Dear Readers,
As Father’s Day is in the month of June, I want to pause, remember and applaud the accomplishments of my father and all the other young men who left their native Italy to sail across the Atlantic and pursued their dreams in “L’America”. I also want to repeat that I have always felt that although the accomplishments of our modern day astronauts and their trip to the moon is worthy of our admiration, their voyage was undertaken with the back-up of thousands, both in personnel, technology, and money.
To me the real pioneers of travel were our fathers and mothers and our grandparents who left their isolated and obscure villages to begin a journey to what was, for them, like another planet. To a world thousands of miles away, they set out with no money and the added burden of not being able to read or speak one of the world’s most difficult languages. The fact that we are literate, successful, and often bring Joy to the World represents an Old World dream fulfilled and honored.
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You Think English is Easy? Think again: How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same thing, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites? You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down. Up is a two-letter word with over ten meanings.
It’s easy to understand UP, meaning toward the sky or at the top of the list, but when we awaken in the morning, why do we wake UP? At a meeting, why does a topic come UP? Why do we speak UP and why are the officers UP for election and why it is UP to the secretary to write UP a report? We call UP our friends. And you can brighten UP a room, polish UP the silver, warm UP the leftovers and clean UP the kitchen. We lock UP the house and some guys fix UP the old car.
People stir UP trouble, line UP for tickets, work UP an appetite, and think UP excuses. To be dressed is one thing but to be dressed UP is special. A drain must be opened UP because it is stopped UP. We open UP a store in the morning but we close it UP at night. Read this: The bandage was wound around the wound.
The farm was used to produce produce. The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse. A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum. When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes. I did not object to the object. The insurance was invalid for the invalid. Upon seeing the tear in the painting, I shed a tear. I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.
They were too close to the door to close it. More English quicksand: It is Dear Cugino, unless he is a moose or a deer, The ant on the cake is not your aunt. You don’t have to be right handed to write a letter. You don’t have to ride a horse to get a hoarse throat. The party of four at the All You Can Eat Buffet ate enough for a party of eight. And remember: there is no egg in eggplant, ham in hamburger or apple in pineapple. Bravo!
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Vincenzo Ancona’s poem “Malidittu La Lingua” (Damned Language) was translated by Gaetano Cipolla, president of Arba Sicula, a Sicilian American organization whose principal objective is to preserve, study and promote the language and culture of Sicily. In 1990, a slim volume of Vincenzo Ancona’s poetry was published by Arba Sicula, accompanied by tapes recorded by Mr. Ancona himself.
I am printing a few excerpts from “Malidittu La Lingua” because I feel it will deepen your appreciation of accomplishments made by our fathers and grandfathers against American obstacles they first had to overcome.
Malidittu la lingua - Damned Language! by Vincenzo Ancona S’un mi la ‘nsignu sugnu ruvinatu, sta lingua ‘nglisi c’un sacciu parrari. Quantu malifiguri c’aiu pruvatu, sparti di chiddi ancora ch’e’ pruvari. Pi la me lingua sugnu un avvucatu, ma cui li mura pozzu ragiunari picchi sta maliditta lingua ‘nglisi e’ fatta di papocchi e mali ‘ntisi.
Translated by Gaetano Cipolla:
If I don’t soon learn English, I’ll be ruined. Damn this language I don’t know how to speak. So much embarrassment I have endured, not mentioning what else may be in store. In my own language I’m Cicero, but it’s like speaking to a stony wall when I speak English; this accursed tongue is made of scribblings, ciphers: it’s all wrong! I don’t know why! It must be destiny, These incidents keep happening to me. When I arrived here a long time ago, I found a job in a doll factory, And looking back on what the struggle cost me, I was quite lucky to have found this path.
I nearly learned doll-making as a trade, But ended up instead where brooms are made! In truth, the salary was rather low For binding brooms in front of a machine. But even though I earned a meager wage I felt as if my mother were a Queen. Accustomed as I was to such poor pay, I thought that here I’d won the lottery, But one day my back was wrenched with pain And when I felt my pain grow more intense I called a doctor out of common sense.
(In the Company Doctor’s office) “Forty two feet? How could that be?” that dumb Italian bastard answered me. “You’re talking, but you don’t know what you’re saying!” “I don’t know what I’m saying, you jackass, with the dumb questions that you keep asking me, I cannot understand my own Sicilian.
If I’m not wrong, you asked me just before “How big my feet, what size of shoes I wore.” “But no, what are you saying? Are we dumb?” that serpent with a tail then answered me. Meanwhile the other men began to laugh After the fellow told them of his wit. I wasn’t pleased, indeed, I nearly burst. I felt both rich and poor at the same time, And I thank God that then a foreman came Who understood my words and knew my name. And when he heard the reason for the quarrel,
He smilingly laid out the matter clearly. He said, “You two are speaking different languages. My friend, let me explain the mystery: That man was asking about your height, And not about the size of shoes you wear. This is the way they do things over here; They use the foot to measure. Is that clear?” I thought that he was talking about my feet. I just don’t understand how they do things. Isn’t the meter good geometry? Americans create obscurity When they insist on measuring with their feet”
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More Father’s Day thoughts: Mario Lanza’s son Damon Lanza (who died suddenly of heart attack August 16, 2008) assisted by long time family friend Bob Dolfi, was very active in keeping the memory of Mario Lanza alive and supported good works (www.mariolanza.com) and musical scholarships in his name. In the book, “Mario Lanza, una voce, un artista” written in Italian and English, the author, Eddy Lovaglio, asked Damon about the sad day his father (38) died in Rome Italy, October 7, 1959.
Damon replied, “I was 2 months shy of being a seven years old when my father died. I remember the day he died because the chauffer and our governess came to our school to pick us up and take us to the beach because there was so much turmoil at my home. The chauffer later brought us home and then took my mother to the hospital. Nonetheless, my experience in Italy was and will always be a fond memory as I remember playing outside our home and riding our bikes there.
I remember some very big parties and I will always remember my father telling us bedtime stories followed by a song. It was usually Guardian Angels. I remember when my father was filming For the First Time because during that time we spent about three months on the Isle of Capri, the picture’s primary location. I remember it being a very happy and enjoyable time for the whole family.”
When Betty died five months after Mario, the four orphaned children, Damon, Marc, Colleen, and Elisa were awarded to their paternal grandparents, Tony and Maria (Lanza) Cocozza. Tony, the father figure became very close to the children. He corrected their manners with a smile but was always firm. Maria would allow some ‘relapses’ now and then but always corrected them with love. They all lived in California. Tony died five years after Maria in May 1975.
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