Trip to Sicily

 

Po Boy Views

By

Phil LaMancusa

Abide

Or

Exit

“You never listen, you just stay and stay; how can I miss you if you don’t go away” Dan Hicks

        Well, this is me, going off on a pilgrimage; I’m going far far away, and with her blessings. It’s a trip by planes, trains, buses and treks. I’m going to the wild mountains of Sicily, to a small town called San Piero Patti population 2,700 spread over miles and miles of wild terra firma. I’m going to find where my people came from.

        In the early days of the 1900s my twenty-five year old grandfather came and settled in a very unlikely place, Altoona Pa. He settled and then sent back to his village for a bride. His name was Filippo LaMancusa his bride (14 year old) Carmela Scaglione came and by the time she was nineteen had given birth to five children, one of whom was my father Giuseppe (Joseph). I could tell you stories; however, I only have 1,000 words to spend here.

        Debbie and I visited San Piero Patti about ten years ago; first you get to Italy, in our case Venice. Then you take the train to Rome and catch the train to Messina, Sicily (the train actually gets on a boat to get there). Then by train to a small town called Patti and then a bus up the mountain to San Piero Patti, which is even smaller.

        That area is amazing topographically with mountains, beaches, volcanoes (5 of them), winding roads, suicidal bus drivers and fields of olive trees. The people there eat spaghetti, drink strong espresso and wine, love gelato for breakfast and snack on pastries and pistachios; they are in no particular hurry to do much of anything. It’s as if they have no place to go and nothing to do, which is pretty much the case; I’m going to go over there to join them in these pursuits and personally test these allegations and the alligators. Allegedly, they’re big on street markets as well.

        Do I know what I’m doing? Not a clue. I just feel a pull, and when we were there, I felt a calm at-home-ness; possibly my ancestors watching over me. Do I speak the language? Very little Italian and absolutely no Sicilian which is a dialect of its own; the Sicilian dialect compared to the actual Italian language, as it was explained to me, is like someone from Possum Holler, Mississippi conversing with someone from the East End of London: same language, different dialects, see?

        Sicily is a gumbo of nationality profiles. As early as (and since) the eighth century BC, it has been continually occupied (yes occupied) by, in succession, Greeks, Phoenicians, Romans, Arabs, the descendants of Vikings (Normans) and then Spain before the unification of Italy in 1860.

        Any local history buff will be able to tell you of the impact that the Sicilians had on, the Louisiana in general and New Orleans specific, culture as far as cuisine and attitude. By way of fact, in the early 1900s what we know as the French Quarter was known as Little Palermo.

        What am I going to do in this hamlet for three straight weeks? I have no clue, maybe have gelato for breakfast, drink strong coffee, find a street market, a convenient café, learn the language, do some sketching, take some notes and possibly meet some distant cousins to commune with.

        Yes, I’m taking a sketch pad, a small journal and this little app that will let my English be translated into their Italian out loud (a two way, real time voice translator); pretty cool for a guy on his feet wandering the cobbled streets of a small Sicilian village looking like some noodge on the loose.

        According to my initial investigation a decade ago, it seems like a significant part of the population of San Piero Patti share the surname of my grandfather AND grandmother and I’ll be happy to track down some and stalk them.

        I cannot imagine what it must have been like for my grandparents to come five thousand miles to what they would have seen as a foreign country, not knowing the language or customs, raising a family in hard scrabble times (grandpa was a farmer), becoming citizens, sending their sons off to war and trying to make their way in this strange land. What could have possibly been their reasoning for doing that? A better life? An American Dream? Some definition of freedom?

        I gotta say here that our immigrants, legal or not, do not have it easy peasy lemon squeezy here; ask anybody anybody that has recent generational immigrants in their family; first, second or third generation removed. Hell, ask an immigrant! They take any employment available, work hard to make their way, raise and educate their kids, find healthcare and housing, save money, pay taxes and all they want is a fair shot at the American Dream. I cannot imagine how many are disillusioned making their way into this dysfunctional society and still dreaming of a better life then they left behind. Their kids must hate us, the ones who get made fun of at school, bullied on the street, taken advantage of in the marketplace and have to learn to protect themselves against those who, themselves, were once immigrants.

        I’m going back to Sicily to basically find out what is so great about America and to try to fathom why such a bucolic and picturesque village in the mountains was/is such a terrible place that it would prompt my grandparents to face an uncertain future and leave for distant shores where some giant green Siren statue of a woman called Liberty beckons with nebulous promises of prosperity and peace.