Page 4 - Italian American Herald - March 2020

4 ITALIANAMERICANHERALD.COM | MARCH2020 ITALIAN-AMERICANHERALD GUEST EDITORIAL
Memories and confessions of an Italian-American wannabe
By Al Kemp
MANAGING EDITOR
Spoiler alert: I’m not Italian. Never even been to Italy.
In fact, my $39 ancestry.com report is basically a dotted line from England straight to the American Deep South, where I spent my boyhood years believing everyone was either a Baptist or a Methodist.
That was ages ago, and there is much
to admire today about the vibrant Italian- American culture around me. For starters, I’ve never heard such a melodic, lyrical, mellifluous language in my life. To my ears, Italian sounds like Spanish that fell into bucket of honey and then fell in love.
The first two Italian words I learned were asiago and Pellegrino.
I learned much of what I needed to know in Wilmington’s Little Italy before pursuing the advanced curriculum of the Philadelphia Italian Market. The first time I entered the culinary Eden known as Claudio’s Specialty Foods on Ninth Street, I waited my turn in line, then announced, “Tony, I’ll take a pound of the aged asiago and these two bottles of Pellegrino.”
I was young, and I felt so worldly.
Years and years would pass before my first encounter with the Delaware Valley Italian-American Herald. The moment was sudden and unexpected.
It was 2014, and I was on a career sabbatical of sorts after nearly 30 years
of working as a journalist in Delaware. The state’s economy was recovering from an economic recession that sent print newsrooms into a tailspin and left former reporters and editors contemplating new careers as Brew Haha! baristas and Happy Harry’s cashiers.
Rob Martinelli, CEO of Today Media,
entrusted me with keys to the office and a company Jeep, and the task of managing the publishing company’s bulging warehouse and planning the vendor routes for Today Media’s various magazine titles.
One Monday, without warning, a pallet- load of about 7,000 copies of the IAH arrived at the warehouse on Lancaster Avenue. When I learned I’d need to distribute them all over the tri-state area, I didn’t feel so worldly anymore.
But I may have uttered a few worldly profanities.
The following day I met the editor
(now editor emeritus), Joe Cannavo, who consented to accompany me on the South Philadelphia portion of my new task, which could be a little tricky.
I still have a vivid image of Joe in the Jeep’s passenger seat that day as we navigated the crowded streets around Passyunk Avenue. He’s wearing an aggrieved expression, delivering a running commentary about other motorists and gesticulating dramatically with pleading, outstretched palms.
Joe never actually uttered the words “Wassa matta you?” But he spoke them all the same, using only his hands.
It was a bravura performance – the kind of moment that I’d later hear described by another of this paper’s contributors as “typical Sicilian.”
So, after that maiden voyage, I drove solo every month, taking the Italian-American Herald to cafes, social clubs, churches, restaurants, pizzerias, fishmongers, coffee shops, cheese shops, produce stands and bakeries all over South Philly.
Of necessity, the South Philly stops were stealthy surgical strikes, owing to that city’s overzealous parking enforcement. Still, because of the tight sense of community, generosity of spirit and the hospitality I always felt, those were my favorite stops.
The first bundles went to the various Catholic churches, where I learned the names of priests and nuns. (Confession: I once eavesdropped on part of a funeral Mass for a retired fireman while the Jeep waited unlawfully around the corner.)
One broiling hot day, as I paused to mop my brow inside a regular stop at Triple Play Sports on Ninth Street, the manager flung a soft green T-shirt right into my hands before I hurried off for more deliveries around the Italian Market’s open-air bazaar.
Anything could happen on Ninth Street.
And it often did. One morning I saw a flock of Mummers in full feathery regalia loading up on fruit. Another time, I saw Frankie Avalon in a glittery cape holding forth in a coffee shop with his entourage.
Or maybe it was Bobby Rydell.
I always saved one stop for last before I left the neighborhood: It was a tiny Italian bakery on Christian Street that must’ve catered largely to the commercial trade, since the only things baked there were hoagie rolls, pizza crusts and tomato pies. The owner would always wrap two slices of tomato pie in deli paper and slip them in my bag.
There was no refusing him. He, too, spoke with his hands, and what they said was: “Really, I insist!”
The only words ever uttered between us were grazie and prego.
Although I traded that deliveryman job for an editing role a few years ago, I still feel that same warmth, community pride and extraordinary generosity of spirit today. I’m reminded of it every time I gather and edit the content of this modest little monthly.
There are many expressions of the Italian- American spirit – a spirit I’ll always associate with passion, friendship and a buoyant
zest for living. You’re holding one of those expressions in your hands right now. This community gazette is written in its entirety by a loyal corps of volunteers who share their experience and expertise year after year. They give for the sake of giving, with no expectation of recompense.
To all those volunteers, I say thanks for sharing, and grazie for letting an Italian- American wannabe tag along. IAH
Anything could happen on Ninth Street. And it often did. One morning, I saw a flock of Mummers in full feathery regalia loading up on fruit. Another time, I saw Frankie Avalon in a glittery cape, holding forth in a coffee shop with his entourage. Or maybe it was Bobby Rydell.