Being a Sicilian/Italian....in America...
Growing up Italian, I thought being Italian was pretty damn cool.
I don't remember anybody having to explain it to me.
I simply knew it.
Maybe it was the food.
Maybe it was the music.
Maybe it was the family.
Maybe it was the swagger.
Maybe it was the fact that we knew who we were.
I remember being proud.
And I learned something very early:
Pride was more than a word.
It was an identity.
It was belonging.
It was knowing where you came from.
But I also watched something happen.
The celebration of Italian identity slowly faded.
Those who wanted desperately to succeed often did exactly that.
They assimilated.
They became successful.
And eventually many simply became...
white.
The old cultural institutions weakened.
The churches weakened.
The Knights of Columbus and other paternal organizations lost their place in everyday life.
The community structures that once kept a culture alive began disappearing.
And I remember watching it happen.
I was young.
But I was watching.
I've always watched.
That may be one of the defining characteristics of my life.
I watched.
I listened.
I compared.
And I questioned.
People would say:
"Tony, why are you so serious?"
Maybe because I was trying to understand what everyone else seemed perfectly comfortable ignoring.
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