my own sense of well-being as it relates to my ability to remain functional. My point here is that for me learning not to label or judge is one of the toughest exercises brought to me. It takes me, myself and I out of the equation and allows all things and people to be as they are and to let others arrive at their own conclusion. And as the title suggests, I know all too well, that one man’s meat can be another man’s poison.

Say, did I ever tell you I don't like Caviar?

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

The Old Lady at Wal*Mart or OATS on the side

I was leaving Wal*Mart this morning and this little old, frail woman with several bags in her hands was standing by the exit asking people as they left if they were going downtown. As each one passed, they replied, "No, I'm not."

As I walked by her, my turn came to answer 'the' question. "Are you by chance going down town?" the old woman asked me.

I followed suit like all the ones before me, I recited the same words as if it were some required answer that would cause the exit doors to slide open. "No", I said and the doors parted and I was free to pass through into the daylight of the parking lot.

I headed for my car caught up in my own thoughts, “I hate my life” circled my mind like buzzards over a road kill. This seems to be the egocentrical place where I am currently stuck. As I neared my car, a new thought seared through my brain. I was so focused on hating my life that I wasn't paying attention to the activity going on in it. I had just been provided a moment of opportunity to do something different and I had turned it down. How dare I think I was unlike or somehow more deserving of some grand opportunity when I was no different than any of those passing the old woman each stuck in the tasks of their own agendas .

I loaded my groceries, started the car and head back up to Wal*Mart’s doors. She was still there. I watched for a moment as she undauntedly asked each one as they passed. “Excuse, me, are you going downtown?”

I walked up to her and asked her if she was looking for a ride. She grinned, “Yes, I am…and you know I am.” And beamed, “I’m a child of God and I can see so are you.”

“I know I am”, I repliedwith the ususal the banality that I am embarrassed to admit.

“Thank you Lord”, she grinned, “Bless you child. I want to tell you all about the Lord as we drive.”

“Oh, Lord” I thought and took her bags and said, “Well then, let’s be off”, wondering what the heck I got myself into. She seemed so frail and she shuffled to my car where I got her situated. I was going to put her bags in the rear but she wanted her bags on top of her. “I only get $625 a month and I don’t want to loose what the Lord gives me”, she informed me self-assuredly. She spoke with such expression.

On the way to her home, she told me how she used to be an RN and showed me her tattered nursing card, which she still carried in her wallet. I saw that her name was Margaret. She said, “Yes, Margaret Geist”, and pointed to her name on the card. I used to work at Ozark Medical Center for many years. She went on to tell that her husband used to be the sheriff but that he was passed away in “nineteen and eighty-three.” She said that one day she saw Jesus, he was on a ladder, and he told her, “Margaret, no one can hurt you now, you are married to me.”

I looked into her face in hopes of reading some painful history there but there was nothing but an impish old countenance full of joy. She asked me if she could sing for me and of course I told her yes, and then wondered why such a request would cause little pangs of discomfort to arise within me. She pointed me the way to her HUD apartment building all the way singing songs of praise that she said the Lord had given her to write. Each time she would get a word wrong, like a child, she would stop and start the song over.

When we arrived I helped her into the building by taking her hand and walking with her. By this time, she was reciting prophecies out of the book of Zechariah and as we passed persons who were obviously staff, they rolled their eyes and giggled at her. I helped her into her one room apartment and set her bags on her table. I commented on how clean and tidy her place was. “We can be dirt poor, but we’re never too dirt poor to be clean”, she quipped.

She said, “You know they’ve been trying to evict me for praising the Lord.” I let her continue. “But the evil one can’t get me. He came just the other day with the housing authority, and I invited him in for coffee.” She explained how she banished him. “In the name of Jesus, I banish thee from here to leave without harm.” These words seem to spring forth from her whole body. And then, in utter excitement she told me that the housing authority made a phone call and announced, “Lady, we can’t touch you with a ten-foot pole!” And this frail, shuffling lady, started jumping up and down and clapping like a school girl.

I told her I had to go but she insisted on showing me one last thing. It was a photo of George and Laura Bush, which was sitting next to her chair. The photo was signed, “Thank you Margaret Geist for your service overseas. Laura & George Bush.” I feel bad for not asking what that specifically meant because I was genuinely curious about her. But by the time I set the picture down she was telling me about the man in the yellow raincoat, wearing white gloves who had brought her home last time. He had a yellow hat on and she could see the white hair underneath. He had told her that love shall bring peace and that God shall work his good into all things. She said, “ I wanted him to look at that picture but when I turned around he had just vanished...poof.” And then she pointed to the chair sitting next to the table with the picture. It had a throw on it with angels and in the weave it had written, ‘For me and my house, we shall serve the Lord.’ Margaret explained that the man in the yellow coat was an angel and he had left that there. She insisted that the throw hadn't been there before he came. She had never seen it before and on $625 a month, she couldn't afford such a thing.

“Everyone thinks the man in the yellow coat didn’t exist, but how can I describe him if I never saw him?", she argued. I’ve seen him here and there since…a yellow raincoat and white gloves. "He’s an angel of the Lord, you know, and he watches over me. You’ll see him too if you still your heart and look for him. You are a child of God.”

There it was again…stilling my heart. Seems to be my life’s main topic at present. ‘Be still, be present in the moment and know that I am God.’ Okay, Lord, in that moment I stopped and chose to step out of my egocentrical life and dared to do something different and You speak to me through an eccentric lady…it is almost uncomfortable.

At any rate, I bid Margaret farewell, and shut the door behind me. As I walked down the hall, I could hear her voice booming from behind her closed door pronouncing, “Praise Jesus, Praise God, Praise all the things He does for us, Praise Jesus…” I couldn’t help but smile, they have their hands full that’s for sure, I wondered what will happen to her.

I passed back through the lobby and one of the staff members asked, “Do you know her?”

“No”, I replied.

“Then why did you pick her up?”, she asked as if it really befuddled her.

“Because it just seemed like the thing to do at the time. I answered and then grinned; “I can see you all have your hands full with her.”

To that she laughed. “But”, she inquired with a more serious look, “Would you ever pick her up again?”

“Yeah, I think so”, and I walked to my car and headed home.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

We're not there yet - Oh metropolitan areas...

This is what I my heart bleeds for...

A few months ago while in the veterinarian's office one of the vets who around my age came in ranting about Oprah. I asked why he didn't like Oprah fully expecting it to be some of her liberal platforms ... But he quite frankly told me it was because she was black. Wisdom told me to keep my mouth shut but my astonishment must have shown on my face as he immediately started reflecting out loud about how he has thought he had out grown this way of KKK mind set but he guessed he hadn't. Now just for reference, here we have an educated man who was raised around West Plains, who has fought alongside of blacks while serving his country in Vietnam. What struck me at the time was NOT the fact that he was so prejudiced but his, what seemed to me, reckless and blatant honesty about such a subject.

I have lived above Missouri's Highway 70 all my life. Although Missouri was a mix of pro-slave and anti-slave up to the end of the civil war, to me Hwy 70 is the state's imaginary Mason-Dixon line dividing northern mentality with its way of life that includes everyting from dress to its cuisine and coloquialisms from the southern part of the state with its lifestyle. A northerner might feel the same prejudice toward blacks as this vet but in 2008 would never voice it publicly especially to a person they hardly knew. The people in the northern part of the state seem, for the most part, to have advanced to accept today's social more on the subject of race. While the incident left me thinking, it was an isolated incident and so I filed it under 'interesting social aspects of a vet in southern Missouri' in my brain.

Yesterday, that file was opened again. A contracted worker, another younger southern Missouri/Arkansas homegrown, was here. We got on the subject of McCain/Palin. He seemed to be able to articulate intelligently about the ticket's platform and so it was no time at all before my husband and I settled into a comfortable converstion with him on the subject. What ensued surprised me.

He at first began to compare the differences in the republican and democratic platforms but sublty it shifted and I found myself mentally taking a walk down a old road somewhere else in time. He summed up the pros and cons of the two parties by saying that if the Democrats concern is that Palin is just one step away from being President, the Republicans should really be concerned about Biden's preparedness to lead because he WILL be president in a short time if Obama is elected.

Not understanding the brashness behind his statement, I inquired, "Why is that?"

"Obama is going to be offed." , he replied. "You don't think they are having their meetings right now, planning?"

I asked who, thinking only that there is a big chasm on issues between liberals and conservatives in this country, non of which, in my mind was fueled by race...oh, how naive I am.

"Why the Klan" he said.

There is was again...'The Klan'. What seemed to be an obsolete and dated icon was brought to my attention again.

He told me of his childhood in Zinc, Arkansas...not too far from West Plains. If a black family tried to move into the area, they were burned out (a tactic I have come to understand is still used over and over down here for a variety of reasons not just racial). He said that if they didn't leave they were popped off...after all they were just ni_ _ers. Now we're talking the late 1970's and early 80's. His voice did not carry the tones of anger or contempt but rather a benign tone like one might speak of ridding their fields of some noxious weed. There seems to be an unstable element of votality where there is an absence of shame.

"No, Obama won't last long if he's elected." he repeated.

I know there is a awful chance any public figure can be assassinated. But in 2008, my mind was having a hard time making sense of what this man was saying so matter-of-factly and nonchalantly. It was like I had stepped into a time machine. It seemed so surreal that I didn't feel anything but confusion.

I told him the story of the veterinarian's office and my roots in northern Missouri. I shared with him that my astonishment was the openness about black prejudice that people have down here...and added, "Who knows who they are talking to...I mean, I could be black for all you know." Thinking that in these times the anyone's uppermost concern would be not to inadvertently run rough shod over somebody's ethnic background. What a sheltered ding-dong I am.

This man raised his eyebrows and his eyes got as round as saucers but what I read in them was not horror that he might have misspoken but rather a surprise, a seed of suspicion. My husband saw this too and only half kiddingly chastised me later, "Geez, why did you say that? We'll probably get burned out now..."

We live in a very different place...and there are things that are very real and alive I've never been exposed to... and that frightens me on a new level.

I fear for Obama and his family...in such a new way. This concerns me more than Palin's daughter's pregnacy or any other trivial scandal.

Friday, September 5, 2008

Retract and Regroup

August 25th I posted the following. "The 2008 election consists in choosing between the disastrous and the unpalatable. "

I am having to rethink that quote.

A few months ago I read an article on what makes Obama and McCain tick. The writer used their hobbies as an illustration as to how they operate. Obama loves golf and the opportunities on the golf course to network and build relationships. McCain loves to gamble, and enjoys strategizing, and calculating to make winning situations.

I think I just realized the depth of that article when McCain introduced Sarah Palin as his running mate. He quietly calculated his next move in his campaign. I don't think anyone was expecting such a brilliant move. Besides the obvious that she is a woman, which is certainly a check move on this board, she is the epitome of a composure, wit, bravery, forthrightness, intelligence, and hometown American values...

If this is the way McCain strategizes and the astuteness of his moves, then this is the man I would want to lead in these conflicted times.
A thriving life means following your passions and dreams. But, as we so well know, life is a journey of ups and downs, of ons and offs, backwards and forwards whether physical, financial, or emotional. Developing relationships where sharing the ups as well as the downs of life with others who are supportive, and encouraging is the hallmark of a balanced life. One of the key ingredients for being supportive is empathy.

Empathy is, of course, the ability or the willingness to experience pain or distress from someone else's point of view. Most people learn the basics of empathy in childhood (from our parents nurturing us when we're in distress). Some people just have not been equipped with that skill because they themselves never experienced it growing up or they have buried their ability to be empathetic over the years in our now culture that focuses on self, accumulation of things, and a let's avoid anything unpleasant attitude over thoughtful reflection. Or possibly, empathy isn't in their life's tool bag because by feeling another's hurts is to feel their own, a scary prospect to many.

Not feeling heard or understood lends to a sense of aloneness. Empathy, I believe, is life's connective tissue. It’s why we cry at the movies or the theatre. It’s the ability to tell our story safely…share with each other what it is like to be imperfect humans. Even if you feel a friend, your husband, or family member is totally wrong about how they are perceiving their dilemma, if you try to see that problem from their point of view, and allowing them to be who they are right then (I am not talking abusive situations), you'll be able to get through that conflict without smoldering in the corner or ending the relationship. But, sometimes that is easier to write on paper than to practice if you’ve never done it before, don’t know how to do it or are afraid of doing it.

After many years of counseling, I have found these are the keys to developing empathy. Instead of telling people what they ought to do, or becoming tyrannically optimistic, offer sympathy, inquire about feelings, and then validate those feelings. Comments and inquiries such as, “Gosh, that’s terrible”, or “I can see why that hurt you”, is offering comfort to the other person, it is validating them as human, even if you yourself can't feel or understand what they're going through. These very simple responses make a person feel understood, and connected to humankind.

Most importantly, when they disclose their feelings in response to your comments, just listen, don’t give them your opinion or advice. Let them work through their thoughts and emotions…it’s their process not yours to caretake or control by issuing them a fix-it manual. Unempathetic responses such as "It could be worse"; "Why don’t you just … ", “Why worry about that?”, “The reason you are feeling this way is because…” , “You know what your problem it?”, "It's a shame you got yourself into...", or “You’re just too sensitive…”, might appear to you to be kind and aimed at soothing or helpful, but no matter how well-intentioned, these remarks are a rejection, a denial, of what the other person is going through. "They are code for “Don't confront me with things that are unpleasant”, “Don't bother me with your pain.” or worse, “You are really a dope”.

Developing empathy will sometimes require setting ‘self’ aside along with its opinions and rationalizations. No matter how valid or accurate you feel your opinions are sometimes they are better kept to yourself if maintaining a close relationship is your hope. The catch twenty-two to all of this is that often times hurts accumulate because you’ve never been told you have been hurtful. How fair is that...But, that is because the final insult of being treated with a lack of empathy is that the hurt person usually won’t complain right away. They move off to lick their wound. The hurt person sees that any complaint as to your lack of support might be construed as a whining, pathetic plea for sympathy, which might (and most probably) incur more remarks thrust at their character and which will cause more eroding of their sense of well-being; and so, the relationship is rutpured.

And so here we sit…pondering life’s struggles.

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment.
With this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. " -Shakespeare

Thursday, September 4, 2008

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Mainstream Christians, A Vehicle For Arrogance? …My innermost thoughts made public…

Mainstream Christians, most generally protestants, don’t seem to have gotten much further in spirituality than the Jewish Pharisees who Jesus so scorned. Their lives are dedicated to buildings they call ‘my church’ and a group of people they again call ‘my church’. They gather as pockets of Elitist groups scattered in a community, each smelling a little different, preaching the salvation of Christ but portraying pictures of judgment and condemnation…their disposition arrogant…their agenda their own need for self gratification, and corporate glorification.

These are the people who use the word church countless times in their conversations. “I go to church”, “… at my church”, "Oh, I have to go to church...", “You ought to go to church...”, “I was at my church...”, “Well, in my church”… that word 'church' seems to be a panacea for everything. It’s their badge for the world to see … it is a symbol of where they are mentally, it is their crutch that carries them limping through their life…they use the word ‘church’ like the angry, misguided and hurt use the word the 'F' word in every sentence… it is the panacea for thier hurt. It is their badge for the world to see…it says this is who I am mentally...it is a crutch that carries them limping through their life. It seems insane but they are both the same…their egos are screaming for the world to notice them. The former out of a need to be seen as and feel like they are upstanding and good, and the latter out of the need show their pain … both are egocentrical in nature.

Mainstream Christians generally play at spirituality, busily sawing through the air with their gestures of service. Boasting of church services, church programs, food baskets, and mission trips and for what? So they can go to bed at night their egos satiated, for now they certainly must be good in the eyes of God? Yes, just like the Jewish Pharisees, going to church and complying with all the conventions of the Christain Religion will lend to a sense of well-being. It is human nature to feel good about oneself when engaged in something meaningful and the church ideal feeds that sense of security that 'all is well with my soul'. Yes, when going about church service, it lends people a sense of their own worth and one has attained the highest status when deemed a 'good Christian' by peers. Don’t misunderstand, it is good to do things that are beneficial but that in itself is spiritual emptiness, it is spiritual counterfeit.

And to these people, I can envision Christ saying, “You’ve got it all wrong, this is not what I meant. You are so focused on your need to feel good about yourselves and creating a public image for display, you are so busy listening to yourselves and your empty teachings that you can’t hear or experience God.”

Sadly, the church is still the sham it was … it is a haven for power and arrogance…and all who don’t practice the rituals and conventions of church going, and who don’t saw through the air with church sponsored programs, baskets or mission trips are held with suspicion or worse dismissed altogether. They are blind to those who quietly live seeking the will of God, serving the needs to which they are directed without public notice or serving in ways that have no grand platform.

When the going gets tough and the rubber hits the road when you feel you’ve been wronged or you have wronged another do you, are you able, will you be able to follow the teachings of Christ or do you follow your ego? Do you want to set yourself aside in order to resolve a conflict or a hurt? Do you want to accept not understanding another way of thinking without judgment? Do you want to look for God in everything…even what you perceive as ugly or evil or doctrinally incorrect? Do you want to embrace the teachings of grace? Then seize each present moment as though you were Christ. Don't be so busy as not to notice what seems most insignificant. Look at the cashier, the waitress, the stranger you just passed. Look at them as human to human not at what function they are performing. Accept delays in plans, destroyed agendas as opportunities with God...don't talk, just listen and watch. Be brave enough to encourage resolution where there is conflict. Be open to listening where there's a difference of opinion - you may hear the voice of God. Resist condemnation when another doesn't fit your expectations for condemnation breeds contempt and destruction. Grace encourages healing. Be that smile of encouragement, that healing touch, that moment of acknowledgment, not that nail sticking out of a board.

For you who wants to take inventory and be aware of your personal shortcomings you have as a human without fear or blaming, for you who want to be brave enough to look in the mirror and admit to the pain and suffering your human ego has created, for you that want to look into yourself and confess to your part in a situation which has caused suffering, for you who want to be willing to lay down your ego for the sake of another, and for you who wants to understand that God is bigger than what you learned in Sunday School, that God is more than what is stated in your church's doctrine, that God can't be defined by what anyone ever learned in seminary, and operates in ways that your mind cannot conceive, here is the gate to the kingdom of God. Walk through, therein lies your spirituality.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Joseph and his father, Salvatore Guccione in the 1920's


Never would they have had luxuries such as this in Sicily.
This indeed was the land of opportunity.

Yes, We're Coming To America ...




This account is based on some research of the State and Federal naturalization archives and the Ellis Island Foundation archives but, mainly it is based on stories as they were told to me by my father and mother.

At the age of 29, my grandfather, Salvatore, left Alia, Sicily and headed for America and for prosperity. The little village of Alia is perched on the hills of the Palermo province in Sicily. According to immigration records, on August 28th 1905, Salvatore Guccione landed on the historic Ellis Island, the icon for liberty to most immigrants during that era, and he traveled west and settled in St. Louis where other extended family members were already living. He set about doing what he knew best, selling produce, which later would grow into a grocery store called Guccione’s Market. Around 1908, his wife and two children, Guiseppe and Francesca joined Salvatore in St. Louis. Although I can’t pin-point their exact date of immigration, (Guccione’s from Sicily are like Smiths in the U. S.) I believe this time-line is accurate. Within a year of immigration both children Guiseppa and Francesca died; Guiseppe of the flu and Francesca tragically by a streetcar.

On April 24th, 1910, my father was born, the first son born in America. He was now the eldest living child of Salvatore and Angelina and they registered his name as Joseph Bernard the English derivative of Guiseppe Bernardo after his deceased brother, although my grandmother always called him Guiseppe. Later they would have a daughter, Frances, who they named after her deceased sister, Francesca, and then two more sons, Antonino and Leonardo.

It does seem kind of like the 'Cinderella Syndrome' that my father, Joseph, being a son of immigrant parents was able to go to college and get his medical degree long before pell grants, work/study programs, grants to minority ethnic groups and the such were offered. But as the story goes Medical School was made possible because my grandmother’s tenacity toward saving money. Around 1918, my grandfather, Salvatore, took his eldest son, Joe, who was then about 7 or 8 years old and headed west to California (pictured above). He purchased some fertile ground for a vineyard and orchard. Salvatore was able to send his wife money from the profits and was able to borrow against the land to purchase more and more fertile California valley ground.

Back in St. Louis, Angelina, used the money her husband sent home to pay off their home, which housed their meager store downstairs. The rest she stuffed in her mattress. Was that a tenacity and prudence to save money? Personally, I think the fact that she spoke very broken English and was totally illiterate and remained so until her death in 1975 was the key factor in her not dealing with a bank. Remember Sicilians had a tendency to be suspicious of outsiders. So as any Sicilian peasant would do, she socked the hard cash away in the house.

When prohibition came along in 1920 that did not dampen the California business as my grandfather turned the wine business into a wholesale produce business, growing and selling. By this time he was making trips back and forth to California where he had employed extended family members to operate Guccione’s Wholesale Produce. Prosperity did seem to be heading for the Sal Guccione’s until 1929. It was the stock market crash and ensuing “Great Depression. The bank called in Sal’s notes on the California land and he was able to keep very little of this fertile ground.

But while so many lost their jobs, homes and became destitute, Salvatore and Angelina maintained. They owned their house, they owned their store and had a little extra income yet from California property and by such they sustained a meager cash flow and rode the waves of the Great Depression …all the while sleeping on hard cash stuffed in their mattress and god knows where else in their house.

Next will be - Joseph Bernard Guccione

Sigh...

The 2008 election consists in choosing between the disastrous and the unpalatable.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

In Reviewing A Legacy - Part I

I grew up in St. Louis and from its beginning the city has been known as a cultural hub. It was once one of the greatest interior ports on the Mississippi River. Long before it became politically correct, this city was saturated with cultural diversity. Then between 1870 and 1913 occurred the biggest influx of immigrants to the United States. Czechs, Polish, Italians, Sicilians, Greeks and Irish were the bulk of people immigrating. Records show that forty million Europeans emigrated overseas during that period with nearly two-thirds of that number coming to the United States. Most of them were seeking a mythical fortune to be found in America. Many of these hopeful immigrants made their way to St. Louis known for its wealth as an large trade center and opportunities for enterprise. Each of these ethnic groups brought with them the essence of their homelands and settled in little neighborhoods developing ethnic communities within this great city and when growing up these area neighborhoods were still known for their ethnic influences.

The Boring but Necessary Exposition

But lets talk heritage. My Sicilian heritage… Through out much of its history, Sicily has been considered a ripe location mostly because of its Mediterranean trade routes. It was throughout history a cultural crossroads. Sicily’s culture was influenced by many different cultures - Iberia, Tunisia, Northern Africa, Italy, and of course Greece. Although Sicily is a region of Italy today, until the Italian Unification after World War I, it was its own country known as the Kingdom of Sicily with the capital being in Palermo. The kingdom originally ruled over the island itself, some of southern Italy, and also Malta. To this day Sicilian people tend to most closely associate themselves not with the Italian but with the other cultures with which they share the most common history especially Greece since the centuries of Greek influence during the Greek colonization.

By the 1850’s Sicily had fallen to complete disorder and by the time of the Italian Unification, Sicily suffered one revolt after another causing the collapse of its economy that was followed by an unprecedented wave of emigration. There are many reasons why people decide to leave their homelands. Historically these reasons have been political, persecution, overcrowding, and/or poverty. In my estimation, the last reason, the collapse of the economy and subsequent widespread poverty, are no doubt the main reasons for the great "Italian diaspora”.

Needless to say, Sicily must have been a harsh place to live in the late 1800s and early 1900's. As with many hardships and prevalence of poverty, it seems there always comes alternative solutions for survival. And so, the Sicilian Mafia "Mafioso" evolved and served as a power structure made up of familial groups active not only in several illegal fields, but also tending to exercise sovereignty functions over specific jurisdictions that normally belonged to public authorities. The Mafioso became very much a part of Sicily’s economy and way of life.

Sicily was strongly Catholic, but in a strongly tribal sense rather than in an intellectual or theological sense, and many viewed the new Italian government, the Pope and papacy with suspicion. The friction between the Sicilian Catholics and the new Italian State of Unification gave peasants and townspeople reason to believe that cooperating with this new way was an anti-Catholic activity. Largely, Sicilians did not regard the Mafioso families as criminals but as role models and protectors, given that the government was suspect, the Pope issued mandates that were not traditional with their sense of Catholicism and neither the Pope or the new state of government appeared to offer grace or protection for the poor and weak. And like it or not, this attitude and value system came along with the Sicilians as they came to America.

Whether it was or is a prejudice or whether it was a barrier caused by language, even as late as the 1960's when I grew up in St. Louis, the northern Italians did not commingle with the Sicilians. The Sicilians, proud of their heritage, preferred to be referred to as Sicilianos and settled in the north part of St. Louis.

Although most Sicilians in Sicily now speak Italian as well as Sicilian, at the time of the great emigration to America most Sicilians spoke only Sicilian which is and still is an entirely separate language. While Sicilian is considered a romance language, contrary to what one might think it is not derived from Italian but rather a language developed by way of the many cultural influences Sicily experienced. It is comprised of Greek, Latin, Catalan, Spanish and Arabic. The Greek language influence remains strongly visible while the others less noticible. Please note the distinct differences in the language:

English – My heart is the victim, my breast is the altar
Italian – Il mio cuore è la vittima, il mio seno è l’altara
French - Mon coeur est la victime mon sein est l'autel
Sicilian - sacrifiziu lu cori, ara stu pettu.

(sourced directly from Arba Sicula Volume II, 1980)

Next will be The Gucciones come to America

Saturday, August 23, 2008

The Fish Story


The house was larger than most, I think you might have termed it a manor. The living room alone sported three full sized couches, with matching marble end and coffee tables. There was a cozy sitting area with wing-backed armchairs in front of the double fireplace. Given all this furniture, there was still ample space left in the room for guests to mill about and chit-chat with cocktail in hand or dance if the mood for the soiree was right. Above one sofa hung a mammoth ornate gold-filigreed mirror with two grotesquely chubby golden cherubs peering down. It was rather ‘over-the-top’ in my estimation and kind of creepy but most probably that came from the fact that this room had been strictly ‘verboten’ for most of my 16 years.

I walked into the house and threw the lights on in the equally spacious kitchen … it was well before my curfew and must have been around 11:30 p.m. or so. The house seemed quiet, only the humming of the matching copper toned refrigerator and freezer standing on the far wall could be heard. I assumed my parents had retired, but that was a guess as their room was all the way at the other end of the house. My mind drifted as I glanced about the room… I remembered the time I had tried to lunge our Dalmatian, Huckleberry, on a 8 foot leash in the center of this room, “Faster, faster you stupid bastard”, I ordered as he obligingly circled around me. I must have been 4 or 5 years old and my mother who was standing at the stove cooking was quite surprised at the epithet rolling off my tongue with such accuracy and force. I smiled; most of my early life and sense of being had developed in this room.

I had been gone all day with my boyfriend of the time. Setting my purse down, I noticed my neon barb fish darting round and round murky water in their small tank. “I should have cleaned it yesterday”, I thought. But, you know a teenager’s life on the weekend is consumed with a sort of a mental mantra, “people to see, places to go….” With a sense of responsibility toward the care of living creatures, I seized the moment and set about the task of cleaning the fish tank.

Now there was a method. I got out the industrial sized gallon pickle jar and set it on the counter next to the sink. I would have to spoon just enough of the murky fish tank water into it so that the fishies could be temporarily housed while I cleaned the tank. The metal ladle made a happy tinging sound on the mouth of the jar every time I added a ladleful of water to it. About ten ladlefuls later, the jar was three quarters full. Then came the delicate step of transferring the barbs from the tank to the jar. Oh they never wanted to be caught and netting them was quite the challenge even in the small tank. “Come here you…”, I coaxed as if they could hear me. One, two, three…done.

Next, I had to pour the water from the tank through a strainer so the gravel would not go down the disposal and busily I sprayed the gravel and tank with hot water full blast in the sink to loosen the algae and debris. I could hear the enormous hot water tank in the basement clinking away replenishing itself. I set the clean tank back on the counter and was about to put the gravel back in when all three barbs one after another, as if performing some rehearsed number, jumped out of the pickle jar landing in the sink. I stood shocked staring at my flip-flopping friends flip and flop right down the disposal drain. I reached down the drain, and each time I felt one flip-flop against my hand, I would jerk my hand out, shudder and the tiniest of screams would escape my mouth. Stereotypical of girls, I couldn’t seem to overcome the dread of handling fish out of water. This went on for about four or five more attempts to retrieve the poor dears. Suddenly the door to the kitchen opened and in came my dad clad in his traditional sleeping attire, striped pajama pants and a white-strapped tee shirt. “My hero”, my thoughts instantly relaxed. You see, there wasn’t anything my dad couldn’t do.

“What’s going on?” he asked calmly as he walked over to the sink and peered into it.

“I am cleaning the tank and my fish jumped out of the jar and they are in the disposal – can you help me?”

“Yeah, I’ll help you”, he matter-of-factly replied.

And with that, he calmly reached passed me, flipped on the disposal switch and in an instant the disposal spun to life erating the lives within. So shocked was I that I felt my hair stand on end. The charged energy in the air formed a silent but powerful scream, which flew into my mouth and landed hard in my stomach.

“There. You’re done. Now, go to bed”, was all that he said to me and he turned and left the kitchen. We never spoke of the incident; somehow I knew it would have been a futile endeavor.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Day Number 13

I haven't plucked my eyebrows in a week. When Terry does get home, I'll look like Charlton Heston. Or worse, I envision my arms becoming 6 inches longer and ambling through the timber smeared with mud to keep the ticks and chiggers at bay… in search of primal sustenance.

Once, my hopes and dreams were my sustenance … I would nurture them and grow them and they would bring forth fruit…they fed me, they hydrated me. I have entered another barren time in my life's journey… the soil for my dreams is sallow … the environment harsh drying hopes to dust. My only sense of connection is my husband. And now, I sit alone for even he is gone…I have been alone for 18,720 minutes, but who's counting. (me) If I remain sane, there'll be a shift ... the key is to remain sane.

But, I think I've gone past my limit of being alone. I can see why a recluse goes mad...I'm feeling that madness slip into my brain...a spiraling madness that comes from such a vacuous existence … my sense of purpose seems to be growing dim or I wonder, did I ever have a purpose. Surely I did ... my memories are vague, though. It seems I used to find joy in helping people find something new and exciting in themselves ... I think that is my essence ... God, it's like ."...where have all the flowers gone..." ?

My task today was to take out the garbage…now it’s done…what is there to the rest of the day? I watch the second hand make its way around the face of the clock … time is an interesting concept in infinity … I am aware of each present moment … they fade one by one like marching soldiers … leaving ghostlike footprints … little illusions that used to be the present… the past is merely a reflective void … nothing, nothing, nothing ... like the rhythm of the second hand…. 5,976 minutes until there is someone to share life with … nothing, nothing, nothing … except for the overuse of the ellipsis ...there's nothing, nothing, nothing ...

Thursday, August 21, 2008

God's Country







The Incongruency of Loneliness

Loneliness behaves oddly. It longs for a sense of connectedness with other humans and yet...



When it gets a good hold of me ... It's causes great difficulty to leave the house, days go by and I don't leave this cabin on the hill ...I must push myself to go out and just walk among others...to shop, go to the post office or bank ...



I'm there, out, amongst ... And it feels so good to speak and use my language out loud ... To converse, to smile, to see others...



Then I find myself back home, this cabin on the hill, feeling lonely...

But oddly, not wanting to leave again.

Hello Again, Hello


whimsicality
noun
1.
the trait of acting unpredictably and more from whim or caprice than from reason or judgment; "I despair at the flightiness and whimsicality of my thinking"