Finding My History

Unlike some families who trace their American roots back centuries, my family has been in the United States less than 100 years. I’ve always felt slightly adrift and rootless, not quite American, but not European either. I couldn’t brag about our Mayflower ancestors or the relatives who fought in the Revolutionary and Civil Wars or go to cemeteries in the Midwest and research our family. And I didn’t own a desk handed down from Great-great-great Aunt Minnie who pioneered the West. I didn’t know what wars my ancestors fought or if they had any furniture worth passing down.
When an Australian cousin offered a tour to the Abruzzo region of Italy, where our family originated, my husband and I signed on. Our group included a Russian, five Australians, and my American cousin Kevin. The others traveled to Abruzzo to explore a part of Italy far from the tourist-entrenched areas. Kevin and I went to find our history.

Between 1901-1915, one million Abruzzo immigrants left Italy for North and South America. Most, like my grandparents, were illiterate peasants seeking a better life and future. Forced to assimilate into American culture, my grandparents didn’t pass on their language or many of their customs. They faced widespread prejudice and were given no concessions for their lack of English. Although my parents’ first language was Italian, they and their siblings were forced to learn English quickly. Now they no longer speak Italian and I never learned it. My Australian and Canadian cousins, equally proficient in Italian and English, are appalled that the American branch of the family doesn’t speak Italian. The relatives who immigrated to Canada and Australia were encouraged by those countries to merge their native culture and language with the customs of the new countries. American immigrants weren’t given that choice.

Until I saw Abruzzo, I never understood the sacrifice my grandparents made when they left the land of their ancestors. Rather than a barren land filled with poor farmers, as I envisioned, Abruzzo is rich in culture and history that goes back to pre-Roman times. Our family is from Chieti, which was an important city named Teatre during the Roman era. We are descended from the Marrucini, one of the Italic tribes that settled in Abruzzo thousands of years ago. I wasn’t so rootless after all.

As we hiked mountain trails to centuries-old monasteries, I tried to see the land through my ancestors’ eyes. Did they marvel at the mountains stretching to endless blue sky as hawks circled overhead? Did they breathe the clear air and find peace in the stillness? Did they seek counseling from the monks who carved monasteries into the cliffs? Were they serfs to the barons who inhabited the medieval castles scattered throughout Abruzzo? The astounding green vistas, the medieval cities with their winding streets, and the mountain foliage brought tears to my eyes. This was my heritage. And it was a good one.
While there, I bought a pair of silver earrings based on an ancient Abruzzo design purported to ward off the “evil eye.” Did my female ancestors wear this same type earring? Did they believe the earrings protected them from evil? Whenever I wear my earrings, I feel connected to all those women whose blood flows in my veins.

The amazing food brought me back to the family dinners of my childhood. My grandmothers included pasta with all meals, even Thanksgiving. Non-Italian friends were amused that we had pasta with turkey and all the trimmings. I couldn’t explain why. It was just something we did. My visit to Abruzzo answered this mystery. Italian tradition dictates four-course meals—antipasto, pasta, meat, and dolce (sweets). My grandparents and parents followed this tradition but they never explained it to their grandchildren and children.
While in Abruzzo, I visited the house where my grandfather was raised. It’s a little worse for wear after a few centuries, but family members still live there. How many Mayflower descendents have been living in the same house for centuries? As I explored the property, I wondered if my grandfather ran through the small family vineyard when he was a child. As a young man, did he gaze at these same mountains and dream of a faraway land that promised opportunities to all, even poor peasants?

The relatives we met welcomed us American cousins with drinks, food and warmth. We were family. They embraced us as if they’d always known us.
Home now, I no longer feel adrift and rootless. I know where I came from. I have a history and even an ancient tribe.

I saw the raw beauty of my ancestors’ land. I learned their traditions, ate their marvelous food and drank their amazing wine. I better understand the sacrifice my grandparents made when they left their families and heritage to forge a new history in the United States. As beautiful as Abruzzo is, and as warm and welcoming as my relatives there are, I am so grateful to my grandparents for giving me the opportunity to be an American. Finding my roots has led me to a greater love of my own country, the United States.