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• 1 2018-04-21T20:53:06-07:00 Just a Boat Ride Away: A Book of Short Stories By Ivy Wood, Daniela Anastasi, and Gianna Crivello 66 Story One is of a Sicilian family told from the perspective of an 8-year-old boy, traveling during the great migration to the United States by entrance of Ellis Island after being displaced by an earthquake and tsunami that destroyed their city, without plans to ever return home. gallery 2018-05-09T17:29:04-07:00                                                                     Story One: The End Turns Beginning
  
  
  The Earthquake Terreumto
   
  I never thought my life would change so fast, but that’s what happened when the earthquake hit on December 28, 1908. I was eight years old living in Messina, Sicily, and I was in charge of watching my two younger sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, because my Papa, Donato, and older brother, Alfonso, were already at work on the fishing boat and my Ma, Mary, was sewing up the holes in our clothes. Lizzy, short for Elizabeth, was two years younger than me and semi-good at watching herself if she wasn’t busy helping mom with the household tasks, but Maria was four years younger than me and quite a handful, which is why before my Papa and brother left that morning, I begged to go with them. “Take me with you fishing, I don’t want to stay home with the women,” I cried! Papa said, “You’re not old enough yet to be on the boat and your mother needs your help at home with your sisters.” My brother Alfonso followed it up with, “That’s your job, Gasper, now go do it!” It was just past 3am when they walked out the door without me, leaving me behind like I was some kind of sissy. Why was I too young? I could make the long walk from home to the port, and I knew how to reel in a fish, but I guess I didn’t know how to cast a line. But so what if I couldn’t cast a line? I would learn! I never went to school, but I still learned how to read, so I knew I could learn how to fish. I guess it was better I never went that day, because approximately two hours after they left for work, the ground started to shake beneath my feet. The sun wasn’t even awake yet, and catastrophe broke out. My family rented a tiny apartment on the ground level, so we were able to get out fast enough before the walls started coming down on top of us. While I grabbed my two sisters, one in each hand, Ma somehow managed to grab the one bag that contained our family’s documents and savings. We couldn’t see very well in the dark as we barely escaped the death trap, but we didn’t need to see to hear the screams coming from the family being crushed alive above us as we made our way to safety. The earthquake only lasted a half-minute, but at the time they were the longest 30-seconds of my life.
   
  We scrambled over debris and dead bodies, eyes burning from smoke coming off buildings as they burnt down, as we made our way to higher ground passing other survivors going towards sea level. “Ma, we are going the wrong way,” I said with tears in my eyes, “we have to look for Papa and Al!” My mother snapped back, “Don’t tell me I’m wrong Gasper, I’m your mother! Of course we are looking for your Papa and brother, once the sun comes up we should be able to spot their ship if we can get to higher ground.” She was wrong about spotting their ship, but she was right about getting to higher ground. The same water I begged to be out on a few hours earlier was now flushing out the remainder of Messina’s shoreline. A tsunami was triggered by the earthquake, as if the previous destruction wasn’t enough. I thought the sea had swallowed my Papa and brother’s ship whole, but I wasn’t going to dare say it to my mother when she insisted on going back down the hill we climbed to look for them.
  
  It wasn’t until the next day that we found my Papa. I don’t remember being happy to see him because I couldn’t ignore the fact that Al wasn’t with him, but all the girls were crying out in joy. I’ll never forget the first words out of my Papa’s mouth, “Al’s gone;” they pierced through my heart like a knife. What do you mean Al’s gone, I thought to myself? “He was washed overboard during the tsunami,” my Papa explained. How could you let him die, I blamed my Papa! “You should have saved him,” I screamed at him! “You should have saved him!” That was the last thing I remember about Messina, after finding out my older brother was dead, my entire city was destroyed including our home and everything we owned, I was so distraught I blacked-out. Next thing I knew I was on a boat.
   
  The Boat Varca
   
  The boat was huge, the biggest one I ever boarded, but there wasn’t any space. It was overcrowded with people, mostly men, who talked about leaving their family’s behind because they couldn’t afford to take them, but promised to send money as soon they could. Now that my brother was gone, my parents started treating me different. My Papa started paying more attention to me, having me stick with him for his adventures above deck, and my mother reclaimed her responsibility for watching my sisters, placing me off the hook, or so I thought. It was only five days since departure and Maria got sick. My mother spent all her energy rocking Maria in her arms, trying to comfort her and calm her from crying. I was again placed in charge of watching Lizzy, but really Lizzy and I were both watching over Ma. She wasn’t eating but instead reciting every pray, song, and proverb she could remember from the church we went to every Sunday back at home. Home. What would happen to our home? Would we ever get back? Did my entire extended family die? How would we find out now that we left? “WAAAAAHHHHH,” Maria’s wailing interrupted my internal worries and took me back to the present. “Shhhh, mother’s here, mother’s here,” my mother gently whispered in Maria’s ear. Maria died two days after she got sick, forcing us to sacrifice another family member to the sea. After that, Ma cried every single day.
   
  It’s now day 13 that we’ve been on the boat, and I’m beginning to think we will never set foot on land again. I can’t sleep on this boat; it smells horrible, there are rats climbing over my feet, there’s no room to lay down and it never stops moving. Plus, Papa hasn’t taken me above deck since before Maria got ill and nobody seems to know when we will arrive in, “the land of opportunity,” as I hear people call it. I’m learning most of the information about the boat and what it’s like where we are going from overhearing the men talk about it. They say that we are on a massive steamer ship, but that it’s not big enough otherwise we wouldn’t all be jammed in the steerage compartment. But they mostly talk about where we are going, and how the buildings are so tall and close together that it makes the sky hard to see. They boast about getting jobs using their hands when they dock, something they haven’t been able to do back at the home they left behind. I guess my Papa and brother were extremely lucky to have a fishing job back home, the more stories I hear, the more I believe my family were the only ones to have held jobs. How did the others survive without work? My family was barely eating ourselves, if it wasn’t for fish. I ate so much fish I thought I was going to grow scales. I never thought I would say this but now I miss eating fish! I’ve been eating scraps of bread since we boarded that are so stale; I have to suck on it to soften it up before I am able to chew. Lizzy told me tonight while holding her swollen mouth, “Gasper, it hurts when I eat.” I didn’t understand what she meant, so I asked her, “What do you mean it hurts when you eat? What hurts?” Lizzy said in tears, “My mouth hurts. It’s all cut up from the hard bread. Look.” She opened her mouth and tilted her head back, pulling one cheek to the side with her finger so I could see the cuts and soars inside. “Jesus, Lizzy! Why haven’t you said anything before? That looks really painful,” I told her. “I don’t know, Al was always the one to make me feel better and he’s not here anymore,” cried my sister. I put my arms around her and told her, “I’m your big brother now, you can come to me when you don’t feel good. Here, dip the bread in water to soften it up, this way it won’t cut your mouth and it’s much easier to swallow.” Lizzy didn’t say it, but I could tell she was glad she had a new protector. She put her head on my shoulder to sleep that night, and I stayed up making sure no rats ran over her.
   
  The Lady Donna
   
  I just barely fell asleep when all the commotion woke me up. As I looked around, I could see people crying but also cheering, “America, America!” Did we make it? I had to find out! From where I was in the steerage compartment, I couldn’t see outside, so I had to sneak my way to deck. “Where are you going,” asked Lizzy, “I want to come, too.” “You have to stay here with Ma, she will be worried about us if we are both gone. I’m going to find out if we made it to land,” I said as I gently pushed my half-asleep sister off my shoulder and stood up. I didn’t know how I was going to make it to the deck, the only time I was up there was when Papa took me, but I had to try. I followed the same way I remembered going before with Papa, and I made it to the deck without getting stopped.
   
  There were both crew and passengers crowding the railings, making it impossible to see out. I squeezed my way between people’s knees until I made it to the edge. Who was that giant lady in the middle of the water? Was she there to welcome us? She was dressed in a funny sheet and carried a book. I’ve never seen a woman read before, what would she need a book for? Why were their spikes coming out of her head and what has she holding up in her other hand? As the boat moved closer to the lady, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I wanted to see the view from the starboard side of the ship, but my attraction to the lady made it so I couldn’t move. “HOOONNNKKK HOOONNNKK,” fired the boat’s horn so loud that I jumped! People were now lining up to get off the boat, and as bad as I wanted to know more about the lady, I knew I had to go back down below deck to find my family.
   
  Getting back down wasn’t as easy as getting up. Everyone was trying to make their way towards the deck, leaving me to get trampled on as I went against the crowd. When I finally got back to where I left my family, they were gone. My heart was now beating frantically and my mind was racing. Where did they go without me? Didn’t Lizzy tell them I would be right back?
  
  The Line to Freedom Fila Della Liberta
   
  I could feel the boat coming to a halt. This was it, we finally made it, and I can’t find my family! I scurried back through the same corridors that I knew took me to the deck, “Please God, let me find my family,” I prayed under my breath. It took forever to get back to the deck since everyone was going the same direction and carrying everything they owned. Some people had their hands full of luggage, others carried nothing at all—like me. Some were dressed in their most impressive attire, others wore the same clothes since they boarded—like me. The line to get off the boat was moving quick, so I was starting to think my family had already got off without me. I cut the line and started heading towards the exit when I heard, “Gasper, Gasper!” I turned around and to my relief, I spotted Lizzy, Ma, and Papa in the distance! Rushing towards them I prayed again, “Thank you, God, for letting me find my family.”
   
  “Where have you been, Gasper,” scolded my mother, “I have been worried sick! I thought something horrible happened to you!” I felt bad for making her worry, “I’m sorry Ma, I won’t do it again, I promise,” I pleaded with her. By now we were stepping off the boat and onto dry land, “Is this the land of opportunity, Papa?” I asked. “Not quite there yet, son,” Papa answered, “The land of opportunity is on the other side of the water. And we need to be let in first.” Let in first, what does he mean? We made it this whole way on the boat and now we are on land, what more do we need to do to get in?
   
  Hours went by, and we were still waiting without any clue how much longer it would be before we could go to the land of opportunity. I could hear my stomach yelling at me with hunger. I didn’t want to ask about food, it seemed pointless since I knew I wasn’t the only one starving. Finally, after what felt like forever, we were called over to a counter where Ma gave our paperwork over to a light-skinned man in a uniform who didn’t speak any Sicilian and I couldn’t understand a word he said. Next thing I knew, we were being split up and my sister began to cry as she was pushed into the line in front of us by the men in uniform. “It’s okay, Lizzy. They want to make sure you’re not sick, everyone has to do it. Tell them your name, Elizabeth Formica,” Ma said as calmly as she could, but her voice was trembling so I knew she was scared, too. I watched as my sister was poked and prodded at like she was one of the many goats that were raised for cheese in the mountains back home in Messina. Oh, Messina my home, will I ever see you again? Will there even be anything left to see?
   
  I wasn’t going to take my eyes off Lizzy-- I promised her I would protect her now that Al was in Heaven, but she was marked with chalk and shoved up the stairs by the uniformed men. They were shining a flashlight in her mouth before they took her away; they must have noticed her cuts. I let her down! What kind of protector am I when I let my only sister left on Earth get taken by strangers?
   
  I felt sick to my stomach, but after what my Ma said about checking that we’re not ill and then seeing what happened to my sister-- I sure didn’t want to look sick. The uniformed men kept pushing me down the line to the next guy with looks of disgust while they yanked on my ears, shined lights in my face, pulled at my hair, and stuck their fingers in my eyes. “Womp, womp, womp,” was what it sounded like they were saying. I kept quiet besides telling them my name, Gasper Formica. Gasper Formica. Gasper Formica. 
  
  I was moved fast through the line, inspected by one uniformed man for only a few seconds before being moved to the next one. I was soon flushed out of the line and reunited with my parents. "Ma! Papa! They took Lizzy! We have to get her back," I pleaded, "She's not sick, she just cut her mouth from the stale bread, she's not sick!" My Ma was too occupied praying to say anything to me, she just squeezed my face into her breast and kissed my head. I couldn't breathe, I was being literally suffocated by my Ma and figuratively by losing my sister. What would happen to her if we don't find her? Will she meet us in the land of opportunity? How would she find us, she is only 6! "Don't worry, Gasper, we will get your sister back," said Papa.
  
  I began to think I was never going to see Lizzy again, and I was going to be the only Formica child to make it to the land of opportunity...if I even make it. As I was giving up hope, I heard that meek, familiar voice I love say, "Gasper! Ma! Papa!" IT'S LIZZY!!! I jumped up in joy and everyone in the family wept in relief. "Lizzy, are you okay? What happened to you? Where did they take you," I asked in concern. "They made me go upstairs and see more doctors, but I didn't mind because I never got to see a doctor before," Lizzy said in delight. How could she be happy when she almost got taken away from us for good? Better I let her stay happy, she's the only one in this whole place smiling.
  
  Reunited, we made our way as a family through the final gate. As we stood together looking out across the water to the land of opportunity, we exhaled our final breaths as Sicilians, and inhaled the smog of opportunity. 
  
                                                         Story Two: Many Years Later...Tanti Anni Dopo...
  
  Years have passed, and the family that traveled across the ocean to follow the American dream has since passed, but their memory remains. Gasper was my great, great grandfather. His grandson is my grandpa, Vito. After passing through Ellis Island, they stayed in New York for quite a few years; New York was full of immigrants and specifically Italians, so they felt at home. They still spoke Italian, ate Italian, looked Italian, were Italian. Around the time that my mom was born, they moved to New Jersey for a short while, and then to the west coast, where my grandpa, Vito, started a sausage manufacturing plant. The sausage manufacturing plant was very successful, and inspired him to open up pizzerias and other restaurants in the San Jose area. He was known as the sausage king. Now, whenever I go back to the San Jose, or to visit his best friend in Monterey, I am known as the "Sausage King's Granddaughter"...and that is a title I could not be more proud of. 
  
  Throughout my life, I have realized more and more that so much of my upbringing is based on the traditions that have been passed down from my Italian relatives. Some traditions are noticeable, others I was not even aware of until college when I was living with other people who did things differently. Holidays are the first thing that comes to mind. For Italians, holidays are about food and family. We have a traditional Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Easter, and birthday meals, many of which include homemade pasta and homemade meatballs. Family dinner was something I took for granted as a young child; I made the assumption all families ate together every night. When I got to college, I realized that was not the case, and I was actually very lucky to have a family who would cook and eat together every night. 
  
  My mom was fluent in Italian, as she studied Italian in both high school and college. Unfortunately, for various reasons, she was not able to speak to me enough when I was younger so although I have an ear for it, I never learned how to speak it. Now, I am studying Italian in school with the sole purpose of being able to teach my future kids Italian, as an ode to my family history and traditions that made me who I am today. The Italian American culture is a unique one, full of food and passion, and a lifestyle unique to only those who are lucky enough to be Italian American.
• 1 2018-05-09T17:22:23-07:00 Story Two: Many Years Later...Tanti Anni Dopo... 1 gallery 2018-05-09T17:22:23-07:00
  Years have passed, and the family that traveled across the ocean to follow the American dream has since passed, but their memory remains. Gasper was my great, great grandfather. His grandson is my grandpa, Vito. After passing through Ellis Island, they stayed in New York for quite a few years; New York was full of immigrants and specifically Italians, so they felt at home. They still spoke Italian, ate Italian, looked Italian, were Italian. Around the time that my mom was born, they moved to New Jersey for a short while, and then to the west coast, where my grandpa, Vito, started a sausage manufacturing plant. The sausage manufacturing plant was very successful, and inspired him to open up pizzerias and other restaurants in the San Jose area. He was known as the sausage king. Now, whenever I go back to the San Jose, or to visit his best friend in Monterey, I am known as the "Sausage King's Granddaughter"...and that is a title I could not be more proud of. 
  Throughout my life, I have realized more and more that so much of my upbringing is based on the traditions that have been passed down from my Italian relatives. Some traditions are noticeable, others I was not even aware of until college when I was living with other people who did things differently. Holidays are the first thing that comes to mind. For Italians, holidays are about food and family. We have a traditional Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Easter, and birthday meals, many of which include homemade pasta and homemade meatballs. Family dinner was something I took for granted as a young child; I made the assumption all families ate together every night. When I got to college, I realized that was not the case, and I was actually very lucky to have a family who would cook and eat together every night. 
  My mom was fluent in Italian, as she studied Italian in both high school and college. Unfortunately, for various reasons, she was not able to speak to me enough when I was younger so although I have an ear for it, I never learned how to speak it. Now, I am studying Italian in school with the sole purpose of being able to teach my future kids Italian, as an ode to my family history and traditions that made me who I am today. The Italian American culture is a unique one, full of food and passion, and a lifestyle unique to only those who are lucky enough to be Italian American.