Mulfies: Stories of Immigrants

By Salvatore Scardigno

The difficulties encountered by Italian immigrants to adjust to the American Way of Life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491874387

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© 2014 Salvatore Scardigno. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/25/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7437-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7438-7 (e)

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An unexpected phone call broke the monotony of a dull Sunday afternoon. My cousin Phil called from the States. After the usual greetings: How are you? How are things in Italy? Phil, with excited voice, went directly to the reason of the call. He was working on small alterations on an apartment in Hoboken (Phil owned a small size construction company, the P&M Construction Company) when, in the basement of this house, he found a big wooden trunk filled with all kind of objects. Among these, there was a manuscript recently written, (he deducted this from the relatively fresh ink used). My cousin had read a few paragraphs and he thought that I would be interested in it, since this document reported facts and events dealing with the molfettese immigration in the USA, a topic that, he knew, captivated my interest.

He read some pages over the phone, which persuaded me that I would definitely be interested in this document. I thanked Phil for the call and asked him to mail me the document to my place in Genova, more precisely, in Bogliasco, where I had rented a small villa. I gave him my address: Mario Petruzzella, Via Giuseppe Mazzini 125, Bogliasco (Genova).

A few days later I received—via DHL—a small package from the States, which contained the book that Phil had mailed me. With a keen sense of curiosity, I immediately started reading the first few paragraphs, quickly realizing that the document had been written in a peculiar language, a combination of English (American?), Italian, and molfettese dialect, evidencing the relative low educational level of the author.

The creator of the manuscript was a young man from Molfetta, a seaport on the lower Adriatic Sea of Italy, who immigrated to the United States in the early ’60. He had limited schooling and had worked, in his hometown, at the most humble jobs. Because the facts narrated in the manuscript fascinated and enthralled me, I thought it would have been of some value to propose it, as written, to young Americans, especially those of second, third, or fourth generations of Molfettesi and Italians living in the United States of America, who would be interested in the Italian immigration history.

The manuscript’s cover page was missing, and the title of the document was not mentioned in the body of the document.

The write-up dealt with the story of an immigrant from Molfetta to Hoboken, in the state of New Jersey, a story which spanned a period of over 50 years.

And, here it is…

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTYONE

TWENTYTWO

TWENTYTHREE

The television arrived in Molfetta.

Corrado Minutillo.

A young Puerto Rican American girl.

Emigration, the only long-term solution.

ONE

*   Foreign words are translated in English in the dictionary at the end of the manuscript

August 6, 1956. The rosy sunset was embellishing the clear blue sky with unbridled charm. Molfetta, a fishing port of Italy, on the lower Adriatic Sea, started to wake up after the controra* had completed its mission for that day. The warm summer air was losing its heat strength and started to cool off. The first groups of people, boys, girls, men, women, initiated their daily ritual of strolling up and down the Corso Umberto, while the stores opened their doors for the second segment of their business day. The doors of the store of Pasquale Gadaleta, that day, stayed open the whole day. The new magic box, the television, had finally arrived in Molfetta and was on display, for the first time, in the window of this popular radio and electric appliance store. My curiosity was forcing my nose to be smashed against that window, in competition with a group of other kinds roughly my age, trying to capture the enchantment of seeing a moving picture in that box.

A family acquaintance walking by and, seeing me with my nose pressed against the window of the store, yelled:

"Ue’, Cherrare, why are you looking at that? That’s not for you. Your family cannot afford it." And, mumbling sarcastically some barely perceptible words, walked away.

That comment felt like a stiletto piercing my throbbing heart. I felt angered and distressed. And not because I (and my family) could not have a television (after all, we didn’t even have a radio) but because someone, despite the fact that he was a family acquaintance, mocking brutally our economic condition, which automatically meant social condition, embarrassed me (and my family) in front of all those people at the store.

A week later, I learned that the person who made that derisive remark had been among the first to buy a television in Molfetta, and was inviting his friends, but not my family, to his house to watch the then very popular shows, such as the Musichiere with Mario Riva, or Lascia o Raddoppia? with Mike Bongiorno. However, I could not erase those words from my mind. In a state of complete distress, I dragged my body home, which was about 8-10 blocks from the Gadaleta’s radio store. That insult (yes, I took it as a clear insult!) triggered in me a craving for power. With such objective in mind, however, as I grew older, I felt that my life was not going in the direction I wanted. In my day-to-day life, I felt unimportant, insignificant. What was haunting me was the visualization that my future life would be a collection of failures.

I clearly remember the time when, alone in my one-room apartment that my family was renting in Via Guglielmo Marconi, I got up from my chair, which was not too far from an old glass wall chiffonier, at the center of which there was a mirror, or better, there were two mirrors installed at an angle, for which if one would look into it there appeared two of my images, and, with my eyes appearing to emit rays of fire, I saw myself screaming in front of the mirror: I will be somebody, someday! I will be happy, someday! Molfetta has no future for me, I continued my soliloquy in front of the mirror, and I’m not going to allow other people, or outside events, to shape it for me. I have to take some drastic measures.

Motivated by such pledge, I needed now to take some kind of action. And, do it soon too.

I lived in Molfetta, an attractive city on the Adriatic Sea in the Region of Puglia in southern Italy. A community of about 60,000 souls, and at least that many emigrated outside the geographic boundaries of the city, scattered mostly in the United States, Argentina, Venezuela, and Australia. The occupation of a major portion of the molfettesi was that of imbarcati, sailors on local fishing boats or oceanic cargo or passenger ships. Another significant segment of the population lived with the money flowing in the town from immigrants. The rest of the population was either contadini, or they operated little mom and pop stores.

My name is Corrado (Cherrare) Minutillo. My formal education consisted of five years of the elementary school and a couple years of Scuola Media. From my mid-teens, I had part-time jobs as a manual worker in construction, as a helper in a pizzeria, as an assistant repair person in the Pansini sawmill. It seemed that, even though these were part-time, I could not hold a particular job for too long. I really did not know what I wanted to do, what I wanted to become. My employers were not satisfied with my performance on the job. I tried to do well but the results were less than satisfactory.

I did not have a specific skill or a vocation. This was a premonition of a life without a future. My parents were hoping that I would go to school and become one day, a lawyer, a doctor, an engineer. However, all indications were that their wishes would not be fulfilled.

I was constantly searching, in my mind, for something. However, I was not sure what. Maybe for power, authority, influence, definitely for some kind of happiness! I was a bundle of contradictions. I did not know what I wanted from my life, and, consequently, I was frightened for my future. All signals were leading to the expectation that I was not going to make it in life. I had seen many people in Molfetta who ended up to be on threshold of poverty and I was afraid that it could happen to me.

I was internally struggling against something that was elusive and unknown to me: the fate, the destiny, or my own weaknesses. More likely, it could have been my own fear of fully living my life.

I was terrified to envision my future in Molfetta (or in Italy, for that matter). In a Country in which, after the Second World War, very powerful capitalistic (United States) and communist (Russia) forces were manipulating its society and its people. Nobody knew what Italy would look like in the, even near, future, economically, politically, and socially.

When I was about 17 years old, like many other teenagers, I joined a group of local boys and girls who, almost every evening, used to stroll up and down the Corso Umberto, and the Villa Comunale or Corso Dante, along the entrance to the historic center, and ind’a la terre..

One evening, when we got close to Via Piazza, at the entrance of the historic center, I shouted to my group:

"Guys, who wants to have a quick 15 minutes of history of Molfetta Vecchia? For free! You, herd of ignorants, should strive to elevate the level of your knowledge to be more in line with people who aspire to become friends of the sottoscritto."

The response of the group was quick, unanimous, and unequivocal "Boohoo! Buffone!" The reaction of the group was as expected and did not surprised me a bit. What did surprise me was, on the other hand, that, one of the girls, after my discourse, approached me, and told me in broken Italian: I really would like to learn something about the history of this town which, as I understand, goes back to many centuries. I’m studying Italian Renaissance at the University of Bari, and any information, beyond what is written in the books, would be very beneficial for my studies.

This girl and I broke from the group and, entering Via Piazza, the main street of the Centro Storico, my heart started to pump irregularly and frenetically. Her big piercing black eyes, her fascinating smile, cute face, and her ways of soft talking (she spoke enough Italian to make herself understood), or perhaps the fact that I had never seen, in person, a black person, made an impact on me, which could not be otherwise explained. Without hesitancy, I started imparting my walking tutorial on the history of Molfetta Vecchia:

"On your right, there’s the House of the Aristocrats, burned down by the Venetians in 1529… A little further up there’s Via Amente, where one can see the Passari building of 1596 and the Palazzo Nesta of 1560."

We kept walking, and I noticed that this girl was staying closer and closer to me, in few cases our arms touching each other (accidentally?) while I kept describing other historic sites: the church of St. Andrea built in 1126, Via Mammone, Via San Girolamo, etc. We reached the end of the street, which intersected Via S. Orsola. The street was deserted, which was typical for that hour of the evening. Here, we stopped at the entrance of number 13 of this historic street, by a huge stone door of this 1550 Palazzo Galante Gadaleta. I was ready to provide additional historic information on this building and its attached structure Torrione Passari when this girl came closer to me, looked at me straight in the eyes, hugged me with fervor and kissed me passionately. My heart began to pound, my breathing escalated, and I began to sweat. I felt electricity running throughout my body. I, after having overcome the initial shock, returned those kisses with many of my own, and upgraded that excitement by making, in the darkness of that doorway, passionate and complete love to her.

I did not know whether it was love or infatuation: definitely, it was a strong physical attraction. No words were exchanged between us. The emotion of my first full sexual experience was uncontrollable. I did not know what happened, but I was in a state of ecstasy. I could not control my emotions. No doubt that paradise had come down to earth in the eyes, lips and body of this girl.

After that evening, I never saw that girl again. One day, one of her friends told me that she traveled north to conclude her studies at the Perugia University. I never knew what her first name was. I only remembered that her friends called her by her last name: Asuncion!

At that time, my life in Molfetta was very simple, and in which material satisfactions were extremely limited, since poverty was still widespread in the South of Italy, and therefore in Molfetta. The food on the table was just enough not to go hungry.

Even people who were in relative better economic conditions, had to control their spending. I would never forget one day when, walking by the Bar San Marco, which was the bar used by the rich people of Molfetta, I saw three men sitting at a sidewalk table ordering one beer and requesting three glasses.

I had known the sons of some of the most successful people in Molfetta. I was not their friend, but very often, we met to play soccer at the Landolfi field, by the train station, or at the feast of the Madonna dei Martiri. My conclusion was that, if these people, the Gambardella, the Pansini, the Capacchiani, the Azzarita, the Fontana, represented the highest expression of success, well, that was not good enough for me, and I would better start looking somewhere else for attaining power and success.

In Molfetta, those who appeared to be in a somewhat better economic conditions were, at that time, the imbarcati, the people embarked on local fishing boats or ocean cargo or passenger ships, and the families of emigrati, especially those in Venezuela and Argentina.

In Molfetta, the sons of poor families had no future: either they would continue to carry on the job of their father, or they emigrated. The sons of more affluent families, who were not stupid, become priests.

I saw emigration as the only long-term solution to my economic situation. But, where to emigrate? Many molfettesi had emigrated, years earlier, in Argentina (La Boca of Buenos Aires); other molfettesi went to Australia (Port Pirie, Adelaide, and Freemantle) and Venezuela (Caracas). Other locations to emigrate were to north Europe, such as Switzerland, Germany, France, and Belgium. In addition, the northern Italian major cities, such as Genoa (Sampierdarena), Milano, and Torino, were attractive destinations.

After a careful review of all the potential places to emigrate (I searched out the opinion of many people on this), I selected the United States of America. For two reasons: one was that this country had a reputation to be a rich place with very high possibility of finding work and make considerable money. The second reason was that there was a very numerous community of molfettesi in the city of Hoboken, near New York.

But, there was a problem: the immigration to the USA was, at that time, closed, having Italy utilized its quota of immigrants assigned by the United States; such immigration doors were expected to be reopened in about 10 years: I could not wait that long! I was desperate, but I was still strongly intentioned to emigrate, to go to America. In the back of my mind, I felt some physiological needs to be satisfied. I considered them necessities for my survival. Talking with some friends, I learned that many molfettesi had gone to USA illegally; some working on ships who, once in America, abandoned the ship. Others embarked illegally on ships, usually from Naples or Genoa, and, again, once in America, they jump out of the ship. I knew that the molfettesi who resided in Hoboken had helped many of the molfettesi to disembark.

I made my intention to emigrate known to my father and mother. I told them that my plan was to stay in the United States a few years, until I made enough money, then return to Molfetta, open a small business, and live comfortably. My father was against my decision to emigrate. Not only he would not support me financially to emigrate, but also he would denounce me to the authorities if I proceeded with my plan. I had underestimated the opposition of my father, obstacle that became extremely crucial to carry on my plan, also considering the fact that a month before I received the notice for the forthcoming draft to the Italian military service. Fortunately, I obtained from the authorities a temporary postponement of my draft. If my father would have reported me to the military authorities, I could have been considered a draft dodger, resulting in serious consequences.

My father objection to my plan constituted a perceptible insurmountable obstacle. I did not know the reasons for such strong opposition and I did not have the courage to ask him. The day after I made my plan known to my family