It’s the little things…

Everyone Loves an Italian Grandma August 18, 2008

First things first. I am a pure-blooded Italian. There is no trace of any other ancestry in my blood. My father’s family comes from the Northern province of Friuli, and my mother’s family is from Salerno, near Naples. 

In an Italian family, the family comes first. Family takes priority over everything. It is not uncommon in an Italian family to have a grandparent or distant relative live with you and your immediate family.  In my case, the former is true. My maternal grandmother was speeding down to Lower Bucks Hospital from Paterson, NJ the second my mother went into induced labor with me. In fact, she arrived before I did.

Because my parents both worked full-time jobs (my father a family doctor, my mother working in Human Resources for Johnson and Johnson), my grandmother became the default babysitter and disciplinarian for my brother and me when we were growing up. Because family comes first, my brother and I were forbidden to disagree in her presence as children. Any form of altercation contributed to dismantling our family. However, this idea was nixed entirely when she would chase after us with a wooden spoon as a form of corporal punishment (and when I hid her spoon in the VCR, it was a spatula). 

My grandmother always taught my brother and me to live by the mantra, “If you have nothing nice to say, then don’t say nothing at all.” She would always try to get us to see the goo in all people. Ironically, it is a characteristic of all Italian grandmothers to say exactly what is on her mind, vetoing any form of tact. It is a raw, unplugged version of the truth in her eyes. As the matriarch of the family, she has inherited this God-given right, and no one else may have it.  She has even said herself on more than one occasion, “Grandma is always right.” God forbid any members of younger generations knock her, or anyone else. It is only her opinion that matters.

To not be Italian, and yet be accepted by an Italian family is among the world’s biggest achievements.  In the past, my cousin and I have brought significant others into the picture who stuck out like a sore thumb. Although the family tries to be accommodating, it still doesn’t feel entirely right. This must be a characteristic of all families of Mediterranean descent. Imagine, “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” without a happy ending. The purpose of this blog entry is to speak of one of those instances. Namely, a marriage.

My grandmother’s eldest son is the only one in the family to have been divorced, which is a big breach in Italian values. A few years after separating from his ex-wife, he remarried…in the Episcopal church. Italians typically raise their children to be strict Catholics. To convert to another faith ruptures the spiritual work of the parental figures in a person’s life. Needless to say, my grandmother was not pleased. The wedding was different. My uncle and his wife were married by a female pastor. In place of a white wedding gown was a peach pant-suit. My aunt Janice is a very kind-hearted person. However, she is what an Italian grandma calls mericana.  Literally, “American,” but when spoken by an Italian grandma, it means, “not Italian.” It’s equivalent to the Greek word “xenos,” which translates as “foreigner.” The clash between her and us is evident, but the family does its best to be accommodating.

Because I am in the process of moving into an apartment for the next academic year, I have been traveling to and from the place a few times a week, bringing up clothes, furniture, and the like. During a trip last week, my cousin and I drove to IKEA to buy a mattress, drove it up to Coopersburg to put it on my bed, and back to New Hope. It was quite a trek for the evening. We told Grandma we would be home late, probably past eleven o’clock. But because Italian mothers are controlling, she decides to call us every 40 minutes. My grandmother is notorious for obnoxious phone calls. We have spoken to her several times about it. However, as the matriarch of the family, she takes orders from no one, and stomps on the words of anyone who tries to tell her not to follow her instincts. 

Fast forward to this past Thursday/Friday. I spent my first night in the apartment in my own bed, Lynn and I discovered that I didn’t have hot water, he helped me put my dresser together, and I got a TV. I called my grandmother to tell her I was about to leave, a tradition in my family, so they know when to expect us. It takes me about an hour to get home from Coopersburg. Because of traffic, it sometimes takes an extra ten minutes or so. It happened to take me a little extra time on Friday night to get home. Everything seemed to be fine. Grandma, my uncle, and my aunt were all watching something on TV in the living room. The next day, I got an ear full. Apparently, grandma was worried because an hour had passed and I wasn’t home. She reached for the phone to call me, and informed my aunt and uncle that she was about to do so. Apparently, my aunt squawked, “Don’t call him! What are you calling him for?” To which grandma responded, “Because he’s my grandson, and he called me an hour ago, and he should be home by now.” After that, she was too self-conscious to call me in front of her, and apparently didn’t speak to my aunt for the rest of the evening. 

My uncle’s wife has been the topic of conversation for three days now. Grandma has unleashed the raw, unplugged feelings about her. In the past, she has done so in smaller doses, but this has tipped her over the edge. In the past 72 hours, she has pointed out multiple times how my aunt has gained weight, she wears clothes that don’t fit her, freeloads off of us, becomes antisocial when she comes over by sitting in the living room and reading the newspaper. “Doesn’t she get her own newspaper?!” she asks. She wonders what my uncle saw in her that inspired him to marry her. My uncle and aunt are content with each other, isn’t that all that matters? Not according to grandma.

I hope I haven’t made anyone think that Italian families are more like cults. I understand, I don’t fit the mold either. I’m homosexual. I don’t agree with Catholicism. I’m studying theatre. I have a Y-chromosome and I like to cook. I wonder sometimes, will grandma ever totally accept me? At the age of 84, when it’s virtually impossible for an Italian grandma to broaden her horizons, I suppose tolerance will have to do. I guess it’s also the fact that my grandmother is never happy unless she has something to complain about. That must be it. So as I sit here in the kitchen (the heart of the Italian home), and grandma is fiddling around, when she scolds my grocery choices yesterday, “I hate San Giorgio macaroni!” It is quite hard to take this woman seriously.

I also wonder sometimes, why does she still live with us? My brother and I are both in college. Even though she’s spunky, her health is in decline. She’s had numerous heart surgeries in her lifetime, possibly coming from her miscalculating her medicinal dosages. Since then we’ve had to hide her pill caddies, to prevent any other mishaps. Since she rarely leaves the house, we think she’s got a case of cabin fever, which probably contributes to her short-term memory loss. I have told her maybe seventeen times this summer that I don’t like watermelon, and she is so surprised every time.

Italian families stick together. We only put our elders in nursing homes if something is beyond our control. My father’s mother was in a wheelchair with dementia from a series of strokes. For her, we had no other choice. After our elders take care of us, then we take care of them. It’s only a symbol of gratitude.

So while we have her here and now, we put up with her matriarchal status, and her comments that make the world go round. Next time I go shopping, I’ll make sure to get Barilla.