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I am enriched by thousands of years of culture.

My hands are those of the mason, the artist, the man of the soil.

My thoughts have been recounted in the annals of Rome, the poetry of Virgil, the creations of Dante, and the philosophy of Benedetto Croce.

I am an Italian-American, and from my ancient world, I first spanned the seas to the New World. I am Cristoforo Colombo.

I am Giovanne Caboto known in American History as John Cabot, discoverer of the mainland of North America.

I am Amerigo Vespucci, who gave my name to the New World, America

First to sail on the Great Lakes in 1679, founder of the territory that became the State of Illinois, colonizer of Louisiana and Arkansas, I am Enrico Tonti.

I am Filippo Mazzei friend of Thomas Jefferson, and my thesis on the equality of man was written into the Bill of Rights.

I am William Paca, signer of the Declaration of Independence.

I am an Italian-American; I financed the Northwest Expedition of George Rogers Clark and accompanied him through the lands that would become Ohio, Indiana, Wisconsin and Michigan. I am Colonel Francesco Vigo.

I mapped the Pacific from Mexico to Alaska and to the Philippines, I am Alessandro Malaspina.

I am Giacomo Belinimi, discoverer of the source of the Mississippi River in 1823.

I created the Dome of the United States Capitol. They call me the Michelangelo of America. I am Constantino Brumidi.

In 1904, I founded in San Francisco, the Bank of Italy now known as the Bank of America, the largest financial institution in the world, I am A.P. Giannini.

I am Enrico Fermi, father of nuclear science in America.

I am Steve Geppi, founder of Diamond Comics, the largest distributorship of comics on the planet.

I am the first enlisted man to earn the Medal of Honor in World War II; I am John Basilone of New Jersey.

I am an Italian-American.

I am the million strong who served in America’s armies and the tens of thousands whose names are enshrined in military cemeteries from Guadalcanal to the sands of Iwo Jima, the Rhine, we fought in Europe, the frozen hills of Korea to the steaming jungles of South East Asia and sailed on America’s war ships, flew America’s bombers and fighter planes against vicious enemies of freedom.

I am an Italian American

I am the steel maker in Pittsburgh, the grower in the Imperial Valley of California, the textile designer in Manhattan, the movie maker in Hollywood, the homemaker and the breadwinner in over 10,000 communities.

I am an American without stint or reservation, loving this land as only one who understands history, its agonies and its triumphs can love and serve it.

I will not be told that my contribution is any less nor my role not as worthy as that of any other American.

I will stand in support of this nation’s freedom and protect against all foes.

My heritage has dedicated me to this nation. I am proud of my heritage, and I shall remain worthy of it.

I am an Italian-American, and I love America.

- Send in by John Valasio

I am sure for most second generation Italian American children who grew up in the 30s, 40′s, 50′s & 60′s there was a definite distinction between us and them. We were Italians, everybody else, the Irish, the Germans, the Polish, they were Americans (medigans).

I was well into adulthood before I realized I was an American. I had been born American and lived here all my life, but Americans were people who ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on mushy white bread. I had no animosity towards them, it’s just I thought ours was the better way with our bread man, egg man, vegetable man (huckster), the chicken man, to name a few of the peddlers who came to our neighborhoods. We knew them, they knew us. Americans went to the A&P. It amazed me that some friends and classmates on Thanksgiving and Christmas ate only turkey with stuffing, potatoes, and cranberry sauce. We had turkey, but only after antipasto, soup, lasagna, meatballs and salad! In case someone came in who didn’t like turkey, we also had a roast of beef. Soon after we were eating fruits, nuts, pastries and homemade cookies sprinkled with little colored things. This is where you learned to eat a seven course meal between noon and four PM, how to handle hot chestnuts and put peaches in wine. Italians live a romance with food. Sundays we would wake up to the smell of garlic and onions frying in olive oil. We always had macaroni and gravy.

Sunday would not be Sunday without going to mass. Of course you couldn’t eat before mass because you had to fast before receiving communion. We knew when we got home we’d find meatballs frying, and nothing tasted better than newly cooked meatballs with crisp bread dipped into a pot of hot gravy (not sauce).

Another difference between them and us was we had gardens. Not just with flowers, but tomatoes, peppers, basil, lettuce and ‘cucuzza’. Everybody had a grapevine and fig tree. In the fall we drank homemade wine arguing over who made the best. Those gardens thrived because we had something our American friends didn’t seem to have.

We had Grandparents.

It’s not that they didn’t have grandparents. It’s just they didn’t live in the same house or street. We ate with our grandparents, and God forbid we didn’t visit them 3 times a week. I can still remember my grandfather telling us how he came to America when he was young, on the ‘boat.’ I’ll never forget the holidays when the relatives would gather at my grandparents’ house, the women in the kitchen, the men in the living room, the kids everywhere. I must have fifty cousins. My grandfather sat in the middle of it all drinking his wine he was so proud of his family and how well they had done.

When my grandparents died, things began to change. Family gatherings were fewer and something seemed to be missing. Although we did get together usually at my mother’s house, I always had the feeling grandma and grandpa were there. Its understandable things change. We all have families of our own and grandchildren of our own. Today we visit once in a while or meet at wakes or weddings. Other things have also changed. The old house

my grandparents bought is now covered with aluminum or vinyl siding. A green lawn covers the soil that grew the tomatoes. There was no one to cover the fig tree, so it died.

The holidays have changed. We still make family ’rounds’ but somehow things have become more formal. The great quantities of food we consumed, without any ill effects, are not good for us anymore. Too much starch, too much cholesterol, too many calories in the pastries.

The difference between ‘us’ and ‘them’ isn’t so easily defined anymore, and I guess that’s good.

My grandparents were Italian-Italians; my parents were Italian-Americans. I’m an American and proud of it, just as my grandparents would want me to be. We are all Americans now…the Irish, Germans, Polish, all U.S. citizens.

But somehow I still feel a little bit Italian. Call it culture…call it roots… I’m not sure what it is. All I do know is that my children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews, have been cheated out of a wonderful piece of our heritage.

- Submitted by: Vincent Luprazzi

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I’m from the Italian area of South Philly, and I was raised Italian.  Just look at one of my old yearbooks from catholic school; I’ll give you a $20 bill for every last name you can find that *doesn’t* end in a vowel.

We ate ravioli, manicotti, lasagna, and stuffed shells.  we had pepperoncinis, prosciutto, parmesan and provolone cheeses.  On the holidays we had scadole (escarole) soup and sicilian olives.  It was macaroni and meatballs every Wednesday and Sunday, and if mom was feeling fancy we had some braciole as well.  You can bet there were pig’s feet stewing in the bottom of the gravy to give it more flavor.  Our neighbors stopped by with a serving dish of eggplant parmesan or a large pot full of crabs and macaroni.  Family friends would bring over donuts or biscotti after dinner and we’d put a pot of coffee on.  We had roast pork and a glass of red wine every new year’s eve at midnight.  About the most American thing I ate growing up was peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

My grandparents, my godparents, my cousins all lived within a 2 block radius.  We had receptions for first holy communion and confirmation.  We played half-ball, chink, and fenway.  We didn’t spend our summer nights at the Jersey Shore, we spent them eating Italian water ice and soft pretzels while sitting on our step with a bunch of friends, while our parents sat on the step across the street and the old men and ladies sat in lawn chairs on the sidewalk.  Cars drove down the street, windows down, with Sinatra blasting on the stereo.

So — no, when you ask me, I’m not American.

I’m an Italian who happens to live in America.  and I’m damn proud of it.

in bocca al lupo,

- Submitted by: Johnny
http://thisisjohnny.posterous.com/

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First thing you have to know if there is one great distinct difference (in our minds anyway) between SAUCE and GRAVY.  The one major thing that makes sauce into gravy is the addition of meat.  Turkey gravy, beef gravy and chicken gravy are all called GRAVY because they are made with that specific meat.  Sauce is basically a tomato sauce cooked without the addition of meat as is the case with marinara sauce.
Traditional (in my family anyway) gravy was made with multiple meats.  Mom used to include meatballs made with Pork, Beef and Veal mix (Sometimes called meatloaf mix in the supermarket).   Then we had the Sausage which is my personal favorite.  To keep it real authentic use both hot and sweet sausage and put a toothpick through the hot sausage so you can easily tell the difference. Now here comes the one that gets all the medigans, the braciole (pronounced brajole/brazole).  Braciole is basically a thin flank steak seasoned and rolled.  Mom used to make it rolled around hard boiled eggs (YUMMY!) or mozzarella, or sometimes just rolled without anything.

So there you have it…. Next time someone from out of town asks you why you call sauce “gravy” feel free to point them here.

The first step to pitching pennies would be to find a nice open wall with a smooth pavement.  The game was played by pitching (or throwing underhand) your penny towards a wall one player per round.  The person with their penny closest to the wall got to keep all the pennies that were pitched.  A leaner was almost a guarenteed win, unless some smart ass knocked your penny down or got a leaner which was higher up the wall.  A leaner was a penny that leaned against the wall while standing on the pavement.

As I was growing up we played with nickels and even quarters.  By the time the 80′s rolled around,  you could not get anything for a penny anymore!

The game was played similar to hide and seek, but with a twist.  A strap or belt was hidden somewhere in a predetermined  neighborhood (ex. from 8th to 9th, Jackson to Wolf).  One of the kids was chosen to be it.  How they were chosen can be anywhere from a shootout, rock paper scissors or even age.  Whoever was it had to find the strap.  Once they found the strap then they had to find the other players.  When they found a player they can hit or swat them until they reached and tagged home base.  Home base could be a persons step, a telephone pole or whatever else a young childs imagination could come up with.

We are interested in anything that you would like to share including:

• The games you played.
• The food you ate (either cooked at home or a local eatery)
• Any special traditions.

ANYTHING THAT REMINDS YOU OF SOUTH PHILLY!! We hope to hear from you soon.

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Then the fun was to begin…

A person from the other team would come running full speed and yell out “Buck-Buck number one is coming”, then leapfrog onto the backs of the other team.  He then slid up as close as he could to the anchor so there was plenty of room for Buck-Buck numbers 2-5.  This went on until either all members were on the backs of the human chain or the chain collapsed.

If the chain did not collapse,  the captain of the chain gang (team bent over on the bottom) had to guess how many fingers were held up by the other teams captain.  He had three tries, and if he guessed correctly the teams would reverse sides and then the chain was formed by the team now on top.  If the answers were incorrect or if the chain collapsed the same team created another chain and the game started over from the beginning.

This game has been played in inner cities for years, at least since the 20′s or 30′s. My father passed it on to me somewhere along the line and I decided I have to pass it on as well. The basics of dead box is to get your beerie (basically a beer or soda cap) from one base or pocket to the next without landing in the dead box. Variations of the game have been played as well, but thats the beauty of being a kid. Some people can just make new rules. Here we will outline the making of a dead box court, beeries, and the rules of the game. I hope someone out there will make it for their kids and invite me over to play.

Making the Dead Box:
When making a dead box you may have to improvise. Use materials that work for the location and keep other peoples property in mind (not that we did when we were kids). In our case we usually played in the middle of a side street that did not have much traffic. We used white or silver spray paint and used the dead box for a whole summer. Other people used chalk and used the dead box for one day. All that is a non-issue, as long as the dead box gets made.

First you will start by making a large square or rectangle (your choice), if square, it should be approx 5-6 feet on each side. Next you will need to make a box in the center which is called the dead box. It is traditionally decorated with a skull and crossbones in the middle. Start in one corner and make a box and number it with the number 1. The object in numbering the boxes is to make the player shoot across the dead box and much as possible. So after creating the first box the second should be the exact opposite side or close to it. Look at the drawing to see how your finished dead box should look.

Preparing the Beeries:
Each person had their own tricks to make a good beery or cap. My favorite way was to get an old crayon and a penny. Place the penny in the beer cap and melt your crayon into the cap filling it to the top with melted wax. You can use different color crayons to make designs and swirls. This gave you your own personalized beery. Some people carved their names in the wax afterwards and other put old toy parts in the wax. Whatever your mind could think of was ok with the kids. If you won with a beery it was traditionally thought of as a lucky beery, so you would guard it with your life or barter it for another beery, money or candy.

Play:
Play was started when the person chosen to be first (a shoot-out, age, or threat of an ass kicking can determine who goes first) knelt or laid on the ground at the base or pocket labeled 1. He took his turn trying to shoot the beery by flicking it with his middle finger to the number 2 position. If he made it there he went again and tried for the next number, if he did not make it, the beery stayed put and the next player went. If you land in the dead box at any time you pick your beery up and start from 1 again. This went on until someone made it to the last base or number, then from there hit it into the dead box in the center. It was also legal to knock someone elses beery out of the box, causing them to pick their piece and pride up and go to the beginning to start all over.

Here is a picture to help you in making your dead box. Remember the beauty of these street games was that it can be changed on a whim. Dont be afraid to change it to your liking.

About five years or so ago (I was 27) me and one of my cousins (Scott Ladooooo) decided to make a dead box and show the neighborhood kids the game. They loved it, I was surprised at how they took to it. If nothing else came out of it at least we had a blast for a day. Here is a picture of one of the neighborhood kids playing dead box that day.

Playing Dead box on Cantrell Street