I was brought up Italian, Catholic, and Democrat. In that order. Went to St. Benedict’s Parochial School though 6th grade and attended the church in Geistown, PA, that sponsored it.
Later, when we moved, I attended St. Anthony’s in Windber. Why? That’s where Italians went. I know what your thinking, “Lamb? How’s that Italian.” It’s not. (And it’s not short for Lamborghini—though I wish it were.)
My mother’s maiden name was Cassanese—C-a-s-s-a-n-e-s-e. She made sure I knew that and how to spell it.
“Always remember you’re Italian,” she’d say—over and over and over again.
My grandfather, her Dad, came from Italy; he was Calabrese. Worked 20 years in the coal mines of Pennsylvania; then worked 20 years in construction. In each case, he worked his way up to foreman. (I mention this because he came to America with only a third-grade education and could speak no English—yet overcame that and other obstacles to raise a family and provide for them.)
One of my Mother’s childhood stories stands out—haunts me, yet explains much about her: her toughness, pride, high-standards, ambition, self-respect and -worth. As a young kid, she’d been invited to a friend’s house. She recalled walking up the steps, to the door, about to enter, when her child-friend’s Mother stopped my Mom, saying, “We don’t let her kind in here.”
“Her kind,” was Italian.
Mom never forgot that humiliating moment. Reminded me of it. Made sure I’d never forget. Kind of like that scene in “Gone With the Wind,” where Scarlett says:
“As God is my witness, they’re not going to lick me. I’m going to live through this and when it’s all over, I’ll never be hungry again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill.”
Mom died about a year ago. Her legacy is drenched in my consciousness. As is her father’s. Rightly or wrongly, I’ve passed some degree of that to my children. My grandkids? Not so much. Generations that follow them will probably have no clue of Joseph Cassanese’s history or his daughter Josephine’s story—except what crumbs and morsels I choose to share.
It’s like that verse in Ecclesiastes:
“No one remembers the former generations, and even those yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow them.”
Except for one thing; one tiny detail: We storytellers get the last word; we plant seeds that bear fruit in the future: For someone to find, for someone to treasure, for someone to remember.
It’s our destiny.
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