The Anarchist Bastard

Joanna Clapps Herman

Description

Finalist for the 2011 ForeWord Book of the Year in the Autobiography/Memoir Category

"I was born in 1944, but raised in the twelfth century." With that, Joanna Clapps Herman neatly describes the two worlds she inhabited while growing up as the child of Italian American immigrants in Waterbury, Connecticut, a place embedded with values closer to Homer's Greece than to Anglo-American New England, where the ethic of hospitality was and still is more Middle Eastern and North African than Anglo-European, and where the pageantry and ritual were more pagan Mediterranean than Western Christian. It was also a place where a stuffed monkey wearing a fedora sat and continues to sit on her grandmother's piano, and a place where, when the donkey got stubborn and wouldn't plow the field, her grandfather bit the animal in a fury. In essays filled with wry humor and affectionate yet probing insights, Herman maps and makes palpable the very particular details of this culture—its pride and its shame, its profound loyalty and its Byzantine betrayals.
Acknowledgments
With and Without Words: An Introduction

I. HOMER IN WATERBURY: The Backdrop

My Homer

II. THE UNSAYABLE:The Clapps Family

Peter and His Brothers

Paulie e ’u Gagaron’

My Father Telling Stories

Oak Street

Scialababola

Canio Becomes a Citizen

The Aviglianese Society

Mammanonna

Rocco Lauro and the Sausage

Local Politics

The Boys

The Shop

Walter

Unsayable

III. BEFORE AND AFTER TINFOIL: The Becce Family

The Anarchist Bastard

Rille

Waiting for Vito

Tre’ Casc’

Keeping Company

Flesh and Bone

Both Are True

Two

Before and After Tinfoil

Stitching: Our Voices Together

Coffee And

Words and Rags

My Aboriginal Women

Uffa, Jojo, The Monkey

Dropping in on Sandy

Notes of an Unredeemed Catholic

IV. E ’ POI ? AND THEN?

’U Bizz’ di Creanz’: A Piece of Politeness

In Absence

Without My Tribe

The Discourse of un’ Propria Papon’

Lotions, Potions, and Solutions

And La La La

Psychic Arrangements

Sujets

• Memoir
• Ethnic studies

Informations

• Publié par: State University of New York Press
• Date de parution: 01 mars 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781438436333
• Langue: English

Extrait

SUNY series in Italian/American Culture Fred L. Gardaphe, editor

The Anarchist Bastard
Growing Up Italian in America
JOANNA CLAPPS HERMAN

Photo on previous page: Grandpa Becce sitting on a cow.
Published by State University of New York Press, Albany
© 2011 State University of New York
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission. No part of this book may be stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means including electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
For information, contact State University of New York Press, Albany, NY www.sunypress.edu
Excelsior Editions is an imprint of State University of New York Press
Production by Ryan Morris Marketing by Fran Keneston
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Herman, Joanna Clapps.
  The anarchist bastard : growing up Italian in America / Joanna Clapps.
      p. cm.
  Includes bibliographical references.
  ISBN 978-1-4384-3631-9 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Herman, Joanna Clapps—Childhood and youth. 2. Herman, Joanna Clapps—Family. 3. Italian Americans—Connecticut—Waterbury—Biography. 4 Italian Americans—Connecticut—Waterbury—Social life and customs. 5. Waterbury (Conn.)—Biography. I. Title.
  F104.W3H47 2011
  973'.0451—dc22
2010031915
10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1

To every single Claps, Clapps, Becce, Scarpa, Padula, Semprini, and all those who have joined us. Especially to my beloved sister Lucia, my wonderful Billy, to delicious James and Heather and to my Donna
Acknowledgments
C an anyone write a book without their people? Non posso . There have been so many people who have been with me in this, who always read what I write, who care about what I've written, who want me to write.
My husband has been at my side every word, sentence and paragraph, who insisted for years—“You have to write about Waterbury.”
My sister, Lucia Mudd, has been with me every single step of my life and my writing and thinking. Her family, John Mudd, Peter Mudd, William Mudd, and Anna Mudd, all of whom have supported my work.
Myra Goldberg, has read and reread, who was there when we were girls living in the Village and together we decided that since we were readers we would be writers. We were young and certain and young and uncertain, but we grew up together and now we're ladies and grandmothers together of the spectacular Ariella. I thank my beautiful god-daughter, Anna Resnikoff, for her inimitable self and for Ariella.
Edi Giunta, Annie Lanzillotto, Maria Laurino, Nancy Carnevale, without whom there wouldn't be an Italian American world of women writers for me.
My wonderful friends and fellow artists Judy Solomon, Linda Sherwin, Theresa Ellerbrock , Karen Wunsch, and Jane Olian.
Toby Miroff who gave me the courage to write what I wanted to write despite how terrified it made me to do it. And who has helped me finally to be myself.
Others who are part of the world of writing and ideas as writers, brothers, friends.
Joseph Sciorra, George Guida, and Peter Covino.
Then there are those for whom it simply wouldn't matter if I wrote or didn't. All of my Waterbury cousins who keep the flame.
My mother and father both of whom were wonderful storytellers, all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins who helped me remember and told me things I didn't know, who helped me bring these stories to life. Paul Claps who was especially helpful with the Claps material.
James Peltz who is the very best editor I know, who says things like, Sure you can do that. I think we can get that in too. Why don't you try it and we'll see how it goes. Does anyone else have an editor that good? No.
His kind and helpful assistant, Amanda Lanne. Amelia Krales who prepared all the photographs for this book.
Finally, James and Heather and Donna Ann without whom life just wouldn't be fun.
The following pieces are reprinted by permission of the publishers:
“U Bizza di Creanza: A Piece of Politeness,” Alimentum . Fall 2010.
“My Aboriginal Women,” Lavanderia: Wash, Women and Word . Fall 2009.
“My Homer,” Speaking Memo , edited by Luisa Del Giudice, Palgrave. October 2009.
“Words and Rags,” edited by Joanna Clapps Herman and Lee Gutkind. New York: Other Press. Fall 2006.
“ Papone ,” Don't Tell Mama: The Penguin Book of Italian American Writing , edited by Regina Barreca. Penguin. 2002.
“Coffee And,” The Milk of Almonds: Italian American Women Writers on Food and Culture , edited by Edvige Guinta and Louise DeSalvo. New York: Feminist Press. 2002.
“Notes from an Unredeemed Catholic,” The Critic 48:2. (Chicago). Winter 1993–1994.
“Two,” New England Sampler . December 1980.
With And Without Words
An Introduction
O nce at a party I met a really crazy woman—who happened to be Italian—and who loved to read books and talk about them. I found myself gripped in conversation with her, talking to her about reading and about being Italian even while I recognized that there was something very crazy about her. My hostess came by and said, with ill-hidden irony, “I see you two are enjoying yourselves.” She came close to rolling her eyes at me as if to say, What are you doing with this one?
As I drove home from the party I gazed out into the dark night wondering: why had I spent the whole night talking to a crazy woman? In my sad reflection in the car window I saw the answer. I was that desperate , that lonely , and that filled with longing to talk to someone who knew intimately both of my spheres, my Italian world and the life of the mind, that I didn't care that she had been a lunatic.
That ride home was the beginning of a long search for a world that joined both my lives together.
For many years I had lived with a divided consciousness without realizing it. My “Italian” world was in Waterbury, Connecticut, with my family, where I grew up and where my large clan still sprawls. My adult life, husband, son, work life, intellectual and cultural life has been made in Manhattan where I moved when I was twenty-one. It wasn't something I thought much about. I simply lived this divided life. I went home to Waterbury and I came home to New York. Neither place knew much about the other.
I have always loved my family inordinately—my grandparents, my parents, my sister, all my aunts and uncles and cousins and their wives and husbands and children and grandchildren too. They made me and make me still. They are the waters I swam in first and swim often in my imagination, in my heart, and in my writing. When I sit at their tables drinking and eating and talk, talk, talking I could sit there forever—leave never.
Yet I did. Physically in 1963 and emotionally—fully—really only in the last few years. It's only recently that my life has come to belong to me before it belongs to anyone else. Where I come from loyalties belong first to your tribe, then your parents and siblings, then your husband or wife and children, then to your neighborhood, church, and maybe eventually to yourself last and only a little bit. Any more than that and you are the kind of person who doesn't put others before yourself—self-centered—the worst you can be. It's hard to overturn what were really good values for another time and place. It was a good way of life: full of vitality, fun, passion, joy and profound connections with an intense sense of the past and the immediate present as central and important. It wasn't about always moving toward somewhere else in the future. Still, because of my deep connections and loyalty to my Italian family it is only recently that I have come to feel I can write what I want about them despite what I know will be their grave confusion and disappointment, even disapproval. I am violating a basic rule—all loyalty to the family: keep all of the difficult stuff—all that was painful or sad or angry or rude—within the family. I'm still in the pull of that loyalty but no longer enough to stop me from doing the work.
While it took me more than forty years to sort out what coming from my immigrant family in Waterbury into modern life in America has meant, it didn't feel like that at first. I was an Italian kid, born in America who grew up first in the '40s and '50s with my family. Then it was the '60s: I was a college student involved in the civil rights movement, then a young hippy. After that I came into the consciousness of feminism and psychotherapy, and traveled in Europe while I was working and living in New York. All these cultural changes shifted the ground under my feet so radically that it took the next forty years to sort out all the implications and consequences. Even though I was living in New York, working, dating, marrying, divorcing, going to wild parties, and still very attached to and visiting my family, at a certain point the gap between where I came from and where I lived grew disorientingly wider. When I married a second time and had my son James—the toll grew even heavier.
All that I knew about fam