women

Ciao Nonna, So Long Grandma Connie

MAMMA’S DIARY – DIARIO DI MAMMA

Grandma Connie Di Costanzo - Nonna - Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

Grandma Connie shall never leave us. She shall dwell inside the hearts of her family for eternity.

What does freedom mean to you? As the child of immigrants, some of whom fled southern Italy in the wake and aftermath of fascism, it has always meant much to me. Still, I took it for granted in many ways. But in the last week as we bid farewell to my 88-year-old maternal grandmother Rosaria Concetta Di Costanzo, I could not help but realize that she never experienced the freedom America promised our family.

Born in New York to Italian immigrant parents, Grandma (as we called her) or Connie (as the world called her) was American for all intensive purposes. Because of her roots, however, she always had one foot in the Boot regardless of whether she wanted it there.

No one sacrificed more than she did, and she was quick to remind us of what she had given up whenever the opportunity arose. Her five sons often say she liked to complain. Often, I was the one charged with listening. Over time, I came to realize she was not complaining so much as she was regretting. In fact, it may have even been wishing out loud for different circumstances.

Unrequited Freedom

Hers was a life predetermined by men. She was able to go to work in her father’s store because her father allowed it. Those were good times for her, she told me. But they were short lived. Her world changed when Grandpa Rocco’s mother wrote Connie’s father asking for one of his two daughters to marry her son for an American green card. Connie was the only choice because her sister already had a steady boyfriend. It didn’t matter that Connie was falling for the neighbor boy or that she might not have wanted an Italian husband, and certainly not one she had never met.

Together, her father and she set out for Ischia, an island off the coast of Naples in Italy that is home of our ancestors. There, Connie met Rocco and his family. They were all gathered around a long table with a big pot of pasta at the center. My great grandmother turned to Connie and said, “Well, are you going to marry my son or not?” And Connie often told me how embarrassed she was to say no. So, she said yes. Within a few days, they married despite knowing literally nothing about the other besides family lineage.

The local nuns made Connie’s dress. My own father was 2 at the time and was probably sitting on the altar with the other kids in the town of Buonopane, Ischia. Back then, of course, my grandparents never could have imagined having a daughter, let alone my father as a son-in-law. That future was far too distant.

Connie’s own family – brothers, sister, mother – were all back home in the States. There it was; these were the first pangs of regret. She was always sad to have missed out on having an American wedding with her own people. Nostalgic for the life that was, she was disappointed she would no longer work. There was no denying that the thought of “what if” crossed her mind – what if she had said no to my great grandmother, what if she insisted on an American wedding back home, what if things had gone a different way.

Love Is Complicated

Her honeymoon was even more absurd by traditional American standards. She went to Venice with her father, a girlfriend, and the girlfriend’s father. They both had married boys from Ischia, who had to wait to come through Canada and the United States to get the green card squared away. Still, she had fond memories of that trip. It was her last hurrah.

In those first years of marriage, Connie had more sacrifices to make. She knew her new husband was in love with another woman back home in Italy. Yet, she had to help him become American. So, she did. She helped him learn English. Together they hit the pavement seeking a job for him. They kept a home and built it up. And she got pregnant with my mom, the first and only daughter. Grandpa Rocco was devastated to have had a daughter, my mother Regina. He was hoping for a son, and everyone knew of his disappointment. He would eventually get over it and loved my mother, and they had five sons after her. But Grandpa’s initial reaction drew Grandma ever closer to their only girl.

Of course, Connie also loved her sons immensely. Truly, she loved all her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren with utter devotion. In more recent years, she told me I was her favorite grandchild. She told my uncle he was the favorite child. She told my niece she was her favorite great grandchild. My husband believed he had a special bond with her because she stayed at our house for a couple of extended periods. My sister-in-law believed she held a special place in Grandma’s heart because the first time they met they spent an entire day baking together. We all believed we were No. 1 in her heart of hearts. But at one time or another everyone had been bestowed the title of favorite. The truth is we were all her favorites. We were her best friends. We were the best consolation prizes she ever could have received after giving up the life for which she wished.

Mothers Never Die

Now, we girls have a burden to bear. We – Connie’s daughter and four granddaughters and two great granddaughters – must seize our freedom in her honor. She never was able to fulfill her potential at a job outside the home. We can. She was never able to choose whether she wanted to marry or be single. We can. She never had the chance to pursue or experience romantic love. We can. She was never free to decide for herself. We can. Thanks to her, we will. No regrets for us.

That’s the thing about life. Sure, Connie’s path was never quite what she wanted. But, in the end, she would not have had it any other way. Sometimes, what we have not planned or dreamed or wished is the best thing to ever happen to us. Grandma would have said the way things went were God’s plan for her.

Three years ago, I stood with Grandma over my grandfather’s lifeless body. He had just taken his last breath surrounded by his eldest children – Uncle Gino and my mother – and my grandmother, cousin Morgan, and me. Grandma confided that in those days before he passed, when he was lucid, he would say, “Concetta, we made a nice family, a really nice family.” Indeed, they had. And they loved each other in their own way, in a way that endured. Their family was Grandma’s happiness. We were her everything.

While it’s true that pieces of us are now gone from this world, they remain in our hearts. Grandma always prayed hard for us. Perhaps, no one on Earth held as many Rosary beads as she. From now on, in every kind deed and warm embrace, we will live out her legacy. And I have no doubt that she will carry on as our guardian angel. A saint, who undoubtedly went straight to Heaven, she will look out for all her favorites. Always.    

Look at the Invisible Women on the International Day of the Girl

MAMMA’S DIARY – DIARIO DI MAMMA

Francesca Di Meglio © Photo by Antonio Gerenini

How ironic that today, Oct. 11, is the International Day of the Girl. This annual event is meant to bring attention to women’s issues and help women find their voices to lead the charge. In the days leading up to this day, Americans have once again had to face up to powerful men mistreating women. Actually, “mistreatment” is an overwhelming understatement.

This time the story was about Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein, who is caught on tape admitting to sexual assault. In addition, he has had numerous famous Hollywood actresses, staff, and others accuse him of sexual harassment and even rape. His disgusting behavior was a joke in Hollywood for years, and no one stood up for these women. Even the Manhattan district attorney and New York Police Department appear to have given him a pass.

Same Old Story

In the last year, we’ve seen this same story play out with numerous other wildly successful men, including Bill Cosby, Bill O’Reilly, and Roger Ailes. People get on TV and express outrage. They defend women with their words. Commentators applaud them and insist this is a turning point in history. Women are finally getting the respect they deserve.

But are we? For starters, where were these people when the abuse was actually happening? None of them knew? It’s suspect. Did any of them speak up to defend these women then? These same people continue to elect men – to the presidency no less – who allegedly abuse women. Now, both Democrats and Republicans have done this by voting for Bill Clinton and Donald Trump. Apparently, we can be bipartisan.

Women still earn less than men. We are not well represented in the halls of government. None of us have been elected president. The government just took away our easier access to birth control. It’s trying to take away other forms of women’s health care. We say we appreciate and respect mothers, but we don’t pay attention to anything they need. Child care costs are astronomical, and maternity leave might exist on paper but not necessarily in reality. I could go on. The bottom line is we all have blood on our hands.

See the Women All Around You

As I age, I’ve noticed that the real problem is no one hears or even sees the women all around them. Open your eyes to the invisible woman. She might be sitting right beside you. Somewhere along the way, the world decided it didn’t care what she had to say. No one gave credence to what she wanted to be. Everyone ignored her opinions, desires, and even needs.  Worst of all, some of the vile among us took advantage of her vulnerability. They abused her or at least showed apathy in the face of her plight. Now, she speaks but no words come out. She is me. She is you. She is every woman.

We tell our daughters to be strong. We emblazon “Girl Boss” across their chest. We host days such as this to empower our girls. But we fail to tell them the basics about what that really means and how challenging the struggle will actually be. The era of Mad Men never ended. The men just hid their behaviors and forced the women into secret shame.

Where It All Begins

Last weekend I was with my cousins’ children. Three of them are young women in their senior year of high school. We are sending them off to college in less than a year. It has me thinking about the turning points in a woman’s life, beginning with high school graduation.

I attended the George Washington University in Washington, D.C. more than 20 years ago now. Early on in my time there I recognized that the road for women was still steep and blocked at many turns. One of the first assignments I had for the college newspaper was to cover the annual Take Back the Night rally. This is when young women – and a few progressive men – march through the streets to draw attention to women’s issues. Specifically, they want to call out the domestic violence, sexual harassment and abuse, and rape that is still too pervasive in our culture. Those marches usually take place around this time of year.

When I Started to Disappear

On that fateful night in 1996, I listened to the stories of young women who experienced violence and rape. And I learned of the infamous shoe trees that lined a street of fraternity houses. The women said the shoes represented every time two fraternity brothers had sex with the same woman. The accusation lit a fire on campus that lasted pretty much the entire four years I studied there.

Men insisted the women were hysterical, even if some of them admitted the true meaning of the shoes. In continuing to report on the fraternities on campus, I experienced the intimidation of some of the fraternities firsthand. Members of the Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity met me at their door for an interview. They were certain to position themselves on the top of the steps and left me beneath them on a lower step. They were always in a group of two or three whenever they talked to me. They kept their arms folded and stood up to block my view and keep me beneath them.

You Can’t Knock Us Down

Already much larger than I was, the men seemed like giants. And then they would respond to my questions by accusing me of being the problem. They told me to stop writing about this. After all, the media is to blame for the fact that they reportedly had rigged their bedroom doors, so women who walked in could not get out.

At the time, regardless of the numerous violations against the fraternity and the fact that the university no longer recognized it as a formal group, the national office of SAE continued to support the young men. These are adults, who oversee the individual chapters. And they would not listen to young women or other adults running the George Washington University.

Back then, Bill Clinton was in the White House just a few blocks from our campus. He was taking advantage of his position of power to have sex with a young intern, not much older than I was. Soon, my friends and I with brown hair would be photographed on the off chance that one of us was Monica Lewinsky whenever we went to the Watergate to get groceries. For my internship, I had to stand in a line at a bookstore for hours to pick up the The Starr Report filled with sensational details of the President’s sexual affair. I began to lose faith.

How I Vanished

For years, I believed in the power of the pen. I thought uncovering these ugly truths would bring about change. That was more than 20 years ago. Nothing has changed. In fact, it might have gotten worse. In college, I started to morph into a ghost. You could still see me, but I was starting to disappear. As my heart grew, my voice became smaller. Fewer people paid attention to my words. I wasn’t used to it.

Then, I wed an Italian, who I love deeply. We have a relationship based on mutual respect. He loves me, too. We support each other’s pursuits, including career. But you have to compromise in a relationship. Unfortunately, the Italian-American culture is still imperfect. It’s a battle of the sexes in some instances. Once I put on a wedding ring, even fewer people cared what I had to say. What was left of my apparition was becoming fainter.

Motherhood As Silencer

Once I gave birth to a child – a miracle and perhaps the greatest physical feat anyone can accomplish – I completely disappeared once and for all. What’s crazier is that’s about the time your words come into focus. It’s the sweet spot when you understand the struggle of your mother and her mother and her mother. It’s the moment when your purpose becomes so significant that you almost can’t bear the weight on your shoulders. Becoming a mother is when you feel compelled to lift up your voice and  shove it out into the world. After all, nothing you’ve said or done up to this point has mattered so much.

It’s About to Get Noisy Up in Here

So, I spoke. I yelled. But all anyone heard was the muffled mutterings of a mother. Who cares what she thinks anyway? Yet, we are listening to disgusting men who put their hands on women without permission and hide behind their money and so-called achievements. We allow them to walk free after they perpetrated despicable crimes. They took away the sense of security and perhaps even the confidence of young women. Still, we put them in charge of our lives. We allow them to lead our children, our country.

We listened as President Donald Trump suggested he could grab a woman’s privates simply because he was rich and famous. It was the height of arrogance and inequality. Yet, we made him our President. Clearly, we still don’t even consider what mom thinks. She remains invisible. Oops, it looks like I’m speaking up again. I’M SCREAMING, IN FACT. Are you finally willing to listen?

Di Meglio is the author of Fun with the Family New Jersey (Globe Pequot Press, 2012). She also has written the Our Paesani column for ItaliansRus.com since 2003. You can follow the Italian Mamma on Facebook or Twitter @ItalianMamma10.

The Miseducation of the Girls of Southern Italy – What Needs to Change for Women

MAMMA’S DIARY – DIARIO DI MAMMA

OBSERVATIONS ON ISLAND LIFE

Shadow - Beach - Ischia Italy - Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

Women in southern Italy are still often in the shadow of men. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

OBSERVATIONS ON ISLAND LIFE

We must educate the girls of southern Italy. They are the daughters and granddaughters of the world’s hardest working women. Yet, they still live in a society that burdens them with beauty.

What do I mean? They still believe that a pretty face and good body are the ticket to success. No one ever warns them that youth is fleeting. They have no idea that one day that firm skin will wrinkle. The ass and breasts will sag. And the rich young men that once paid them attention won’t see them any longer.

This revelation will send them on a sad journey. They will seek plastic surgery they might not be able to afford. They will learn far too late that a bronzed body will not turn back time. All those anti-aging creams will do nothing but oil them up. By then they will have settled into the life of an Italian housewife. Nowadays that means doing everything at home – cooking, cleaning, endless hours of ironing, while also maintaining a full-time job.

All the while, they will look in the mirror hoping to see a change. Did they somehow slow things down? Are there fewer indications of their age? Will their husband walk in and see them again for the first time?

Never will they pay as much attention to a career. Never will they recognize they are worth far more than that pretty face they lost long ago. They will not value their brain or soul as much as they should. Other women will compete with them for attention. Most men will just keep their eyes fixed on the young; they fail to recognize what makes a woman a woman. And it ain’t their breasts.

As a college student, I gained independence. As a college graduate, I gained experience. It was never just about the career. It was about who I was growing into. I learned I have the power to galvanize teams and speak my mind out loud. In the thick of 9-11 in Manhattan, I found grit and the determination to always get home again. After three knee surgeries, I learned I could walk – even run – again. Through enormous waves of challenges, I had my soul to keep me afloat. What do these girls of southern Italy have in the end?

Many of them give away their sex and end up with a baby when they themselves are still babies. Others find themselves in the grips of eating disorders. Still others, confused about their sexuality, have nowhere to turn. Some of them end up settling for conformity rather than being true to themselves. While a few of the men set themselves free by going north and beyond, a rare few women do the same. When they do, it is a little miracle. But we need far more little miracles. It would be better if those miracles could happen right in the south – on the home front – for both girls and boys.

Still, what’s worse than their individual loss is what we lose as a society. We miss out on doctors, lawyers, leaders, game changers, life savers. That is about the saddest news I have had to face as I witness the miseducation of the girls of southern Italy. They are the future, and they hold the south’s salvation in their hands. If only they could see the beauty inside themselves and bring it out to help their little corner of the Earth.

Di Meglio is the author of Fun with the Family New Jersey (Globe Pequot Press, 2012). She also has written the Our Paesani column for ItaliansRus.com since 2003. You can follow the Italian Mamma on Facebook or Twitter @ItalianMamma10.

 

International Women’s Day – Celebrate Strong, Italian Women

MAMMA’S DIARY – DIARIO DI MAMMA

Women's Day - Di Meglio

Celebrate Italian Women

Today is International Women’s Day, which is a big deal in Italy and for Italian women. The country, including and perhaps especially men, honor Italian women by offering bouquets of yellow mimosa flowers and small gifts. And Italian women celebrate each other with girls’ nights and other get togethers. Recently, I even read about restaurants and shops offering freebies to women today.

Is it Italy’s version of a Hallmark holiday for Italian women? Perhaps, but its origins meant a lot more than that.

Despite Italy’s devotion, the history of International Women’s Day does not trace back to Italian women. Since the early 1900s, March 8 has been a day to celebrate women’s achievements and call for gender equality. The observance actually began in the United States, but Women’s Day hardly registers here anymore.

Back then, industrialization was bringing all sorts of new problems to the surface. The fast-paced changes to the workplace helped birth movements calling for participation of minorities, including women, in all facets of life. Women were beginning to find their way in what had been a white man’s world up to that point. (To read more about International Women’s Day history, click here.) Is it just me or does this all sound quite familiar?

What Makes Italian Women Awesome?

Truly, we should celebrate Italian women and all women regularly and not just one day per year. As regular readers know, I live in two worlds. One foot is firmly planted in the United States, and the other one often wiggles around in Italy. I know Italian women and Italian American women. I see myself as belonging to both groups, even though I’m more an Italian American. Today, though, I want to share what makes Italian women, who are living in Italy, exceptionally awesome:

 

  • Italian women are among the hardest workers.

  • More Italian women are working part- or full-time and more are seeking employment, according to a 2013 European Commission Report, “The current situation of gender equality in Italy –Country Profile.” I know for a fact that the women in southern Italy are the ones who carry the bulk of the burdens at home, too. They do the laundry, cooking, cleaning, and childcare often without any help from their husband or any other man in the household. If there’s a sick elderly person in the family, they are the ones to take care of him or her, too. (Sometimes, extended families live together or close by.) I have seen it with my own two eyes.

  • People have long labeled Italian women as super moms. 

    The Italian mamma or nonna (grandmother) is the stuff of legend. People have long seen her as the ideal matriarch, who knows how to cook like a gourmet chef, clean like she has a magic wand fit for perfection, and pamper everyone in the house. She’s affectionate, nurturing, loving, and every family member’s biggest cheerleader. And she always has fresh pasta and a Caprese cake on the table for Sunday lunch. Nowadays, she’s bringing home the bacon, too. The role of average Italian women, in fact, is remarkable when you think about it. Who else in this world does all that?

  • Italian women are sexy to boot.

    Looks don’t matter. Really, they don’t. But it doesn’t hurt if you have them, especially if they come with all those other skills (see above). And Italian women have a reputation for being friggin’ hot. I mean Sofia Loren, who is in her 80s, still gets attention for her timeless beauty. Looking good is a priority based on the idea of the bella figura, or beautiful figure, which refers to making a good first impression. Indeed, the sexiness of Italian women empowers them in the Homeland.

  • Italian women love with wild abandon. 

    Italian women are the heart of their family. They keep up traditions. They nurse wounds. They dote on the suffering, support the smart, and heal the down and out. They embrace you with all their might literally and figuratively. That’s the real reason Italian men can’t live without them.

  • Italian women have the best mentors.

    One of my grandmothers helped raise her family of origin after her mother died and then raised nine children of her own during World War II. Some of her babies died as toddlers, a devastating blow to anyone. She suffered in a patriarchal household that didn’t allow her to reach her full potential and forced her to stifle some of her own desires and needs. And when she was already in her 50s and her youngest son, my father, was 13, she moved to the United States from Italy. She barely knew anyone and could not speak the language. Such courage is unthinkable nowadays. There are many Italian women just like my nonna. They are all around me.

Di Meglio has written the Our Paesani column for ItaliansRus.com since 2003. You can follow the Italian Mamma on Facebook or Twitter @ItalianMamma10. For more handmade crafts and party gear, visit the Italian Mamma store on Etsy.

10 Affirmations for the Italian Mamma

DIARIO DI MAMMA 

Garlic in Hand - Di Meglio

Juggling garlic isn’t all Italian mammas have to do. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

Being Italian sure has its perks. The family, rich history, and culture of our ancestors is the very essence of the dolce vita others are always trying to capture. Admit it, if you’re not Italian and reading this, you’re jealous. “Everybody wants a piece of Italy,” says my Zio Tonino. Let’s face it, Zio Tonino is right. He’s always right (as you’re well aware if you have your own Zio Tonino, and if you don’t have one, you want one but you can’t have mine).

Zio Tonino notwithstanding, there are some serious challenges if you’re an Italian mamma. The dolce vita ain’t free, people. You have to put up with some merde (oh yeah, you read it right) as an Italian woman raising the next generation. For starters, over the years, studies have shown that Italian women are the hardest working in the world. They are working outside and inside the home, and I can attest to this after having lived in Italy for nearly a year (and frequently visiting for months at a time). The Italian mamme are rough and tumble and get the job done – from chauffeuring kids to dance lessons and soccer to whipping up feasts (three- to four-course meals) every single day for lunch to doing laundry like a boss and being an actual boss in the workplace.

The pressure can be overwhelming. These women need a little voice in their head to help them get through the day. But that little train chugging along saying, “I think I can” isn’t going to cut it with these ladies. Here are some customized affirmations for Italian mamme:

10. I will ignore whatever my mother-in-law said about my fat ass, inability to properly dress my children for the weather, or how I fail to properly please her son. Her son loves my ass. My children are not dying of pneumonia. And she doesn’t hear how I make her son holla’ in bed, grazieverymuch.

9. My meatballs are the best. My meatballs are the best. My meatballs are the best.

8. Failing to iron my husband’s shirts does not make me a lesser person.

7. Failing to iron sheets and underwear makes me a better person.

6. I’m as strong as Nonna. I’m as smart as Mamma. And I’m as hot as Sofia Loren.

5. Just because I can whip dough into deliciousness at home, doesn’t mean I can’t whip the business into shape, too.

4. My child will not be svatticato (lazy) or cattivo (bad). And my child will love mamma per sempre (forever).

3. My hands, which smell like bleach, lemon, and garlic, indeed define me as a hard worker, mother, wife, and matriarch.

2. No matter my age, my breasts are like melons from Tuscany.

1. I am Italiana, hear me rooooar.

Di Meglio has written the Our Paesani column for ItaliansRus.com since 2003. You can follow the Italian Mamma on Facebook or Twitter @ItalianMamma10.

Sweet Summer Weekends

Italian Mamma Weekend - Di Meglio

Italy offers lots of sweetness on the weekends. © Photos by Francesca Di Meglio

Weekends in August in Ischia, Italy can get pretty gloomy, at least for some of us. It’s the height of tourist season here, so the natives are busy hosting all the tourists. My husband has been working morning and night literally. When he is home, he sleeps. So, Baby Boy and I are pretty much on our own. The streets and beaches are littered with people, and all our friends are hard at work, too. So, we have been staying in. Still, home has its perks – delicious food (ordered in or made by the in-laws or me), making silly faces for iPhotoBooth pics, and the ability to iron all those white shirts that hubby needs for work. Ok, so the ironing wasn’t so much fun. But it certainly needs to be featured in a collage about an Italian mamma’s typical weekend. When in Rome Ischia…

Di Meglio is the writer of the Our Paesani column for ItaliansRus and the Newlyweds Expert for About.com. You can follow her on Twitter @ItalianMamma10.

 

 

Milestone Moments for Italian Mammas No. 1

Soccer Tee - Di Meglio

Baby Boy sports a soccer ball tee. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

That moment when you realize you are more soccer mom than soccer groupie. You’re watching the Italian national soccer team – a.k.a. hot men playing sport – and you realize they are too young for you to even fantasize about and you’re more interested in patting them on the head and giving them some pasta rather than patting them on the behind and giving ’em your…err, heart. Right. Heart. That’s it.

This is part of a series of brief blogs that will reflect on the pivotal, earth-shattering (and often hilarious) moments that most Italian mammas experience at some point or another. 

Di Meglio is the writer of the Our Paesani column for ItaliansRus and the Newlyweds Expert for About.com. You can follow her on Twitter @ItalianMamma10.

Where Did My Voice Go?

Gelato Frizzante at Via Napoli in EPCOT at Disney World - Di Meglio

My 3-year-old niece knows exactly what she wants. Why don’t I? © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

There was a time when I led my classmates in projects, spoke up about stuff I didn’t like, and told everyone I was the boss. For instance, at 4, I asked my father to play bank and told him he could be the teller, but I was the president. But ever since I finished college, I kind of feel like I’ve been silenced. I try to make my demands, but there is no one around to listen. When someone is around, I back off. Sometimes, I even feel as though I am a carpet for others to use for feet wiping and balance. I want to be fierce, but I don’t want to lose any work or piss off any P.T.A. parents or come off as difficult. What happened to the little girl with the big voice? She could come in handy right about now.

Lucky for me, my 3-year-old niece is reminding me of who I once was. We recently vacationed together at Walt Disney World in Orlando, Fla. And when a Disney bus stopped and it was time for us to get off, she exclaimed to a crowd of strangers, “Make room for the princess.” Needless to write, she was talking about herself. And when we ate at Via Napoli in EPCOT, she insisted I order her the adult-sized gelato frizzante, even though her kid’s meal came with a little ice cream sundae. When my gelato frizzante arrived, she grabbed it and said, “Thanks, Zia. This is what I ordered. Baby brother can have that other ice cream.” I loved her chutzpah, her pluck, the way she grabbed that gelato right out of my hands.

Throughout the trip, my mother was making comparisons between my niece and me and my son and my brother. Frankly, it is as though karma is biting us in the butt. We had a seriously bad case of sibling rivalry that only just recently died and now we’re raising each other. Go figure. Truly, my niece is perfectly suited to the Little Miss Bossy book my mother gave to me as a child. We’re kindred spirits. The only problem is that I was like that when I was a kid. Somewhere along the way, I lost that audaciousness. I don’t speak up nearly enough. I let other people tell me what to do – often. And I put up with stuff in my life that other people would never tolerate.

So, I find myself seeking the 3-year-old inside me, who would have told Nonno that he didn’t know how to make a nativity scene without me or would have grabbed that gelato frizzante without thinking twice. I’m not looking to be arrogant or bossy, and that’s not really what my niece is doing either. It’s about strength and confidence that far too many women lose along the way. I pray long and hard that my niece never loses that power, that belief that she is a princess for whom others need to get out of the way, that she deserves the gelato frizzante she ordered and more.

Di Meglio is the author of Fun with the Family New Jersey (Globe Pequot Press Travel, 2012) and the Newlyweds Expert for About.com.

Turning Into an Italian Mamma

Garlic - Di Meglio

The first sign of my transformation is the smell of garlic on my hands. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

After nearly five months in Italy, it has finally happened. I have officially turned into an Italian mamma or nonna or zia. Take your pick because the transformation for all of the above is the same. The first sign you are an Italian mamma or nonna or zia is the scent of your hands, which constantly smell of garlic and bleach. Sometimes, lemon gets in there, too. I first recognized this as the “perfume” of the Italian women in my family when I was a kid. No matter the time of day or the event (even at black-tie weddings), when my nonna or zie squeezed me hard, I caught a whiff of that garlic and bleach. At first, it made me gag, especially first thing in the morning. But now I associate the scent of garlic and bleach with admiration, strength, and most of all love.

Yesterday, in the shower, I noticed that I could not scrub enough. The garlic and bleach sticking to my skin wasn’t budging. The transformation is almost complete. Here are the other signs I’ve turned into an Italian mamma (or nonna or zia):

1. I wash my dishes with scalding hot water (by hand) every day. This one isn’t really my choice. We have no dishwasher in Italy. Still, I have a history of this behavior. One of my college roommates used to call me Teta (referencing her own grandmother) back when I was performing this trick at university. Listen, they just wouldn’t be clean without the suds and nearly boiling water. If my hands get red and the heat makes the garlic/bleach perfume stick, so be it. I also often wash clothes by hand, and this goes back to my college days and early 20s as well. I like pretty things, and they need to be cleaned, and sometimes the washing machine is your enemy. Oooh, did I just say that? Despite this, I will be kissing my dryer when I get home to the States because I HATE hanging clothes outside to dry and taking them inside to fold and folding them. (This and the fact that I don’t really iron might be a setback to the transformation.)

2. I cook everything from scratch. Again, this isn’t my choice. Here in Ischia, there are few shortcuts. There are no already-made pie crusts or Pillsbury biscuits that pop out of a carton and into the oven. And they don’t have the boxed cake mixes that I’ve often relied on in the States. So, I’m left with doing my cooking and baking the old-fashioned way. The good news is that everything tastes better, way better. Some things ended up being easier than I imagined. Chocolate and vanilla icing had always intimidated me and now I’ve made both with great success. I’ve had some failures, too, including my first attempt at cinnamon buns. But they became challenges that I worked hard to overcome. Eventually, I had success. Score for the Italian mamma!

3. While doing all this cleaning and cooking, I’ve worn a headscarf – close to a babushka – to keep my hair back, the sweat off my face, and as a preventative measure for headaches (my zia told me it would work, so there!). I think this says it all. I wore it with no shame and I really believe it prevents headaches, even though medical science repeatedly tells me that’s hogwash. Wait, this might be two signs I’ve entered Italian mamma-dom.

4. I have pope towels. Ok, this one also goes back some time. What are pope towels you ask? They are the kind of towels you reserve for when the pope is coming for a visit or that you use just for decoration and not for actual use. You don’t use these fancy towels for your average Giuseppe. I also have pope sheets, pope glasses, and pope espresso cups. I’m sure my collection of pope pieces will only grow over the years. When the collection is full, my transformation will be 100 percent complete. I wonder if some Italian nonna will then present me with a diploma that I could put on my resume.

Di Meglio is the author of Fun with the Family New Jersey (Globe Pequot Press Travel, 2012) and the Guide to Newlyweds for About.com.