Are You Swedish?

I was sitting at Panera’s in Austintown the other day, when I noticed a local politico chatting with one of the area’s elite. It was obvious that the politico was pitching the community pillar for some iron (cash) for an upcoming election. The pillar, himself, was a retired gentleman; but still prominent in the community. The discussion was rather loud, so it was hard not to overhear. (…and I am nosey), when the retired community pillar asked the politico: “Are you Swedish?”

I almost spit the hazelnut coffee right out of my mouth. That, my friends, is the ultimate Mahoning Valley question! What are you? The politico was taken aback as his name wasn’t even close to being Swedish. I thought maybe German. And I have known the retired guy for years and years…and he is about as “Mediterranean” as they come. But in this town, inquiring minds want to know. That is just how it is!

When my wife and I first moved back here in 1975, she was continually asked “What are you?” She had no idea what folks were talking about. I had to explain to her that they wanted to know her ethnicity. “I’m an American,” she said. Yes…but…what are you? Everybody here is from someplace else.

I explained to her that it even made a difference as to which part of town you were from. The Italians were located in Smokey Hollow and Brier Hill. The Poles and the Slavs parked it in Lansingville and the Westside . The Irish preferred the Southside, and the Jews migrated to the Northside, along with the Wasps. Seriously, I had to explain to her that a Wasp was a White Anglo Saxon Protestant. “That’s me!” she replied. Her heritage is German, English, and Irish. But her family came over here in the early 1800’s, and never developed an ethnic identification.

What is it about this place that we hang onto our ethnic identities? What I find interesting is that the ethnic identity transcends the American identity. Isn’t it funny that when asked “What are you?” American is not even considered. I am Italian. I am Polish. I am Russian. I am Lebanese. I am Greek. I am Irish. I am Jewish. No, you’re not. You are American. Not even a hyphenated American….simply American.

My grandparents were hyphenated Americans. All four were born in Italy and came here to Yoongs-a-town. But my parents were born here. They were Americans. My aunt, who pretty much raised my mother’s family, forbade them from speaking Italian in the house.

Several members of the local Italian community anglicized their name. My parents wanted me to change my last name before I went to college. Notwithstanding, there was enough of the “Italian-ness” in the rest of my family to spill over into me. The Italian equivalent of phrases like he’s “1/2 dead” or “1/2 dead from hunger” or “he has no shame” or “hardhead” or “he is phony” or “my God” are much more expressive than the English. It loses something in the translation. Of course, the Italian that I know has been so bastardized that it would most likely be unintelligible in Italy.

My big concern is that diversity has overtaken this country. My second generation parents tried to lose their ethnic identity. Why do we need it now? At the end of the day, I am an American. My grandparents were Italian-Americans, but not me. While I enjoy my heritage and the food and the music and the funny phrases…I am an American. Maybe we could use a little more of that.

Oh well. Time for dinner!! Anyone got some cavetelli? Mangia!!!