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Authors: Pamela Schoenewaldt
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“Mamma,” I asked as I cut the bread and salami, “are you sorry we came to America?”
“Not yet. And anyway, we had to. Let’s eat.” She shook herself as if casting off cobwebs and for the first time asked about school. I eagerly described our lessons until we finished eating and then I braided and unbraided her hair as she sang a street song, an aria, and an American song before pulling her braids away.
“Now stand up,” she said briskly, “and tell me your poem.” I gave her every line, proud that I’d learned them all by heart. “Ta- dum, ta- dum, ta- dum, ” she mimicked. “That’s not poetry. That’s a clock. Even your precious Leopardi isn’t a clock.”
“Let me tell you what the words mean. A blacksmith is a fabbro, so the poem is about—”
“The sound is the problem, the way you speak. Toscanini would hate it.” Not him again, spoiling our time together.
“Mamma, the maestro won’t come to a talent show.”
A shadow crossed her face. She shook it away and put me on the flat rock as if it were a stage. Firm hands adjusted my chin, neck, chest, and back. “Now the first lines.” She stood in front of me as I spoke. “No, tell me the story. Look in my eyes. Take deeper breaths, so you speak longer with each one. It’s better that way.” She listened to the poem again and again, lifting a hand when I could breathe.
“Mamma, it’s only a talent show.”
“Good. Then people will say, ‘Lucia D’Angelo is the best talent.’ ”
“But how do you know all this?”
“I don’t. I only know what’s better than ta- dum, ta- dum, ta- dum . Again, from the beginning.” I did. She listened intently, slowing me on a line, shaking her head if the “ta- dum ” came back. “Again.” And now the full smile, her hand patting my face. “Good, Lucia, very good.” My chest swelled with pleasure.
Soon after, a scuttling wind reminded us that we still had the week’s laundry to do. We packed our basket and scrambled onto the next streetcar before realizing that we’d taken the wrong line, going away from home. I asked a young girl who looked Italian for help.
“You have to change at University Circle. Don’t you know that? Are you greenhorns?” She told us how many stops until our change and flounced away.
“Little bitch,” Mamma snapped. Getting off at the fifth stop, I nearly dropped our basket. Young people barely older than I were strolling past with books. Couples sat talking on benches, as if this were their work for the afternoon. I stared like a beggar outside a bakery. A professor spoke with two women, spoke with them, discussing a point.
“See,” I said. “Western Reserve University. Miss Miller told us about it.”
Mamma studied the scene. “They’re blond, and they don’t look Italian. See how they walk, like rich people? You wouldn’t like it here,” Her work-roughened hand patted mine. But that night I unfolded my memory like a letter, studying it again. Yes, they were American and rich, but inside, inside, were they so different from me? They had finished high school; that was their first step.
The next Saturday I climbed onstage at the talent show and recited my poem. “Look at each group in the audience until someone blinks. That’s what street singers do,” Mamma had reminded me. I remembered each word and place for breath. I looked out at the faces until one in each group blinked. Even Irena had come, taking a break from her buttons. She smiled steadily at me as if each word were a gift.
I won the recitation prize and a gold-stamped book from Mr. Printz of the Printz-Biederman Company. Great things in America seemed possible that night: learning English perfectly, graduating from high school, even going to college. Look at Mr. Printz, who came to America with nearly nothing, Miss Miller had said, and made a fortune selling coats and dresses.
Two Hungarians played a violin duet; Polish girls danced, and Bulgarian brothers did
“Mamma,” I asked as I cut the bread and salami, “are you sorry we came to America?”
“Not yet. And anyway, we had to. Let’s eat.” She shook herself as if casting off cobwebs and for the first time asked about school. I eagerly described our lessons until we finished eating and then I braided and unbraided her hair as she sang a street song, an aria, and an American song before pulling her braids away.
“Now stand up,” she said briskly, “and tell me your poem.” I gave her every line, proud that I’d learned them all by heart. “Ta- dum, ta- dum, ta- dum, ” she mimicked. “That’s not poetry. That’s a clock. Even your precious Leopardi isn’t a clock.”
“Let me tell you what the words mean. A blacksmith is a fabbro, so the poem is about—”
“The sound is the problem, the way you speak. Toscanini would hate it.” Not him again, spoiling our time together.
“Mamma, the maestro won’t come to a talent show.”
A shadow crossed her face. She shook it away and put me on the flat rock as if it were a stage. Firm hands adjusted my chin, neck, chest, and back. “Now the first lines.” She stood in front of me as I spoke. “No, tell me the story. Look in my eyes. Take deeper breaths, so you speak longer with each one. It’s better that way.” She listened to the poem again and again, lifting a hand when I could breathe.
“Mamma, it’s only a talent show.”
“Good. Then people will say, ‘Lucia D’Angelo is the best talent.’ ”
“But how do you know all this?”
“I don’t. I only know what’s better than ta- dum, ta- dum, ta- dum . Again, from the beginning.” I did. She listened intently, slowing me on a line, shaking her head if the “ta- dum ” came back. “Again.” And now the full smile, her hand patting my face. “Good, Lucia, very good.” My chest swelled with pleasure.
Soon after, a scuttling wind reminded us that we still had the week’s laundry to do. We packed our basket and scrambled onto the next streetcar before realizing that we’d taken the wrong line, going away from home. I asked a young girl who looked Italian for help.
“You have to change at University Circle. Don’t you know that? Are you greenhorns?” She told us how many stops until our change and flounced away.
“Little bitch,” Mamma snapped. Getting off at the fifth stop, I nearly dropped our basket. Young people barely older than I were strolling past with books. Couples sat talking on benches, as if this were their work for the afternoon. I stared like a beggar outside a bakery. A professor spoke with two women, spoke with them, discussing a point.
“See,” I said. “Western Reserve University. Miss Miller told us about it.”
Mamma studied the scene. “They’re blond, and they don’t look Italian. See how they walk, like rich people? You wouldn’t like it here,” Her work-roughened hand patted mine. But that night I unfolded my memory like a letter, studying it again. Yes, they were American and rich, but inside, inside, were they so different from me? They had finished high school; that was their first step.
The next Saturday I climbed onstage at the talent show and recited my poem. “Look at each group in the audience until someone blinks. That’s what street singers do,” Mamma had reminded me. I remembered each word and place for breath. I looked out at the faces until one in each group blinked. Even Irena had come, taking a break from her buttons. She smiled steadily at me as if each word were a gift.
I won the recitation prize and a gold-stamped book from Mr. Printz of the Printz-Biederman Company. Great things in America seemed possible that night: learning English perfectly, graduating from high school, even going to college. Look at Mr. Printz, who came to America with nearly nothing, Miss Miller had said, and made a fortune selling coats and dresses.
Two Hungarians played a violin duet; Polish girls danced, and Bulgarian brothers did
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