Yes, I have been thinking about my father’s father a lot today, but this is nothing new. I actually think about him every day… of all my grandparents, actually.
There are many incidents that I could recall about him, incidents in my own life and those that have been told to me by family members. Perhaps some day I will put all these down in writing, but today I just wanted to note a few facts.
He was born on 25 November 1893 in Acerra, the first-born of Domenico Boenzi and Rosa Cantore. He was named for his father’s father: Giuseppe Boenzi. This grandfather of his was called an industrialist, but what kind of industry could he have promoted in Acerra during the decades following the fall of the Bourbon monarchy and the unification of Italy? There were no industries as we have come to think of them, with mass production of heavy goods, not in this area of Italy at that time. There were, however, cottage industries. This was what could properly be called manufacturing, that is, hand-made goods. What goods? Anything from clothing to shoes to hats, to small furnishings… but we do not know. The fact is, our Giuseppe was cut off from the Boenzi family almost immediately, for his own father Domenico died on 4 July 1894, leaving Peppino orphaned of his father before his first birthday. Thus, he was raised by his mother’s family, and came to be known as Giuseppe Cantore, rather than Boenzi.
There are many details to tell, but I will fast-forward to 1951 when my grandfather came to California from Illinois to spend some time with us. My impressions are more visual and sensory than logical: I remember his white hair, similar in cut to my father’s black hair; his cigar; his deep voice and punctuated comments; his habit of kissing us on both cheeks or tricking us into a kiss when we were giving a hug.
The following summer my father took us to Chicago. I was not yet three-years old then, and again my memory centers more on highlights than on substance. I remember the long drive and various stops before we finally arrived in the city of my parents’ birth. We visited a whole collection of relatives on both sides of the family, but very memorable were the days we spent at the Boenzi home in Berwyn, Illinois. It is memorable because it was the first time that I ever had seen stairs… and I fell down those stairs at least four times.
This is when I met my grandmother, but of course my grandfather was a known quantity. I can remember his gruff voice but and his kind eyes behind those wire-rim glasses. When he spoke to me, it was in Neapolitan, and although I thought that I never learned the language, whenever he spoke to me, I understood… not just that summer, but into my teens.
One year later, in 1953, he drove out to Los Angeles and spent a few weeks with us. He looked for a home and bought one on Denker Street. Then my grandmother came from Chicago and they moved in. For the rest of her life she would speak of Chicago, but he seemed to like Los Angeles just fine. He was turning 60 and got a job in the garment district, working as a tailor for another 15 years.
These are all facts that underline the memories. I was not thinking of my grandfather in these terms, however. I was remembering him as the hard worker that he always was -- as the family man, the professional tailor, the artist. I was thinking of the Sunday dinners with all the grandparents and how he, more than others, were interested in the news, the politics, the church, the sermons (even if he did not go to church on Sunday, he wanted to hear what the sermon had been about), the trade unions and international affairs. He would usually begin speaking in English and then switch into Neapolitan until he realized that the non-Italian spouses of my aunts and uncles were trying to keep up with the conversation. Then he would blush, and immediately switch back to English.
It was a struggle. Often I heard him say at the end of a statement: “I don’t know if I made myself understood?” My grandfather Boenzi was very self-conscious that he did not have a command of the English language even after 50 years of living in the United States. “I wish that I could express myself,” he would often repeat, with a bit of desperation sounding in his voice.
At the time I thought that he was doing just fine. It was not until I moved to Italy at age 25 that I realized how much I myself wanted to say but was incapable of doing so because I lacked the words, or the proper grammar that would zing my points into the perspective that I wanted to present. Of course, now I am here in Italy for many years -- a reverse of my grandparents’ experience, but perhaps more similar than not. During these weeks as I teach courses or attend meetings of the faculty, or engage in similar experiences such as the symposium on this weekend: yes! I get my point across, but how I wish I could say it better, or in a way that people would not be distracted by the California cadence of my diction.
This is what brings Peppe Cantore to mind. He died in Bellflower on 18 April 1978, but I am still reliving many of his experiences, and wondering at the world the way it seemed to me that he did -- now from behind my wire-rim glasses. He actually understood more than he could articulate, although perhaps I am the opposite and articulate more than what I understand. Sill, I see his eyes and hear his voice play back certain phrases in my head. I can still hear his Neapolitan cadenced English exclaim: “I weesh dat I cuud espressa myself!” And I think, yeah, you and me, papa: you and me!
There are many incidents that I could recall about him, incidents in my own life and those that have been told to me by family members. Perhaps some day I will put all these down in writing, but today I just wanted to note a few facts.
He was born on 25 November 1893 in Acerra, the first-born of Domenico Boenzi and Rosa Cantore. He was named for his father’s father: Giuseppe Boenzi. This grandfather of his was called an industrialist, but what kind of industry could he have promoted in Acerra during the decades following the fall of the Bourbon monarchy and the unification of Italy? There were no industries as we have come to think of them, with mass production of heavy goods, not in this area of Italy at that time. There were, however, cottage industries. This was what could properly be called manufacturing, that is, hand-made goods. What goods? Anything from clothing to shoes to hats, to small furnishings… but we do not know. The fact is, our Giuseppe was cut off from the Boenzi family almost immediately, for his own father Domenico died on 4 July 1894, leaving Peppino orphaned of his father before his first birthday. Thus, he was raised by his mother’s family, and came to be known as Giuseppe Cantore, rather than Boenzi.
There are many details to tell, but I will fast-forward to 1951 when my grandfather came to California from Illinois to spend some time with us. My impressions are more visual and sensory than logical: I remember his white hair, similar in cut to my father’s black hair; his cigar; his deep voice and punctuated comments; his habit of kissing us on both cheeks or tricking us into a kiss when we were giving a hug.
 |
| Grandfather holds me and my mother holds my brother Sal 1951 |
One year later, in 1953, he drove out to Los Angeles and spent a few weeks with us. He looked for a home and bought one on Denker Street. Then my grandmother came from Chicago and they moved in. For the rest of her life she would speak of Chicago, but he seemed to like Los Angeles just fine. He was turning 60 and got a job in the garment district, working as a tailor for another 15 years.
 |
| Giuseppina & Giuseppe Boenzi in L.A. 1954 |
It was a struggle. Often I heard him say at the end of a statement: “I don’t know if I made myself understood?” My grandfather Boenzi was very self-conscious that he did not have a command of the English language even after 50 years of living in the United States. “I wish that I could express myself,” he would often repeat, with a bit of desperation sounding in his voice.
At the time I thought that he was doing just fine. It was not until I moved to Italy at age 25 that I realized how much I myself wanted to say but was incapable of doing so because I lacked the words, or the proper grammar that would zing my points into the perspective that I wanted to present. Of course, now I am here in Italy for many years -- a reverse of my grandparents’ experience, but perhaps more similar than not. During these weeks as I teach courses or attend meetings of the faculty, or engage in similar experiences such as the symposium on this weekend: yes! I get my point across, but how I wish I could say it better, or in a way that people would not be distracted by the California cadence of my diction.
This is what brings Peppe Cantore to mind. He died in Bellflower on 18 April 1978, but I am still reliving many of his experiences, and wondering at the world the way it seemed to me that he did -- now from behind my wire-rim glasses. He actually understood more than he could articulate, although perhaps I am the opposite and articulate more than what I understand. Sill, I see his eyes and hear his voice play back certain phrases in my head. I can still hear his Neapolitan cadenced English exclaim: “I weesh dat I cuud espressa myself!” And I think, yeah, you and me, papa: you and me!
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