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Italian

I can almost taste it, like almond pastry and baccala, its salt on my tongue,

butter and bitter and oil and spice. I am 5th generation (give or take) of my

Italian ancestors who immigrated from Napoli/Sersale in 1916/21/28.

We kept the food, the traditions, the trauma. A picture of Pope Francis and

my school photos sharing shelfspace. We gave up the language, largely,

around generation three, if you don't count the few proverbs spoken by

my grandfather when he felt sentimental, too old, too soon, too young, too quick,

and the beginner Italian class my dad took in college, Andiamo! Bellizimo!

My heart feels empty when I swear in English instead of Italian,

my far off mother tongue. I am frustrated when I can only express love

in one language. And as I grow I wonder: when do I stop being Alla Famiglia

and turn into Olive Garden? A Buca di Beppo of lies, a store-bought Pizzelle.

When I go there, to that shack in the countryside (if by miracle it is still there),

will it recognize me? Will it know my eyes, my shoulders,

the tail end of my eyebrow that stands up straight?

Or am I stuck in the melting pot, assimilated beyond repair?

— Joey (Quesadilla Wizard)

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