A Budding Rose

By Rose C. Tanzi Sallie

Children of first generation immigrants are faced with unique, albeit not
uncommon, difficulties trying to intergrate into the American culture while
perserving their own.This is my personal story of the struggles I
encountered having parents, especially a father, who were strick,
overbearing, but, above all, abusive.This experience led to so many bad
choices in life, including a bad marriage which ultimately ended in a
divorce. It's my story of perservernce, courage, survival, and, above all,
hope that even under the most painful circumstances we can beat all
odds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467026253

Rose C. Tanzi Sallie

Rose Sallie is a daughter of Italian immigrants from Mola di Bari, Italy. She was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York and then moved to Long Island, when she found a teaching job. She taught Italian for thirty four years at Lawrence High School, Lawrence, New York. She has two grown children, and is retired now living in Charlottesville, Virginia.

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Contents

Dedication

Preface

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

About the Author

Dedication

To my wonderful sons, Sean and Michael, who made my life worthwhile. A heartfelt thanks to my wonderful best friends, Annette Lewis and Christine Seiden, for their assistance, encouragement, and support!

Preface

Those of us who are children of immigrants, that is, of a first generation, are faced with unique, yet not uncommon, difficulties. We all come from immigrant ancestry, some more recent than others, and we all have our tales to tell. They are tales of hardship and struggles. All who came to America came with the same objective, to make a better life for themselves and their families and to share in the numerous opportunities this great country has to offer. Many have succeeded in this venture; others, even after many generations, have not. Here is my personal story of survival. I have written it for all the children of immigrants who have suffered as outsiders, but have had the courage to persevere, carry on, and beat all odds. In light of all human suffering and misery, my story becomes minuscule in this regard; however, I feel that my experiences and tales will ring true with those who have fought to liberate themselves from antiquated customs and overbearing parents who refused, or were too frightened, to assimilate into a life and culture that was often alien to theirs.

Introduction

When my birthday comes around on June 25 each year, I usually don’t feel like celebrating. I look back at my life, and I always wonder what I’ve done to make my time on earth worthwhile. By nature I’m very introspective, sometimes to my detriment, and my birthday just highlights my feelings of sadness and loss. How can I be feeling like this when my life is far better than so many poor, forgotten, suffering souls? Yet, the fear of aging and being alone never ceases to plague my thoughts. My loneliness, I believe, stems from my childhood experiences, and oh, what a childhood it was!

Chapter 1

The Early Years

I suppose my story is similar, in some ways, to those of other children of immigrants. One reads about the struggles and sacrifices that they endured in order to make a better life, not only for themselves but also for their children and grandchildren. My parents did this for my brother and me, but their struggles became ours as well. We had a roof over our heads, food to eat, and clothes to wear—but nothing else to feed and nourish our souls, our intellects, and our emotions. Children are better seen, not heard, was my family’s motto. I was the oldest of five grandchildren on my mother’s side and almost ten years older than my brother, Marino. Loneliness permeated my entire existence, especially since I was an only child for so many years. No one ever paid attention to me other than when I was scolded or beaten for things that were of no consequence. I realized many years later that I was, for the most part, a scapegoat for my parents’ unhappiness in life and their miserable marriage. L’asino grande, Italian for big jackass, was a nickname my aunt Isabella would often use when she felt that I should not be playing with my younger cousins, her children. No one seemed to care how these words made me feel. I was banned from entering a two-foot pool in my aunt’s backyard. Again, the insult, Sei una ciucia (dialect for donkey) grande.!You’re too big to go in there. You’ll break the pool," my aunt would then add without reservation. I was about eleven years old when she began to use this silly, yet hurtful and offensive, phrase.

I was tall for my age, which didn’t help me blend in with my smaller and younger cousins. I stood out like a sore thumb, so to speak. My aunt Isabella was my mother’s younger and only sister. She resembled my mom in some ways, with her dark brown hair and chestnut eyes. She had a tendency to become a little robust as she began to age, was average height for a southern Italian, and had a distinctive Roman nose, inherited from their father. My aunt’s nose was larger and more pronounced than my mother’s. She was a kind and simple woman whom I grew to understand and love in later years. I knew she never intended to hurt me, and I’m sure she really didn’t know these words would have such a lasting negative effect on me. I can recall things that happened at the age of four or five. Most people say they can’t remember that far back, but I do. They are a series of vivid vignettes that I can play over in my mind on demand. I remember a little girl with chestnut hair and wide brown almond-shaped eyes, who always played by herself. The days seemed endless, because she had no siblings to keep her company. Her mother paid little attention to her because she was always obsessively cleaning the apartment where they lived. Sometimes, the little girl was sent upstairs to her grandmother’s apartment, but she wouldn’t find anything interesting to do there, either.

I can still remember the boredom I felt. My mind needed to be stimulated, and no one was doing this for me. No one at all. The few toys I had consisted of a few plastic horses with plastic riders. I would go into a fantasy world, my safe place, with these little equestrian pieces. I was emulating the characters on my favorite television show, The Lone Ranger. The Lone Ranger was a hero who rode a beautiful white stallion, named Trigger. Of course, I named one of my little plastic horses Trigger, too. My plastic white horse would ride off, chasing after the bad guys, with a plastic Lone Ranger on its back. I spent hours playing with these toys, and in a way, they kept me company.

Any gifts I would receive were limited to Christmastime. Unlike today, children received only one gift from their parents. One of the few gifts I remember receiving for Christmas was a little sewing machine. I never asked for it, and I was never going to use it, but there it was, under my Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Grazie, Mamma e Papa! Thank you, Mommy and Daddy! I said. I was just being polite.

I recall one Christmas, when I was seven years old, I wanted a Revlon doll, which was a very popular item that year. My grandfather took me shopping one evening just before Christmas, and for some reason, I thought, This is it; he’s buying me a Revlon doll! I walked with him, holding his hand, my heart filled with anticipation and joy. When we arrived near an outside market in downtown Brooklyn, which had literally tons of dolls on display, I pulled my grandfather by his arm and said, Grandpa, are you getting me a doll? I was so heartbroken when he simply said, Non ho soldi per comprare la bambola, sta zitta—he didn’t have the money to buy a doll, and he told me to shut up! This was typical behavior for my maternal grandfather. A quarter for an ice cream on a hot summer’s day never left his pocket! When I’d see him walking home from work, I’d run to greet him before he could enter the house. Nonno, (Grandpa), can I have a quarter? I want to buy some ice cream, please!" The white ice cream cart, which in those days was pushed by an attendant dressed in white, was stationed at the corner of our street, while all the