Immigrant Son

By Attilio Napoli

Immigrating to another country is fraught with emotions that transcend anything a person can imagine. Attilio spent the first six years of his life entrenched in the culture he was born to follow. His friends looked out for him when they engaged in rock fights with gypsy kids, and he had an extended family close for support. When his parents went in search of a better life, that all changed.

At six years of age, they thrust him into adventures that would shape his life. Because of his young age, he accepted each change as a new direction that needed exploring. The situation was not the same for his parents. After the initial enthusiasm of setting out for their new land, they realised the consequences of leaving family and friends, behind.

The revelry during the voyage to Australia distracted them for a while. They made new friends and delved into what would become long-standing relationships. They also discovered new cultures when the ship Flaminia traversed the Suez Canal. Then, after bouts of seasickness as the ship sailed over sometimes turbulent seas, the reality of what was in store struck them when they reached their destination.

Wide, open, spaces represented a wilderness. The bush was a jungle to them. Then, they struggled with what they deemed primitive accommodation in the two hostels through which they shuffled. To compound their already growing fears, the food provided was foreign and, in many cases, unpalatable to them. They came to realise this was not the Promised Land the brochures extolled. Attilio’s mother was wracked with anguish when she learned what she had given up home and family for.

The family moved to accommodation in the form of a fibro garage behind a shop. They lived there for five years and discovered outside dunnies, along with the bodgies whom they saw as an alien race of their own. The arrangement served their purpose, though, because the Italian community that surrounded them provided a small level of comfort. However, language difficulties in general society hampered their integration. Years of hardship followed and, because of their lack of English, they did not know how to access support, or enjoy what the extended surroundings offered.

While his parents struggled with new customs, Attilio immersed himself in his new culture. At his new accommodation, he had the benefit of a nearby school that provided the environment to help him integrate into the Australian way of life. His many exploits led to new friends and activities. Yet, his games became a mixture of the old ones he had known, and the new ones he encountered.

Along the way, he learned that prejudices and ignorance transcend all cultures. When he wanted to play rugby league, his father would not let him because of all the taboos he associated with a game he did not understand. So Attilio played soccer instead. That was a sport his father understood and was a more traditional pastime for an Italian boy to pursue.

Following many debates with his parents, and through all the experiences that followed, it became clear to him that he had a foot planted firmly within each of two cultures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Attilio Napoli
• Release date: Sep 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005286040

Attilio Napoli

After putting himself through the grind of attaining an Associate Diploma in Social Sciences, it is not surprising that Attilio (known as ‘Till’ to friends and family) writes about intriguing people and the life issues that affect them. He has also worked in people related jobs for most of his career and has witnessed first-hand the traits that make up individuals’ interesting characteristics.Attilio’s drug of choice is music. 'It’s true,' he says, music soothes the savage beast. He will listen to anything, depending on his mood. Along the way, he discovered the joys of travel, and he can’t get enough of it. His love for travel and music show in his breakout book ‘Tramps Like Us’ and he always finds a way to introduce an aspect of both in his works.Attilio commenced writing in the style he learned at school, and through his life experiences. But he realized he had more to learn. He is a self-starter and a hands-on learner, so he subscribed to several online writers’ sites and accessed writing tutorials. Learning the craft of creative writing whetted his imagination. His obsession now is turning out strong stories that show how troubled characters overcome turmoil in their lives. This is a theme that encompasses his work. When reading his stories, he hopes readers will identify a little of themselves in his characters.

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Immigrant Son

Attilio Napoli

Copyright © 2019 Attilio Napoli

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical. This includes photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher

Fiction Books by A. S. Napoli

Tramps Like Us

A Cry For Help

Who’s laughing Now?

Dedicated to my courageous parents

Carlo Napoli.

14/11/1925 - 23/6/1996

and

Maria Napoli (Caradini)

7/1/1928 - 2/3/2017

Foreword

‘…somewhere in between the original city of their birth and the adopted city of residence, would lay their essence’

The short quote above is from the book Remnants of a Separation written by Aanchal Malhotra. In this insightful statement, the author captures the truth I came to understand over the years as I determined my place in society. The core of my being lies somewhere in-between two worlds; a fact I sometimes labour to explain to others. It is something I try to point out when people question motives of mine that are outside their level of comprehension. If I think different to them, it is because of my make-up. I am a blend of the customs I inherited in this country, and the habits I carry with me from a distant culture.

Before I sat down to outline the early years of my life, I tossed around the reasoning behind my need to share these memories. The major concern I struggled to overcome was that I am not famous, or even well-known. Still, my story exemplifies the issues faced by migrants when building a life in a new land. The current climate of debate on integration stirred a passion within me I had previously suppressed. It consumed me until it became important for me to detail my family’s ongoing struggles on their arrival in Australia. I needed to present my own sense of reality to the argument.

Early on, I formed the opinion that immigration is the final desperate act of those who see no future in their present environment. People, in the main, do not want to leave family and friends behind to voyage into the unknown. They do not want to forgo the culture they have known since birth to learn new customs and a new language. Even so, mass migrations have occurred throughout history. The reasons are many and individual and yet, if we delve into their lives, we will find that most immigrants have searched for a better existence.

This was the reason my parents came to Australia. They sought a meaningful life, but integration did not come easy for them, if at all, while I adapted to new traditions in a short time. It was watching them persevere, and overcome the obstacles they faced, that made me realise what other people did not understand. They had escaped from a difficult environment and they would persist until they made their new one better for all of us. Witnessing their resolve in those early years changed me and shaped me into the man I am today; a true blue Aussie with an Italian background.

The experiences I describe are no doubt like those of many others who came to this country before or after me. I write in the hope my words reignite the memory of those migrants. That they will recall the courage they or their parents mustered to travel to a land where they might forge a bright future while not forgetting a sometimes tumultuous past.

I also realise my story is no more important than that of any other person. I am sure many people can relate similar tales. However, this is the account of how an Italian boy came to immerse himself in the Australian culture. It is my individual stamp on history. Or perhaps that period was only a slight imprint of what was to come.

There is no doubt in my mind, the events I recount had, and will continue to have, an impact on my children’s and their children’s lives, as well as any progeny to follow. I hope though, the opportunity to create a better existence arises for them and their families. They need to find their own way but also understand the past, even though I cannot point to my life as always being exemplary. My frailties are too numerous to count, and I have made more than my share of mistakes. Along the way, I suffered an overabundance of difficulties, but I also experienced tremendous joy.

I never forget though, that I would not have had the opportunity if my parents had not been brave enough to take the chance they did. Because of their resolve, I grew up as a man with his feet planted firmly within two cultures. It did not happen by accident. I had to learn many new ways to fashion my life into what it has become.

Some might think the recall of a young boy may not prove reliable. Maybe; but while a few of my recollections are vague because of the time that has passed, several others remain embedded in my mind as if the incidents had just occurred. I do not mean to decry the feats of those more famous, but I too have done many interesting things in my life. Those events formed the hardships and joys of discovery through my formative years, and they defined what I would become as a man.

Through all that, I can trace the path I followed back to my first memories. I cannot contemplate who I am without realising I have evolved into a blend of two diverse cultures. Whether or not I knew it then, everything I hold dear today stems from those earliest stages of my existence. My character building started in another country and continued in my new home.

This is my recollection of events from those early years.

In The Beginning

I should have known from an early age I had no chance of living an ordinary life. Legend states that when I entered the world on twenty-seven December nineteen fifty-two, my father ran through the paved thoroughfares of Sestri Ponente, a suburb of Genova in Italy, proclaiming my arrival. He navigated the streets at breakneck speed until he arrived out of breath at his parents’ home to announce he had an heir to carry on the family name.

My mother embellished the story to the extent that if he could have placed his hands on gold, frankincense, and myrrh, he would have laid the items at my feet; reminiscent of those three kings in a foreign land long ago. It seems I had a lot to live up to if I wanted to match his expectations. Maybe mum was prophesising I would need to move to a faraway country to prove my worth.

Relatives who knew me then, told me that my father’s elation continued into my infant years. As long as I can remember, my mother recounted the story that, when I was a toddler, he found any excuse to hold my hand and take me out into the streets. It was his opportunity to show me off to his friends and neighbours. I was his pride and joy; his first-born, and a son at that.

As a disenchanted youth that did not always see eye-to-eye with his father, I often wondered how long that pride might have lasted. I came to understand that our outings stopped because of the soiled nappies, and because I cried and threw tantrums at inconvenient times. He had never expected that behaviour from a son he thought might follow his example on how to conduct himself in public. So, because it interfered with his other activities, such as a good game of bocce, it became easier for him to leave me at home. Time and again, as I grew older, I questioned our relationship. I sifted through events in my life as I struggled to settle the uncertainty of whether I did enough to make my father proud of me; a question I did not find an answer to until later in life.

In my father’s defence, he was not the only one who did not appreciate the various moods I produced at will. When I was four years of age, my uncle and his girlfriend, now my aunt, took me on an outing to the movies. From what I understand, it might have been a mistake on their part because I enacted a performance that outdid anything showing on the screen. The commotion I caused as I executed the bothersome antics to perfection meant they had to take me home before the movie finished. I do not recall them asking me to share the experience again.

The oldest image that comes to mind of where I came from is of an old stone apartment block situated beside an open water channel that crossed under the road. The worn structure stood at the end of a long, rectangular piazza, and my grandparents lived in the bottom corner abode of the building. More important to me though, is that my father grew up there. This unheralded part of the world shaped his life and, consequently, influenced mine. This is as far in time as I can trace my origins.

If I cast my mind back, I evoke a picture of a modest rustic inner space. The front room comprised a well-aged wooden table and chairs that could have done with a coat of paint. One wall stood out as a feature because it accommodated a stone structure big enough to include ovens and hotplates on which my grandmother prepared the family meals. I am sure they had electricity, but I believe the cooking area was wood-fired because I can recall the sweet smell given off by the smoke of burning kindling. I also visualise a small room where the kids slept. That room is the only one I remember, and it housed four children, but I am certain there was another that my grandparents used as their bedroom. It makes sense that I would not see it because it would have been out of bounds to someone like me; their private territory.

Our family lived around the corner at the opposite end of the piazza, and the area in-between served as my playground when I was four, or maybe going on five years of age. I would love to summon up more details about the place, but that is as much as my adult mind will afford me.

It is ironic because in Australia our family lived in a fibro garage for the first five years. In my estimation, our rudimentary accommodation was better than the small dwelling my grandparents occupied. To reinforce that view, I only have to look back at the time an aunt took me to see the premises forty years later. The owners now used the place as a storeroom and installed a roller-door at its entrance. A hollow feeling overwhelmed me and I became despondent at the sight of what was a part of our family history. I stood there thinking how times had changed. Back then, what passed as an apartment housed a family. Today, it seemed the owners deemed the rooms unfit for human habitation.

The passing of time might have blurred the memories, and I recognise this could be the case with me being so young then. Yet, over the years, I have retained a distinct picture of the structure and the surrounding piazza. I remember the piazza housed the communal water trough that jutted from the wall of a building opposite to where my grandparents lived. That was where the local women washed the family clothes because they did not have the luxury of washing machines in their world; my mother bought her first in Australia.

I only need to squint to see the scene. The image remains imprinted on my mind as if captured in a black-and-white photograph from yesteryear. To protect their plain everyday housework attire, the women wore water-spattered aprons. They also kept the hair out of their faces with scarves on their heads as they bent over the short wall to scrub their laundry. If I place my hands over my ears, the harsh rasping of hard brushes, and the slapping sound of cloth on stone, resonates in my head.

Over this industrious noise, the cacophony of voices as the women discuss their life’s burdens to pass the time echo off the concave roof of the trough. While they add freshly washed clothes to the baskets at their feet, I note how they lament with vehemence the hardships they suffer. That might be subterfuge though because I sometimes detect joy in their laughter. It is as if one of them broke the monotony by recounting a lewd tale. As bleak as I remember life being in that environment, I take those sounds of mirth as a sign that their existence was not all bad.

From the troughs, it was usual for my mother, or perhaps my grandmother, to call out a shrill admonishment for me not to stray too far. The warning confused me because I cannot recall any time when danger presented itself. If I remember right, except for an errant bicycle, the horse-drawn cart that belonged to the fruit and vegetable vendor typified most of the traffic we needed to dodge.

The horse’s passing resembled a carnival event because it always caused a commotion among the women. My grandmother would yell at me to go get the pan and a small spade that she had placed within reach inside the front door for this foreseen occasion. With her urges ringing in my ears, I raced to grab the implements so I could collect the precious horse droppings. I had to hurry, though, as the screams from the other mothers implied they had the same idea. The call to action was a distraction to our games, but we complied all the same. We knew the women could not leave their washing, so it became a game of push and shove between us children to see who would claim the steaming and smelly prize on offer.

The memory never fails to bring a smile to my face. This is because I cannot recall my grandmother growing plants of any significance. But who knows, perhaps she sold the manure to augment her meagre budget. The important thing remained that the piazza provided a safe place for my young friends and me to play. If I press hard, I conjure up vague memories of us playing cowboys and Indians. We made bows and arrows from tree saplings and, like all the kids who did not own pistols, our two straightened forefingers represented guns. At other times, lengths of wood became our swords and pieces of cardboard our shields.

A recollection that has stayed with me is of getting into trouble once when we played cowboys and Indians. I do not know how it happened, but somehow I had a toy pistol in my hands. It could not have belonged to me because my parents could not afford to buy me such an item. I held the gun by the barrel and, as I had learned from a friend who saw how the cowboys did it on television, I hit one of the ‘Indians’ over the head with the butt. Even then, I knew if I had to do something, I had to do it right. The whack I delivered to the boy’s skull sent him reeling and the poor kid ended up with a concussion. It came as no surprise that everyone else gave me the evil eye and avoided me for a while.

As much as I try, they are the only games I remember from those early times. The reason they remained fresh in my mind though might be that I played the same games later in Australia.

One of my major regrets is that, on my visit to the spot in adulthood, it troubled me when I noted no children could now play in the area. To fan my already growing disgust, I saw the communal council had removed the trough, and passing traffic and parked cars choked the piazza. It showed no semblance to my boyhood playground. For a child to consider walking in the playground of our past would have been suicidal. My only consolation is that I have my memories to remind me of what was once there.

When I reflect on growing up in Australia, my father’s voice resonates in my ears. He liked to tell me about growing up in Italy with his friends, and about their misadventures. As long as I can remember, he carried his sense of comradeship and loyalty like a badge of honour. It occurred to me many years later when I learned of Australia’s culture of mateship that I had heard it all before. I now think I accepted the concept that defines our identity without question because he had already ingrained it in my psyche.

His tales reminded me of my own friendships back then; the only ones I remember before coming to Australia. The memory is clear, and one of my fondest. In Italy, we last lived in Voltri, another suburb north of Genova. There, I experienced adventures I would never forget. At five and six years of age, I was the youngest of a group of from eight to twelve neighbourhood children. The eldest might have been about fifteen or sixteen and the ages in between varied down to mine.

I do not know if it had anything to do with the times, or whether it was just the way of the neighbourhood, but these kids