Ancestry - Moxie Gardiner

Everything You Wanted to Know About the Infant of Prague

So ubiquitous was the Infant of Prague statue in West Side homes that as a child, I assumed every house in the world had one.

Some readers (mostly non-Catholics) have expressed curiosity about the references in my recent novel, Virgin Snow, to a type of statue known as “the Infant of Prague.” In the story, one of the characters decides to open a shop in her garage where she will create and sell beautiful garments for people to dress their statues, which represent Jesus as a child.

This scene was inspired by an actual Infant of Prague shop operated for years by a woman named Lena in a store front on Buffalo’s West Side. Many was the day that I walked by the window to check out Lena’s new garments, which changed in both color and style along with the Catholic liturgical seasons.

*The crown on the head of the statue symbolizes Christ as king. All photos by Moxie Gardiner*

So ubiquitous was the Infant of Prague statue in West Side homes that as a child, I assumed every house in the world had one. It did not occur to me that others might not, until I actually went to Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic, for a conference. I was traveling with a colleague who asked if we could stop in one of the souvenir shops as we walked back toward our hotel at the end of the day. She said she was hoping to find a small statue made famous by the city. “You mean the Infant of Prague, right?” I asked. She looked at me strangely.

“No,” she said. “I want to buy a statue of the Golem of Prague.” Now I looked at her strangely, as I had never heard of the Golem. So we walked to the Christmas Market on Wenceslas Square (it was early December) and, over a glass of hot Glühwein, we began to tell each other what we knew of these religious figures and their history.

As she began to ask questions, I very quickly realized that despite the number of times I had seen the statue I was familiar with, I didn’t know much about the Infant of Prague. “Why do they call it an infant?” she asked after I described the statue. I didn’t have a very good answer. “Why fancy robes? Why a crown? And what,” she asked finally, “did Jesus have to do with Prague?”

I had my own questions for her about the Golem, a mythical man created out of clay. “He is an important part of Jewish legend,” she said. “But he’s not as elegant as your little king.”

*The globe symbolizes Christ’s worldly domain.*

Years later, while doing research for my novel, I found answers to many of my friend’s questions. No, the Infant of Prague is not a baby, but a representation of Christ as a child. No, the statue does not have its origins in Prague. According to the website of “The League of the Miraculous Infant Jesus of Prague,” the statue was a royal wedding gift given by a Spanish Princess to her Austrian royal cousin in the 1500s, and later donated to a group of Carmelite friars in Prague. The robes, crown and miniature globe symbolize the “world-wide kingship” of the Christ Child.[1]

*Green signifies “ordinary” days in the liturgical calendar. Note, however, the fine gold brocade.*

According to that website, many miracles have occurred through “intercession to the Divine Infant.” During one conflict, it says, all the children of the city were taken to the Church for protection, and by praying to the Infant, they were all saved.

I have since learned that there is a similar story about the Golem. [2] A certain Rabbi Judah Loew of Prague in the 1500s was said to have made a powerful living creature out of mud which he called the Golem, a kind of combination man-monster whose purpose was to defend the Jewish community from violent attacks. Since that time, the Golem has been a popular figure with both Jews and non-Jews. According to several websites, plays, novels, movies, musicals and even a ballet have drawn on the tale of the Golem, including Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Today, a visitor to Prague can even take a “Golem tour” by exploring various locations in the Jewish Quarter.

When I think back to my visit to Prague, I’ll always remember our mutual surprise when my friend and I discovered we were talking about two different religious statues, and then learning how different the two were—one of the Christ child dressed as a king, the other of a towering man made of clay. What strikes me now though, is their similarities. People of many religious traditions who have felt powerless and persecuted at times throughout history understandably turn to the divine or the mystical for salvation, represented by symbols such as these.

I am curious to know how many of my readers had religious statues in their homes while growing up, or were told stories and legends that embraced the sacred, the mystical or the divine. I would also love to know if religion still plays an important role in your life. Please share your comments, below!

Moxie Gardiner is a writer, gardener, and traveler who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices chair yoga. Virgin Snow is her first novel.

[1] For much more information on the history of the Infant of Prague go to: https://www.ewtn.com/catholicism/library/history-of-the-infant-jesus-of-prague-1329

[2] For additional info on the Golem go to: https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/golem/

Merry West Side Christmas

Grandma was happiest surrounded by loved ones on Christmas.

This will be a difficult Christmas for me and my family, so permit me to indulge in a nostalgia trip, back to a happier time. I’ve had many wonderful Christmases at various stages of my life, but this year my elder relatives are on my mind, as are the wonderful traditions and memories that may be lost when they pass on. So this month’s blog will reflect on a typical West Side Christmas when I was growing up.

*It was no doubt a lot of work for Grandma, but there was nothing we loved more than being at her house on Christmas.*

I suspect that our traditions were similar to those of many West Side families, especially if your Grandmother was Sicilian. The weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas were a frenzy of cookie baking, house cleaning, gift-wrapping, and shopping at the Italian corner stores and butchers. Grandma often took me with her to buy preparations for the Christmas meal, and as a reward, I got a tiny box of nougat candy called torrone which I can taste in my mind to this day.

After school, Santa was on Channel 4 with his helper, Forgetful the Elf, and we kids would hold our breaths, hoping that Santa would read aloud one of the letters we sent him. My parents hung “The Chart” every year, a record of each child’s daily behavior, and some of us prayed that neither Santa nor his elves would see it, at least until after he left our gifts.

As Christmas drew nearer, I would walk with my brothers and sisters to either Woolworth’s or Kresge’s 5 and 10 cent store on Grant Street to buy gifts with our meager allowance. It was mandatory that everyone receive a gift, no matter how little money you had to spend. Rubber balls, paper dolls, chalk, and strips of caps for cap guns were among the affordable items.

*I’m sure Santa cringed when he saw our family coming.*

Once a year, of course, we would make our annual trip downtown to marvel at AM&A’s animated Christmas display, and to visit Santa. The downtown visit also included our once-a-year trip to a restaurant, usually the IHOP, where we got to eat breakfast for dinner, and put napkins in our laps like fancy people.

We went to church every Sunday during Advent, abstained from eating meat, and went to midnight mass on Christmas Eve when we were older (some neighbors were home grilling sausage just after midnight, to break the meatless fast). But when we were young, Christmas Eve was the night that we put up our un-decorated Christmas tree, hung our stockings, and went to bed early, only to lie awake most of the night, listening for the sound of reindeer landing on the roof and the rustle of Santa coming down the chimney.

*It seems that we often had White Christmases back in the day, and waited impatiently for Dad to clean the snow off the car before we headed to Grandma’s.*

*Santa often stayed up until the wee hours, putting toys, trains, and games together.*

At first light on Christmas morning, we would line up on the stairs according to age (as the oldest, I was always last). When my father gave the signal, we rushed down to see our now decorated tree, and what Santa had brought us. It was a mad, happy, chaotic scene of searching for gifts, opening boxes, and playing with our new acquisitions. Our stockings were always filled with walnuts in the shell, an orange (a Sicilian tradition) and a handful of Hershey’s Kisses.

*There would be platters of homemade giuggiulena, pizzelles, butterballs, and other Italian cookies, but my favorites were always the figgy cuccidati.*

Sometime in the early afternoon, we would head over to my grandparents’ small apartment where an enormous assortment of gifts sat on the living room couch, one for each of her children and grandchildren. Grandma always had a huge pot of sauce on the stove that you could smell coming up the stairs, freshly baked bread, and some sort of pasta, enough to feed all 30 or so family members who lived in the area. Sometimes Grandma would make homemade ravioli, and line the sheets of fresh pasta on towels in her bedroom to dry before filling them on Christmas morning.

*I remember the year Grandma gave me my favorite doll, Cream Puff.*

How I loved these family gatherings with all these wild and crazy relatives! We would dance, sing, joke, tease, eat, and eat some more. Always, my youngest aunt would organize us children to put on a Christmas play or pageant for the adults. It was never exactly up to Broadway standards, but Grandma always pretended to love it.

*This was what Christmas was all about–having fun and being with family.*

Those were the years when my large extended family was short on cash but long on love, and we had no worries about crowding all those people into a tiny apartment. It was all about being together. This is what I will miss most about Christmas this year; homemade comfort food, hugs, and an abundance of love. I want the younger generations, many of whom are also having a difficult time this year, to know more about our family and its traditions, to carry them on, and to know that it’s possible that one day we can have Christmases like this once again.

Merry Christmas to the thousands of you who have read my blogs and given me wonderful feedback in your comments. Virtual hugs to all of you, along with my sincere hope for a happy, healthy 2022.

Love to all, Moxie

Moxie Gardiner is a writer and gardener who grew up on the West Side of Buffalo, NY. In a previous life she was a journalist, magazine editor, speech writer, and policy wonk. Back in the day she made three solo parachute jumps, flew in an F-15 fighter jet, and crawled through mud pits at the Jungle Operations Training Course in Panama. She now meditates and practices yoga. She is almost ready to publish her first novel, set in Buffalo.

When the Saints Come Marching

The March celebrations honoring St. Patrick and St. Joseph couldn’t be more different.

The main feature of a St. Joseph’s Table is a beautiful altar with a statue of St. Joseph holding the child Jesus. Photo by Mateus Campos Felipe on Unsplash.

Back in the day, when the cold and blustery Ides of March arrived in Buffalo, many of us would set about preparing for two things guaranteed to lift us out of our winter doldrums: St. Patrick’s Day and St. Joseph’s Day. The beloved patron saints of Ireland and Sicily were revered all over the city, especially in the old waterfront neighborhoods settled by Irish and Sicilian immigrants, like the West Side where I grew up.

*Leprechauns and their pots of gold are today’s symbols of St. Patrick’s Day.*

Being of Irish and Sicilian heritage, our family celebrated both days. On the 17^th of March, long before we were old enough to visit an Irish pub, Mom would make cupcakes with green frosting, and drop a little bit of green dye in our milk. We would stand in the cold for hours watching the St. Patrick’s Day parade downtown, and proudly wear our “Kiss Me I’m Irish” shamrock pins, hoping for a peck on the cheek.

Two days later it was “Viva San Giuseppe” and a trip to our Sicilian relatives who always hosted the extended family’s St. Joseph’s Table. My eyes would light up at the sight of all of my favorite Sicilian foods: pasta con sarde, pasta fazool, carciofi, caponata, alivi scacciati, and plenty of other meatless dishes (it falls in the middle of Lent). Best of all was the dessert table, where cannoli, sfinge, cuccidati and zeppole held pride of place.

*Of all the wonderful Sicilian desserts, cannoli is my favorite!*

Despite the abundance of food, St. Joseph’s Day strikes a more solemn, religious note than St. Patrick’s Day. At every St. Joseph’s Table there is a beautiful altar off to the side, decorated with flowers (usually lilies), lemons, and a statue of St. Joseph holding the child Jesus. The tradition of this shared celebration is that no one is to be turned away from the table. Typically a large family affair back then, today restaurants and churches host community-wide events.

*Sadly, last year the pandemic limited our St. Joseph’s Table to just two.*

*It’s estimated that 13 million pints of Guinness will be consumed globally on St. Patrick’s Day.*

There was a time, especially in Ireland, when St. Patrick’s Day also had more serious religious overtones, but like so many holidays today, it has been captured by the commercial food and beverage industry. Irish pubs all over the US are jam-packed with Irish and non-Irish, Catholic and non-Catholic alike, enjoying the music and revelry now most associated with the day. On the other hand, I’ve found you have to do some searching to find someone in the US setting a St. Joseph’s Table outside of the Sicilian enclaves in large cities.

So I began to ponder two things: why are the holidays of these two patron saints celebrated so differently in the US? And how does one get to be a patron saint anyways?

According to catholic.org, patron saints are “special protectors or guardians over areas of life.” They are often associated in some way with a particular region, profession, or family. St. Patrick, for example, was actually born in Britain in the 4^th century, kidnapped and brought to Ireland at age 16, escaped back to Britain, became a priest, and returned to Ireland to bring Christianity to the Irish. St. Joseph, on the other hand, husband of the Virgin Mary, never visited Sicily as far as we know. But during a severe drought in the Middle Ages, the people of Sicily prayed to the saint and their prayers were answered with rain. The crops were saved and a feast has been prepared each year by grateful Sicilians and their descendants.

Perhaps the days are different because so many myths and legends surround St. Patrick (like the one about him driving out the snakes), or because the Irish are born storytellers and embellishers (think pinching leprechauns and pots of gold). Perhaps the Sicilians are simply a more serious people (certainly they are when it comes to food). Or maybe the Irish and Sicilian immigrants who came to this country celebrate their patron saints in a way that is simply a reflection of the things they loved most about their homeland, and they honor their saints accordingly. What do you think?

*Irish pubs will feature traditional Irish songs and merry-making on March 17th.*

Will you be celebrating one of these holidays? Does your family do something special on that day? I would love to hear your stories so leave me a comment below!

Sogni Siciliani

Last night I dreamed I was in Sicily again.

Last night I dreamed I was in Sicily again. In my sleep I could smell the oranges ripening on the trees; see the snug little villages in the dips between the mountains; hear the neighbors calling to each other from their windows, the familiar cadence like a song from my youth.

*Punta Secca, made famous by the TV series “Inspector Montalbano.” All photos in this essay by Moxie Gardiner.*

It was just a year ago this month that I ventured across the Atlantic to visit the home of my Sicilian ancestors. It is warm in Sicily in October, warm enough to see beach goers in the waters off Punta Secca down south as well as Cefalù in the north. The street vendors in Palermo are still selling lace parasols to tourists in October, not to keep dry from the rain, but to block the unrelenting sun.

*Valledolmo is where my great grandfather was born, worked in the fields, and left for America at age 21.*

It is said that a man named Frank Barone wrote to folks in his hometown of Valledolmo, Sicily in the 1880s, encouraging them to join him in Buffalo, New York. Over the years, some eight thousand Valledolmesi reportedly followed his lead and many settled on the West Side where they owned grocery stores or worked in factories along the waterfront, and went to church at St. Anthony’s where priests conducted mass in the Sicilian dialect.

*Mount Etna looms over the city of Catania.*

Many thousands from other small towns in Sicily—Montemaggiore Belsito, Serradifalco, and Villalunga to name a few—made their way down the mountains to the port cities of Palermo and Catania, and eventually found their way to Western New York as well.

*Montemaggiore Belsito, ancestral home of many Buffalonians, including my great-grandmother, sits high up in the Madonie Mountain range*.

*Fresh fruit is still plentiful at the markets in Palermo.*

Some Sicilian immigrants traveled south of Buffalo, to Fredonia, Dunkirk and the small towns and farmland along the Lake Erie shore that probably reminded them more of home. Sicilian families that did settle in crowded Buffalo neighborhoods would often travel to these towns and villages in the summer, to pick fruits and vegetables alongside relatives with a plot of land in places like North Collins and Silver Creek.

*Cefalù* *is one of the prettiest beaches in Europe.*

What a shock it must have been for my great-grandparents, along with thousands of others who fled Sicily, to experience their first October in Buffalo. Only a few tenacious oaks are typically holding their leaves at the end of October, and I remember more than one Halloween when I wore a winter coat and rubber boots beneath my costume.

The *Cattedrale di San Giovanni Battista in the old city of Ragusa.*

*The iconic Valle dei Templi in Agrigento…*

For those who are descendants of these brave Sicilian immigrants and have never had the good fortune to visit Sicily, I offer you these photos for a taste of what your ancestors left behind—a place with few jobs and opportunities, but also a place of great natural beauty and charm.

For those who have visited, I hope you will join me in dreaming of a future time when we can celebrate our heritage in sunny Sicily once again.

*Province registry offices were established in 1809, which means you can find your ancestors’ records in Valledolmo town hall archives as of that date.* *I was told that with the birth records of my great grandparents in hand, I could apply for dual citizenship!!*

*The last view of Sicily for many immigrants was this statue of a woman with empty arms at the port of Palermo. Perhaps they saw it as a symbol of letting go, of bidding farewell.*

*Our guides and translators, the wonderful Salvatore and Gaetano Mendola, made the trip to find my ancestors an extraordinary experience.*

Do you have ancestors in Sicily? Where are they from? I would love to hear your stories, especially if you have visited or want to visit soon.

Water in the Mouth

All I have to do is think about the authentic street food usually on offer at the Italian Festival—sfinge, cannoli, gardoons, zeppole, pizza bianca—and I begin to drool.

One of the things this monstrous thief, the COVID-19 pandemic, has robbed us of this year is Buffalo’s popular Italian Heritage Festival, usually held the third weekend in July when Buffalo is fully enjoying La Dolce Vita.

Dante Alighieri, one of Italy’s most famous sons, once said, “There is no greater pain than to recall happiness in times of misery.” I know what he means. I am feeling the pain in this miserable time of quarantines and lockdowns, recalling my many happy years attending the Italian Festival, and being transported back to a time and place that felt so much like the neighborhood where I grew up.

There is an Italian expression, avere l’acquolina in bocca, literally meaning to have water in the mouth. All I have to do is think about the authentic street food usually on offer at the Italian Festival—sfinge, cannoli, gardoons, zeppole, pizza bianca—and I begin to drool. Many of the vendors have been there for years, some for generations, making food the way my Sicilian grandmother did. But lest you get the impression that the festival is all about food, let me quickly add a little bit of history.

Most people from the Buffalo metropolitan area are familiar with the version of the festival that for many years was held on Hertel Avenue in North Buffalo, where it moved in the late 1980s along with many of the city’s Italians. After a couple of decades on Hertel, the festival expanded exponentially and outgrew the city streets. In 2018, the festival moved to Buffalo’s Outer Harbor, and again in 2019 to downtown Buffalo.

*St. Anthony is still the man at the heart of the Italian Festival.*

“The Buffalo Lawn Fete,” however, was actually born nearly 100 years ago at St. Anthony of Padua Church on the lower West Side. The Italian community founded the Saint Anthony of Padua Church Society back in 1891 when thousands of Italian immigrants were pouring in, and it quickly became the social and religious center of the city’s Italian population. The parish established the first Italian language school and priests said the mass in Italian. In 1921, the church’ held the first 12-day lawn fete centered on the “Festa di San Antonio,” which honored St. Anthony, beloved patron saint of the oppressed and poor.

*What could be better than eating food that tastes like Grandma’s for $3.00?*

Back in 1921, my ancestors were among the thousands of immigrants from the mountain villages of Sicily who had settled on the lower West Side. My grandmother and her family lived on Efner Street, within walking distance of St. Anthony’s, and I like to imagine her and her siblings waiting excitedly for the festival each year, walking to the church, enjoying the food, and meeting and greeting friends and relatives in Italian.

My first encounter with the Italian Festival was in 1976 when it was revived after a hiatus and held again on the West Side. A friend who was working at one of the booths (shucking clams if I remember correctly), encouraged me to walk the four blocks from my house to Connecticut Street to see what was on offer. The whole festival only took up a few blocks back then, and had a much homier feel. I fell in love with the food, the dancing, the music, and the language, and I’ve been going back for as many years as I can remember whenever I’m in Buffalo.

*Old Italian expression*:
***Chi si volta, e chi si gira, sempre a casa va finire.***
No matter where you go or turn, you’ll always end up at home.
**—————————**

This year the plan was to transform Niagara Square into an Italian piazza, say the festival organizers. It was to be focused more on cultural traditions to introduce—or remind—people of the old ways. There was to be grape stomping, puppet shows, tarantella dancers and a procession carrying the statue of St. Anthony through downtown Buffalo. There was even going to be a genealogy booth, and I had looked forward to being fully immersed in the old West Side again.

No, I won’t be able to go the festival this summer and that makes me sad. But I have decided to search high and low until I find an Italian bakery that sells fresh, just filled cannoli in my new hometown. I will venture inside, wearing my mask, and buy half a dozen cannoli, just to console myself.

There is water in my mouth just thinking about it.

*Somewhere I will find a good Italian bakery this summer that makes authentic desserts, especially my all time favorite–cannoli.*
All photos are copyright by Moxie Gardiner

What Your DNA Test Won’t Tell You

As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I want to express my gratitude to my ancestors for the many ways they shaped my life.

Dear Great and Great-great Grandparents,

We never had a chance to get to know each other, but I wish we had. What I wouldn’t give to hear in your own words why you left your homes in Ireland and Sicily to come to the United States and settle in Buffalo. I wonder if the reality of living in a crowded city, so unlike your rural farms, met your expectations. I wonder if you ever missed home.

*Friends and family are everything in Montemaggiore Belsito, Sicily,*
*my grandmother’s ancestral homeland. All blog photos by Moxie Gardiner*

Recently, I went back to the ancestral homelands. I learned that your lives in Sicily and Ireland as poor tenant farmers were very hard. Both islands had a tempestuous relationship with the faraway central government, and people like you sometimes felt forgotten or deliberately taken advantage of by those in authority. You came to trust only your community and family, and followed them to the Irish and Sicilian enclaves in the US, in search of work and a better life. You held on to the old traditions and your native tongue because they gave you a sense of security. You were proud to be Americans, but reluctant to let go of your heritage, and because of you I can empathize with the many who want to come here someday.

The Irish are born storytellers — *Stop in any Irish pub and you’ll find songs, laughter, a pint of Guinness, and born storytellers like me.*

You would be happy to know that you have many, many descendants in the US, and for the most part we are thriving. Some of us have started businesses, others teach, still others serve their country or community. Many of us still cling to the old traditions: we make cuccidati cookies for Christmas, eat pasta con sarde at St. Joseph’s Tables, and celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. I think you would be pleased to know we have no problem embracing both cultures as our own.

It wasn’t until I went to Ireland and Sicily in October, and walked where you walked, smelled the sea-scented air, learned about your history, and rubbed elbows with the people who stayed behind, that I began to feel a real connection with you and understand where I fit in the long procession of humanity that comes and goes here on earth. Yes, DNA tests can tell us a lot about our biological and genealogical makeup, about inherited skills and traits, and physical characteristics. But what you bequeathed to me couldn’t be discerned through a DNA test alone.

*Nestled in the mountains of northern Sicily is the charming town of Valledolmo,*
*birthplace of my great grandfather.*

A DNA test couldn’t tell me why certain smells, sounds, and sights evoke powerful emotions in me. Why 20 years ago, when I drove through a valley between two mountains in West Virginia, I knew I needed to build a home there. As soon as I rounded a steep mountain curve and saw the small village of Valledolmo, Sicily, I knew why West Virginia spoke to me, even though I grew up in a city.

The wild northern coast of Ireland speaks to my heart — *The wild northern coast of Ireland, home to my Irish ancestors.*

The smell of Grandma's homemade bread brings back memories — *In Sicily, they still bake bread*
*like my Nonna used to bake.*

When I saw the wild coast of County Donegal and the cliffs that march right up to the sea, I understood why I was attracted to the jagged rocks along Lake Erie instead of the comfort of the beach. When a baker delivered fresh bread to a home in Montemaggiore Belsito, I understood why the smell of it can still make my knees buckle. And when I hear the sad songs of the Celtic harp, I now know why I feel a tug at my heart, a longing for a home that exists deep in my temporal lobe, where memory and imagination sit side by side.

Sunsets are memorable along Sicily's northern coast — *Sunsets over the beautiful northern coast of Sicily speak to me of home.*

A Sicilian man expresses his joy of life. — *Gratitude is the foundation of a happy life.*

By visiting your homelands, I learned what you passed along to me is more than genetic traits, more than culture and tradition. My emotional make up, personality, artistic inclinations, even some of my bad behaviors, may have come from you. Is it possible that my imagination is drawing these conclusions? Sure. But I prefer to think my soul knows what it knows.

As the Thanksgiving holiday approaches, I want to express my gratitude to you, dear ancestors, for the many ways that you shaped my life when you set sail for the United States. Thanks to your courage, I have a good life.

Root Bound

I am headed to Valledolmo and Montemaggiore Belsito in Sicily, to learn more about my great grandparents.

In October, I along with countless others will head to Sicily in search of my roots. The recent popularity of DNA testing has spurred renewed interest in finding one’s ancestors, and I decided that this year, I too, would walk in the footsteps of my forebears on a journey of self-discovery.

Hah. For me, that was easier said than done. The first challenge was figuring out where to go.

You see, like many people born in the melting pot that is, and was, the West Side of Buffalo, I am of mixed heritage. My paternal grandmother, a full-blooded Sicilian, was a significant influence in my early life so naturally I gravitated to Sicily.

Some were scandalized when my Sicilian grandmother married my Irish grandfather!

But what about my other ancestors? My Sicilian grandma married an Irishman. My maternal grandfather was born in Hungary. His parents were born in Switzerland and my grandmother’s people were German. The DNA tests also showed some surprises, like ancestors from France, England, and even Northern Africa, (not all that surprising if you know the history and geography of Sicily). Therefore, if I were a dog, I’d be what they call a “mixed breed,” or less politely, a “mutt.”

What’s a girl to do? I’d run out of money before I’d be able to take that kind of ancestry tour.

Which made me wonder, what are we really looking for when we search our roots? What is it we think we’ll learn? Certainly, it would be helpful to know if we have a predisposition toward certain illnesses or behaviors. For example, is my anxiety something prompted by today’s environment, or is it simply part of my genealogical makeup?

For many, I believe an ancestry quest is something more profound. It is an attempt to answer that essential, existential question—who am I—to know where you came from, and who gave you the characteristics that distinguish you from billions of others, that make you unique. How rewarding it is to find your place on a family tree that is part of humanity’s great forest. Furthermore, we gardeners know that the strength and health of a plant’s roots are essential to its ability to thrive.

I solved my personal dilemma by focusing this upcoming trip on the homelands of my father’s people—Sicily and Ireland—two small islands surrounded by vast, daunting seas. I want to learn something about why so many tempted fate and left, and if they found what they were seeking. I hope to find long-lost relatives who will help me understand.

Great Grandparents Elisabeth and Anton were Swiss

I know that all my ancestors who came from disparate lands to settle in Buffalo did have things in common. They came from impoverished circumstances in hopes of making a better life for themselves and their children. And like many immigrants, they were met with suspicion and intolerance from the people who arrived before them. The English resented the Germans, the Germans disliked the Irish, and the Irish despised the Sicilians. We sometimes forget that prejudice exists within races, as much as it does between them.

Great-great Grandma Mary was born in Ireland during the famine

It is an indisputable fact that we are a nation of immigrants. Immigrants learn that how warmly they are welcomed in their new home is a matter of timing and numbers. In our 200- plus-years of history as a nation, the US has accommodated great waves of poor immigrants many times. They came unskilled, spoke little if any English, and often required government assistance. Many times as a nation we have feared there were too many of them. However, we need to remember that immigrants also bring something our country, any country, always needs: an infusion of new blood, strong backs, determination, ambition, and dreams. Just like our ancestors.

Our vet once told us that dogs with “hybrid vigor” live the longest, healthiest lives. Armed with new DNA research, I am joyfully embracing my mixed heritage, my chance at longevity, and my future opportunities to travel to all the homes of my immigrant ancestors, to pay homage to those who made me, uniquely me.

Have you taken a DNA test yet? If so, why did you take it and what were you hoping to find? I would love to know where my readers stand. Please send me your stories! I promise to include them in the comments.

Nonni and the Loaves and Fishes

Don’t let the name Gardiner fool you—I had a Sicilian grandmother. She and my grandfather lived on the West Side of Buffalo in an upstairs flat with three small bedrooms and one bath. They had eight children (and adopted two more) who were likewise highly accomplished in producing offspring, so I shared my grandparents with 35 other grandchildren. For us, my grandparents were the center of the universe, and Nonni, as we called her, was the sun. Continue reading “Nonni and the Loaves and Fishes”

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