Hello there. Ciao. Welcome to my little corner of the world. I am so thankful to I-italy for this opportunity. This blog is named for one of the best gifts I have ever received, my most favorite tee shirt, which reads, over a slice of pizza, “Everyone Loves an Italian Girl.” That shirt, silly as it may seem, makes me very happy. I wear it with pride.

 

I was not, however, born in Italy, but Brooklyn, somewhere in the mid - seventies. Nor are my parents immigrants, they are also Brooklyn born. I am also the niece of a beloved Catholic priest, and granddaughter to Carmen (Carmelina), Frank,(Francesco) Andrew and well…I’m getting to that. The last of my generation on both my parents sides, all four of my grandparents were four of the grandest human beings I have known. Their impact on the woman I have become is indelible. My mother’s mother, Chiara, suffered that fate of many Italian-Americans. When she was in school a teacher declared her name too “unpronounceable”, and though it was never changed legally, she went through life, at various points as Chiara, Chiarina, Claire, and Clara. Though at different points in her life different people called her different names, to my brother and I, she was always just Nana. The latter of her names, Clara, to my dismay, is what her headstone reads. When I was born, my mother, in an act as much of rebellion as of tradition, named me Chiara. No one’s ever going to change that, but I do spend an awful lot of time and energy in explaining Italian pronunciation.

 

My connection to my grandparents has profoundly impacted the woman that I have become. My grandmother Chiara/Clara died years ago, when I was in college and living abroad in Spain. It was Easter, and I was literally stuck in Spain for a week after her death. Soon after I came home, I moved in with my grandfather Andrew, her husband. I was twenty, and he was eighty - six. My grandmother Chiara/Clara used to always say that she didn’t let her hair go gray until she saw me and realized that her granddaughter had her black hair (my mother, who we call “the German,” is more fair in complexion). I was at the start of my adult years, living with my eighty- six year old grandfather, and I was named for and looked exactly like his wife, who had just died. Crazy shit. The decade that I spent with my grandfather Andrew, and his recent death have been the most profound and important experiences of my life. He was the pillar that held me up, and his death shook my foundation to the core. He is a topic I will continue to return to, for the rest of my life.

 

My father’s parents sadly deteriorated with senility and Alzheimer’s disease, during the years I was living with my maternal grandfather. I am remembering in this moment my 16^th birthday. My friends and I, we were the crazy, weird kids (that is, until Nirvana came out, then we were cool). And this is another bullet point about me- music is always a reference point. But I digress. Back to that 16^th birthday. My friends and I- sitting around in our baby doll dresses, Doc Martens, post punk glory and adolescent angst, listening to the U2 cover of the Patti Smith song “Dancing Barefoot”- to this day, one of my favorites. On vinyl. Now, my father’s parents were VERY loving, sweet people; My grandfather Frank did everything he could to make my grandmother happy. They used to have a sign, that hung in their kitchen that read “I am the boss in this house and I have my wife’s permission to say so.” That little sign summed up their relationship perfectly, at least in their youngest grandchild’s eyes. And my grandmother loved to dance, in particular, the cha-cha-cha. It was her favorite. So right there, in the middle of a circle of angst- ridden, miserable adolescents, to a U2 cover a Patti Smith song, my grandfather Frank grabbed his Carmen, and they danced the cha-cha-cha. At the song’s end, he whacked her on the bottom, and announced to all my friends “ My girl- my girl’s still got it.”

 

I thought I’d die of embarrassment in that moment, but now, that story is the definition of what I’d like for my own life. That story encapsulates the love I am seeking, uncool and kitsch as it may seem. A love that gives no heed or call to time and space, stylistic differences or musical tastes. A love, that though it may advance in years and age, stays true to its eternal grace.