Patsy and I are meeting on a bench outside the cemetery. I better keep an ear bud in my ear to pretend I’m on the phone today as we talk. I know, I know, I shouldn’t care what people think, but I’ve seen enough mentally ill people along these streets to know it can be scary to witness someone talking into thin air.
Here goes. “Patsy.”
“Hi, Doll.”
Patsy’s appearance causes my eyes to enlarge and my head to snap back the minute I see her. She’s dressed differently today, wearing a gray flowing skirt that almost covers her buckled black shoes with a taupe long-sleeved cotton shirt. Her dark-brown hair is in a loose bun on the top of her head. She still has the glow in her eyes and the rosy cheeks, but otherwise, she looks dull and foreign.
“Patsy, wow. I’ve never seen you look this way.” My eyes travel up and down her being while continuing to grow with every inch I observe.
“I thought I would come dressed for the occasion. This is how I always looked back in my day.” She smiles.
“I love it, but isn’t it hot?” I pull my hair up with my hand as a reflex.
Laughing, she says, “Well, yes, it was, but there were no shorts or sandals to wear back in the 1800s. A lady dressed a certain way. These clothes kept the sun off of our skin as well. But also, I am not hot now anyway. I am always a perfect temperature for me.”
“Of course.” I hit my forehead with my palm. “You just always look so real that it’s hard for me to remember you aren’t here with me.”
“I am here with you, Doll. I am as real as the contraption in your ear.” She leans in closer to view it.
I touch it and say, “Oh, yes. I figured…never mind.”
“Va bene.”
“What? You have to teach me some Italian. I’d love to learn.” I bet I’m gleaming now like her, but in an alive way.
“It means alright. It is all good, as you young people nowadays say.” She smiles.
“Great! Va bene. So where are we going today?” I can’t help but bounce while I ask.
“You have already seen where Silvio and I lived, so I thought we would go to some other places in the old Little Palermo for you to see.”
I almost don’t let her finish her sentence before I blurt out, “I’ve been reading your journal and saw you refer to ‘Little Palermo,’ but I don’t know where that is today or really what it was…”
Patsy looks around and says, “That is where we are right now, though it doesn’t exist anymore like it used to, Doll. The lower French Quarter is where all of us Sicilians came in this city when we left our island.” Her voice drops in tone, and she looks down.
“Right here where I live and work was where so many of my people came from Sicily? I can’t believe it. But why wasn’t it called Little Italy, like in New York?”
“There were so many of us immigrants from Palermo that the area became known as that title. Sicilians from other cities were here, but the biggest number of people traveling across the sea to this region were from Palermo. It was named after that city instead of Italy.”
“Why here, though? Out of all the places in the US—New Orleans? It seems like most people went north, from what I’ve always thought.” I shift to a cross-legged position on the bench and face her.
“We are a people of fisherman and fruit farmers mostly. The word spread fast back home that this area was similar to the conditions there for both trades. Northern Italians who went to the US often traveled to the Northeast because they didn’t have these types of jobs. We needed to be on the coast and in a comparable climate to Sicily so our skills could continue.”
“New Orleans has always been a port city because of the ocean and the Mississippi River.” I recall this fact from school.
“You are correct, my sweet. And you know we left the country for the same reasons everyone left back then…we wanted a better life. The government was not treating us right, and we were afraid it would get worse. We were going nowhere over there at home, so we took our chances and journeyed here to a new home.”
“I guess it paid off. Our family is still living here and thriving.”
“Yes, Doll. But it was hard. I will tell you more later, though. Let’s walk.” She rises and starts strolling into the cemetery.
I follow her but wonder why we’re going in here. Come to think of it, I never questioned why we are meeting at a cemetery at all. Does it matter now? Nah, I think I have other matters to think about today.
Patsy stops at a simple small tombstone that’s covered in leaves, high weeds, and a layer of dirt. “Do you have something to wipe off that filth?” Her face crinkles, making her tiny nose cuter than usual.
I dig in my crossbody bag and find some tissues. “Yes, let me get that.” As the grime leaves, a name is revealed, then another. I look up at Patsy, but she’s staring at the stone. “Patsy, it states your and Silvio’s names. This is your grave?”
“Yes. Thank you for cleaning it for us. Nobody takes care of it, so I have not seen our names on the stone in years. It is nice, isn’t it? Molto bene.”
“It’s very nice. I’m sorry that I didn’t know you were here. I would have kept your tombstone clean. I would have been one of the people who comes on All Saints’ Day to make sure of it.” A dull pain spikes in my chest.
“How would you have known? I am not upset, so don’t you be either. I want to show you so that you know about our resting place. Your family is right here, near you all the time. Now you can visit whenever you want,” she reassures.
“But I also can actually talk to you, which is even better.” My feet feel as planted to the ground as the tree next to me. Centuries of my family exist and some right here, where I walk by all the time. I can’t believe I never knew.
Patsy looks down and doesn’t reply.
She must be deep in thought about her Silvio. I wish I could have met him, too.
“I’ll visit soon to pull the weeds, then come routinely to keep it up. My family members won’t have a gravesite in this condition anymore now that Mary’s involved.” I stand tall.
Patsy smiles and, after a short time that feels like an hour, says, “Thank you. Now, come on. We have another stop.”
As we walk, she points out buildings, or lack thereof, with memories of hers. “This is the place where Silvio hurt his foot when he stumbled on a rock in the street. I felt sorry for my fellow.”
“Oh, that sounds like it was painful.”
“He was tough, but between you and I, he told me it was.” She whispers at the end of her disclosure.
“Now this place is where we listened to our friend play his accordion on Friday afternoons. He was one of the first Italians to master it. And boy, he played it beauuutifully. Doll, I wish you could have heard him.” She closes her eyes and bobs her head to a supposed internal beat.
I feel an urge to swing to her motion, but stare in admiration instead.
“I haven’t heard of many people playing accordion anymore. I play ukulele, though.”
“I think it is not as popular as in my day, sadly. Or maybe between my day and your day.” She giggles. “But you play ukulele in a gorgeous way. Music runs in our family.”
I smile with her genetic fact and think about my dad with his guitar. “Thanks. And I’m going to Google accordion music to listen to some old Italian greats. I want to hear that tune in your head.”
She doesn’t correct my assumption. “That would be a nice idea. Too bad my friend Enzo’s playing wouldn’t be in that little box you call a computer.”
I laugh. “So, you would come down to this corner and just listen to Enzo play?”
“Yes, and I would also make Silvio dance with me. He didn’t ever want to dance, but if I asked, he would.”
“Aww, he had a soft spot for you, Patsy, and couldn’t say no to his love. Just like my Nonno with Nonna.”
“I agree, Doll.” Her open-toothed smile is so large it takes up half her face.
Across the road, there’s also a building of note, according to her pointing finger. “This was the corner grocer. We used to come here after church on Sundays to buy any last-minute items we needed for dinner. Usually, I wanted fresh garlic for my sauce, so I hoped a farmer had come in to sell it to the store.”
“Yummm.”
“My sauce was delicious.” She licks her lips.
“I wish I could have it right now. I’d dip some crusty bread into it and take a huge bite.”
“Me too. And when Silvio and I came to this grocer, we also loved running into friends we weren’t able to talk with at church. It was a fine meeting place.”
“From what you’ve told me and what I’ve been reading in your journal, I think you had a wonderful group of people in your neighborhood. I love how you all became a family.”
“Yes, that is how we thought about each other. We were a new family right away since other family had to be left in Sicily.”
My heart drops. I can’t imagine leaving anyone I cared about across a vast sea.
Patsy’s eyes grow heavy but immediately brighten when she points to another structure and starts to walk. “Our people contributed to the look of our city, you know.”
‘Our city.’ I love the sound of that phrase. Patsy and I can both take pride in this place we call home.
“The style we created was called Italianate. Many homes were built in that type of architecture, and they remain to this day in the French Quarter. See?” She looks to her right at the three-story house with arched windows.
“Patsy, our blood family and honorary family built places so strong they remain over a century later!”
“My wish is that they last throughout time.”
“Me too.” I look at the rectangular home and analyze its details.
Strolling by the neighboring Italianate home, I notice the dainty touches of an Italian sculptor’s vision. “Look at those swirling shapes dressing up the plain windows. And the elaborate wrought-iron balcony of the second story. I wonder what it looks like inside. I’m sure it’s fancy.” I pause and keep daydreaming. “Someday I hope to be able to visit someone who owns a home like this.”
“I hope so, too—or that you live in one.” She winks.
“Oh, that would be wonderful. I’ll take it,” I say as I motion to the next beauty with my upward facing palm. “How could I have lived here so long and not known the history or the splendor right under my nose?”
Patsy continues to tell me tidbits about her life along our journey through the streets, and I hang on to every single word. If Nonna and Nonno only knew these details. Oh, they’d have been thrilled. The urge to find out more about my family history strikes my soul. I’ll have to remember to ask my dad what he knows.
“I haven’t told you how Silvio was a citrus farmer back in Sicily. It was a type of farming that many men did in the home country.”
“I have farming in my roots. Hmm, interesting. You know, I am good with plants.”
She chuckles, but I’m serious.
“Any lemon in the world came from Sicily back then,” she continues.
“All lemons? That seems impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible, as you may be learning.”
My eyes motion in large agreement. “You got that right.”
“Everyone in Little Palermo loved my lemonade and lemon cakes from Silvio’s produce. I also made lemon frosting sometimes. Oh, I can taste it now. How sweet it is.” She inhales deeply as her eyes drift sideways.
“Between talking about sauce earlier and now dessert, I’m starving.”
“I didn’t even tell you about the lemon-based pasta and fish sauces I used to make. Anything you can think of with lemon, I cooked. Silvio grew other citrus, like limes and oranges, but lemons were our favorite.”
I feel like I’m in the scene from Forrest Gump when Bubba tells Forrest about the versatility of shrimp. But I love hearing every word about my family’s lemon cuisine. “Maybe you can lead me through a recipe someday.”
“I would love that, Doll.”
We halt at the French Market.
“Do you ever come here, Mary?”
“I do. I love the art festivals that are held sometimes,” I say, pointing to the lawn nearby. “And the coffee from over there.” I look the other way, past the famous Café Du Monde. “Was the cafe in existence when you lived here?”
“Yes, and we sold our fruit in a stall right there.” She gazes straight ahead at the oldest section of the market, from my knowledge.
I notice how most of the area looks new, relatively speaking for New Orleans.
“It is how we survived. Silvio’s farming skills and both of our selling skills. We had the best citrus in the area.” She nods her head one emphasized time and lifts it high, chin up to the heavens, on all four feet or so of her.
“My dad loves his fruit trees, you know. Maybe he inherited that talent from Silvio.” I try to catch Patsy’s eye contact.
She connects with them and says, “Definitely! He is a good Italian man, so he knows how to grow his food.”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Patsy. He does keep those trees alive, though. Honestly, I wish he would’ve known all that you’re telling me and brought me up with this experience. I would be a much better Italian woman.” My mouth angles up on one side, and I breathe in deeply.
Patsy places her invisible-to-others hand over my heart and says, “Mary, you are an Italian woman, so you do not have to try to be more. It is in here. No education is necessary for that.”
I feel energy radiating from her loving hand hovering over my chest. “Thank you. I do plan to bring back some of your traditions you’ve shared with me, though. Even what I’m reading in your journal. Like the feast for holidays. My God.”
“Ah, but I thought you like to pave your own way. To not follow someone else’s path.” She smiles and waits for the realization of my own contradictory statement of desire.
“Yeah, I do…” I furrow my brow. “But I don’t go against an idea just for the sake of going against it. I just don’t like being pigeonholed for something because everyone else does it. Tradition with my Italian heritage can be an exception.”
“You make an old lady happy.” She pretends to pinch my cheeks and adds, “Ooh,” in a high pitch.
My soul fills with joy and sparks a memory from her journal. “That reminds me. You wrote about people not wanting you here in your journal. Then, something about Lucia’s husband being beaten? I didn’t know what you meant.” I freeze mid-step to hear her answer.
“I want to tell you more about that, but let’s go somewhere else first.”
I feel my shoulders tighten with the upcoming information and have a sixth sense that it will be hard to hear. But I continue to follow her lead.
We plop down on a bench along the Mississippi where I come to think sometimes. Last time I was here was after I spoke to the Bumbys about the horrid letter I received. What a time I’ve had since that day. I feel like a decade has passed. Though in this moment, the boats flow along on the steady ripples as I settle in for whatever news Patsy wants to share.
“Now this is not easy to talk about, Doll, even after all these years, but it is something you must know about your history. Sicilians were not seen in the best light by the non-Italians in the area. We had a bad reputation for reasons I never understood. People called us horrible names and even hated us at times. This was not everyone, you see, only those who were misled. They were often driven by jealousy because they thought we came to New Orleans to take their money away by starting our own businesses. There were so many of us moving here that we thought they must have been scared and felt threatened.”
“Oh wow, Patsy. I never knew about this part of history.” I hold my breath.
“New Orleans has some shame in its history, so maybe schools didn’t teach everything about it.” She takes a pause, then continues. “There’s more.”
“Okay, I can only imagine.” Nothing could take my attention away.
“We have dark skin, most of us Sicilians. In my living years, I did. The Americans, even the new immigrants from other countries, often saw us like the Black people. They told us we looked dirty and that we had strange ways of living. Some viewed us as dangerous because of a few bad apples involved in the mafia.”
My entire face crinkles. I’ve always been an ally for marginalized communities. The racism that some of my friends face on a daily basis is repulsive, and they don’t have a choice but to cope and carry on, so I try to speak up for them as much as I can, but unfortunately, I can’t change everyone’s warped opinions. Now learning that my family and my people were mistreated for a certain time in history…my heart shatters.
“This is awful, Patsy.” I look down at my medium-toned arm and think about my privilege in a new way. My chest feels tight while mourning my ignorance of my people and city’s history, mourning my family’s experiences, and mourning those I never knew who suffered. I take a deep breath to be able to remain present and continue to hear Patsy’s information.
She nods, then continues, “All of this hate led up to an event in 1891 that you need to know about, Doll. There were these two Sicilian families, the Matrangas and the Provenzanos, both trying to control the fruit trade here at the port. They gave us Sicilians a bad name because they were rumored to be mob bosses. The police got involved and seemed to be on the Provenzano side, sending a top man of the Matrangas back to our island.”
My mouth drops open. “More history I’ve never heard before now.”
“Yes. By 1890, someone killed the police chief. His name was Hennessy, I believe. People wanted the Italians to pay for his death, especially people who were friends of the Matrangas. Hundreds of Italian men were arrested, assumed to be at fault in some way. Nineteen men were thrown in jail. When the trial for the murder came in 1891, some were able to be let off of the charge, by mistrial or by being found not guilty.”
“Whoa. This is so much, Patsy.” My throat tightens, and I fidget in my seat.
“I know, Doll. I would not tell you unless I had to tell you. Believe me.” She remains steady in emotion and tone.
“Of course. I just wish I could comfort those who were maybe wrongly accused.”
“Me too. We all felt that way. But that is not the worst part,” Patsy warns.
“Oh no.” How could it get worse? I brace myself by gripping the arm of the bench.
She nods in acknowledgment. “Angry about the charge being dropped for those men, the press and politicians called for action, thinking the mafia interfered with the men’s punishment. A violent mob of over fifteen hundred people charged into the parish prison with guns and sticks to kill the Sicilians who remained without charges. They killed nine of the men and dragged two others out to the street. Then, they hanged them from a lamppost.” Patsy winces. “It was the largest lynching of any ethnic group in America’s history but still isn’t known by many people.”
“What? I mean, you’re right. I’ve lived here my whole life and never knew about it. Patsy, this is so wrong in so many ways.” My throat tightens again, and I breathe shallow breaths while I wipe my wet eyes.
“This was the most terrible of times for us. We all lived in fear, even though it started years before that event. Many people wouldn’t hire Italians around the city. We were banned from places all over. People attacked us, like Lucia’s husband, and most had ideas about us that weren’t true. I was always afraid for Silvio when he walked at night, because people were especially angry with our men. They heard the word dago more than their actual name sometimes. That was a very hurtful term for us, if you didn’t know.” She shakes and bows her head.
“No, I didn’t,” I whisper. I can’t manage more words. Only tears flow at fast speed, so I reach in my bag for a tissue.
“Doll, I know you have a good heart, and I know you must be upset with this history I’ve shared. I am sorry I had to do it. But I had to.” She pauses.
I remain quiet, aside from sniffling.
Patsy continues, “This year, the city apologized to us. Did you see that?”
Dabbing my face, I respond, “No. They apologized to us Italians for the lynching?”
“Yes. It is late, but still needed.”
“I-I’m glad. Glad for their families. And it’s the right thing to do.”
“That is true. Now, do you wonder why I needed to tell you this story?” Patsy asks.
I take the tissue away from my face and wait, motionless. “I do. Why, then?”
“A few of the men who were killed in the lynching lived somewhere you would recognize.”
“Okay…”
“Those buildings that you do not want to sell…well, they were the homes of some of those men. I knew one of them, Rocco, from my boarding house, plus two other men—I knew them, but not well. What I didn’t know was what they were involved with illegally, but they were always gentlemen to me,” she reveals.
“Oh, that is…that’s, um…freaky.” I start ripping the tissue in bits that fall by my feet.
“Let me be clear. Those buildings were part of history. This can be how you and your new friends can qualify them as historic so that they won’t be destroyed.” She puts a huge smile on her face, and her glowing eyes enlarge.
The afternoon mood shifts like a switch has been engaged. “Patsy! That’s the most fabulous news I’ve heard in a long time. I feel like I’ve been on a roller coaster today after hearing about the horrendous past, but now…this is everything.” My loss for words leaves as quickly as it came upon me earlier. I can’t shut up now, in fact. “I want to tell everyone this news. Ada, Zoe, the renters’ group. But…” I pause and slouch down on the bench. “Patsy, how can I use this information, though? I haven’t told anyone about you. I can’t tell anyone, I don’t think. I mean, no offense, I just don’t know how. Talking to and seeing ghosts isn’t the easiest thing to tell people.”
Fortunately, she stops me from my foot-in-mouth syndrome getting any worse. “Doll, you do not have to say anything you do not want to say. And I cannot be offended. I love you, and you cannot make me feel that way on this side. But take this information and let it help you in whatever way it can. I want our building saved, and I know you do, too. Remember, timing is always right for everything.”
“Thank you, Patsy! I would hug you if I could.” My voice is louder than I’d like. I look around to see if anyone is looking at us, even though I still have my trusty ear bud in place. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe I can suggest or hint around to this historian we plan to hire.”
“Historian?” she asks.
“Oh, yes, I can tell you more when I know more, but basically, he may be able to help us save our buildings. None of us could find any facts we could use to get the historical site connection we need, but we think this guy can. He seemingly knows everything about New Orleans history, so I’m sure he’ll know this tie. I haven’t met him yet, but the other renters are with him today.”
“That is wonderful! I am relieved for you, and for me. And for Silvio and all my friends who were my family back then.” She laughs. “Maybe I can tell you more about them in the future. You would have loved them, too. But keep reading my journal.”
“I’m sure I would have, and yes, I am definitely reading more. I want to know about anything and everything related to being Italian now, thanks to you. Showing me around today, to the meaningful sites in your life, was something I’ll never forget. I’ll always view them with honor from now on and always will think of you.”
“I am delighted you feel that way, as I knew you would.” She stares past me at the water. “You know, we entered this great country down the river from here. That is another place you can remember me by when you are out and about in this city.” She points in the direction of where she entered New Orleans.
“I sure will. I think it’s safe to say, Patsy, you are in my thoughts and heart for good now. And in a prominent way. You have no worries there.” I grin.
We both walk back to our home. It has a new meaning for me yet again. Home went from being just my run-of-the-mill old residence and shop—but one I love, of course—to a place I need to fight to keep, to learning it was Patsy’s home, to now learning history that happened here which could save it. Well, that it had a notable resident. And the other buildings, too. Knowledge is power, and I’m loaded with it now.