Growing up Italian- Two Doors and a Key, My Journey back to my Roots

 Growing Up Italian- Two Doors and a Key

My Journey Back to my Roots

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My father lived in the small room at back of house

The house they moved into

My Mother's house where she was born and raised

My parents took us back to Italy several times as children. My first visit was when I was three years old. I remember bits and pieces of those visits such as my cousin's First Communion and the festivities and the food! So much food. We would stay at my paternal Nonno and Nonna's house in the tiny village of Supino that is located in the Lazio region  about a few hours drive from Rome. It is nestled in the valley surrounded by the Lepinni mountains and hills. My father was born in a tiny space at the back of a house and it is where he lived. Later, after my father immigrated to Canada, my Nonni were able to move into another house right next door and that is where I stayed when we would visit. It had one bedroom, one bathroom and a kitchen. There was no electricity and no running water. Heat and cooking were from a hearth in the kitchen. I remember my Nonno butchering a chicken and my Nonna roasting it for dinner over the open fire. The smell of rosemary, garlic and olive oil is a smell that has stayed with me and still has the power to transport me right back to that tiny house. Unfortunately so does the vision of that poor, headless chicken running around.

They had large barrels on the side of the house to catch the rain and in the mornings I would run out to get a bucket of water to wash myself. It rained a great deal at night keeping the hills and vegetation lush and green. I loved these visits to Italy. I made friends with my first cousins and played with them until late into the night. Everyone lived close by (they still do) and I would cry when it was time to go home. The doors were always open and people came and went. There was always coffee brewing, a brio chinotto for the kids and lively conversation. 

My mother's childhood home is on the outskirts of town and it had not been lived in since my Nonna fell ill and went to live with her son. My mother has 9 siblings and 5 remained in Italy. I love that house. We would go to visit it often. 

We travelled to Italy a few more times after that visit and then we stopped going as a family. My paternal Grandparents and my maternal Grandmother passed away and my parents would return several times after that but we stayed home. Finances, part time jobs, school and friends took us away from our roots. My childhood memories of Italy are wonderful but as I got older and life got busier with school, a career, marriage and children I found that I didn't have interest nor time to return to Italy. 

The idea began to take hold again when my oldest daughter was in Grade 4 and had begun a project on Ancient Roman Civilization. Her interest in Rome and questions about my upbringing gave me the push I needed to book a trip with her. So after 20 some years of not seeing Italy, I returned. I did not realize it at that time what an impact this trip would have on my returning back to my roots. It was the beginning of an awakening of who I am and where I came from. It not only became a visit to reunite with family but it became a spiritual journey that I was not even aware that I was in  need of. 

This journey began with a key and a door.

Growing up I would often look through my parent's wedding album. Their story fascinated me. I was mesmerized by a photo of my mom and family standing on the steps of her childhood home on her wedding day. She is at the front with her brother Roberto and my father is directly behind her. That photo was truly worth a thousand words as it was the beginning of my fascination with doors. I especially love old doors. I have to touch them, feel the wood under my hands and in my mind I imagine what life must have been like behind those doors. I would  say to my daughter "If doors could talk, they would have so many stories to tell". That is how I felt on that trip back to my roots. I knew that I wanted to go back to my mother's house and go through that door. So my Zio Roberto took me. It was old and rickety and we could only enter the tiny little front of the house. I imagined 12 people (and livestock) living in this small house and the stories my mother shared with me about her upbringing sprang to life before me. I could envision them scared and hungry as they survived WWII and I imagined my mom making pasta out of water and flour at the young age of 7. 

I began to cry as I often did on that trip. It was humbling and it was powerful. As we left my Zio handed me a key, it was the key to the front door. I cherish that key. That key is a symbol of my unlocking the door to my heritage and the heritage of my children. 

I was reunited with all of my cousins and met their children. I hugged my childhood friend and cousinMaria and I felt like I had never left. I think that is what struck me the most is how welcoming everyone was. I realized that I have two first cousins who could be my identical twins and that was a strange but wonderful feeling. I met people as we walked the neighbourhood and they all stopped to talk. On one of those walks a man about my age stopped and asked me if I was Rocco's daughter. He then told me that he is named Rocco  after my father, his Godfather. He immediately teared up as did I. He hugged me and invited us to his house to meet his family and share stories of my father. My daughter asked me then why everyone is always crying. The emotions were so raw.

With each encounter, each shared meal and each conversation I fell more and more in love with Italy and I knew that this would not be my last visit.

I have been back several times since then. I am welcomed with open arms and feel an incredible sense of joy and peace when I am there amongst my family listening to their stories of times past, sharing meals and laughter. 

I hope to get back there again soon as I miss it and I miss my family. 

Scritto con amore,

Elena 💜