When you really know somebody, you can’t hate them. Or maybe it’s just that you can’t really know them until you stop hating them.
~Orson Scott Card
I was never a big genealogy buff, but I did know that I had some Italian in me. I thought that was pretty cool until I discovered I’m not really Italian at all — I’m Sicilian . . . at least a little. The rest of me is German, Welsh, Cherokee Indian and, well, you get the picture.
My maternal great-great grandparents immigrated to the United States from Palermo, Sicily. This knowledge didn’t stop me from proudly and erroneously proclaiming my Italian roots anytime I met someone with a remotely Italian-sounding surname. And that’s exactly what I did when I met Alonzo Ricci.
I was in my early thirties and working a civil-service job at a local military hospital. Alonzo was the born-and-bred Italian husband of my co-worker, Sergeant Julie Ricci. Sergeant Julie met Alonzo while stationed in Italy. They fell in love and married, and he accompanied her to Texas. Alonzo looked every bit the stereotypical beefcake Italian guy I’d seen on my favorite television shows. Having lived in America for only a short while, he sounded the part, too. I’d never met a “real” Italian before, but of course he had, and it didn’t take long for Alonzo to call my bluff.
As the holidays approached, I sent an open invitation to my enlisted co-workers to spend Thanksgiving at my home. I was pleased to learn that Alonzo and Julie would be joining us. As my guests ate and mingled, I noticed my mother visiting with Alonzo across the room. Suddenly, the look on Alonzo’s face changed, and he seemed perplexed. My mother had shared her maiden name with our new Italian friend. Our “secret” was out.
I learned that day that Alonzo hailed from a family of Italians who despised the Sicilian people. He seemed conflicted over the fact that he had just broken bread with “the Sicilian,” as he began referring to me. I assured him it was fine — we were actually one hundred percent American. Besides, he had just celebrated the quintessential American holiday with us. How could he possibly dislike someone who had fed him turkey and mashed potatoes?
Julie felt the need to apologize repeatedly over the next week for her husband’s sudden and apparent disdain for me. I assured her it wasn’t necessary. I felt so bad for her embarrassment that I found myself inviting her to my family’s annual Christmas caroling hayride. She seemed surprised.
“Alonzo, too?” she asked, incredulously.
I laughed, “Yes, of course, Alonzo, too.”
I’d like to think it was my winning personality, along with my mashed potatoes and gravy, that convinced Alonzo to revisit the home of “the Sicilian.” Whatever it was, there he was, sitting on a bed of hay and reluctantly singing along to the American Christmas carols I had grown up with. I offered him a cup of steaming hot chocolate, which he first refused. Sergeant Julie gave him a discreet but swift elbow to the ribs, and he begrudgingly accepted my peace offering.
Alonzo seemed to relax as we wound through the streets of our picturesque small town. He even joined in when our group periodically broke out into laughter. At the end of the evening, Sergeant Julie gave me a heartfelt hug. “That was so much fun! Thank you! We would have been alone for the holidays if not for your hospitality.” She turned to her husband and looked at him expectantly. “Isn’t that right, Alonzo?”
“Yes, thank you, Sicilian,” he added stiffly. I could swear I detected just the faintest smile from him. I smiled back and nodded.
The following day, Alonzo showed up at work to have lunch with his wife. They were passing me on their way out of the clinic when Julie stopped. “Melissa, why don’t you join us?” Alonzo looked just as surprised by his wife’s invitation as I was. I tried to decline politely, but she was insistent.
We settled into our booth at a local diner. There were a few minutes of awkward silence as we pretended to study our menus. I finally couldn’t take it anymore. “Why don’t you like Sicilians?” I asked Alonzo point-blank. He looked startled and a little embarrassed as he fumbled with an answer. Nothing he said made any sense to me, and I told him so. He actually seemed to appreciate my candor.
We spent the next hour talking about our families and our experience growing up in our respective countries. He shared about his life in Italy. I told him what I love most about America is that when push comes to shove, we care about one another, regardless of where our ancestors started out. He listened, and I do believe he was surprised to learn we weren’t as different as he had been conditioned to believe.
Alonzo extended his hand to me as he dropped off Julie and me at work. I gladly took it. “I enjoyed our conversation, Sicilian,” he offered gruffly.
“Yeah, me, too, ya big Italian,” I answered with a smile. Much to my relief, he laughed.
A few days later, Alonzo arrived back at the clinic. This time, it was he who extended the invitation to join him and his wife for lunch. The conversation seemed to flow much more naturally this time. I found Alonzo to be pretty charming when he wasn’t consumed by hating my Sicilian heritage.
“Ciao, Melissa. I see you soon, no?” he asked as we parted ways. I nearly fainted. It had taken one Thanksgiving dinner, a hayride, and two lunches, but he had finally called me by my name.
That weekend, my family and I rang in the New Year with food, games, and the Riccis.
When the clock struck midnight, Alonzo called his family in Italy. “You’re never going to believe where I am!” he practically yelled into the phone. “I’m celebrating at the home of a Sicilian!” There was a pause before he continued. “No, no, no . . . these are good ones!” he finished. And I could tell he really meant it.
As our guests gathered their things to leave, Alonzo took me by my shoulders and kissed each side of my cheek. “Ciao, my friend . . . my American friend,” he said in his thick Italian accent.
Sergeant Julie hugged my neck. “Thanks, again. I can’t believe you kept inviting us back, but I’m so glad you did.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s what we do . . . we good Americans.” I winked at Julie as she stifled a laugh.
I don’t know much about my Sicilian ancestors’ arrival in America, but I’m willing to bet there was at least one “good American” who showed them kindness and hospitality, who made them feel welcome in a country where they knew no one. More than one hundred years later, their great-great granddaughter continues to pay it forward.
~Melissa Wootan
