On Father’s Day, I often reflect on the lessons that were taught to me by my late Grandfather Angelo Cifonelli and my father, Frank Biviano.
Today, I happened to see some beautiful tributes on social media to fathers and those who are descendants of immigrants. Mine are from Italy and Sicily, respectively.
This is our story.
Grandpa Angelo Cifonelli came to America at age 16 with a dime in his pocket and the shoes on his feet. Like others from Castel Forte in Italy, he moved to Cortland, New York.
He worked in a factory about a mile from where they lived on Bartlett Street. Like most Italian immigrants, he became a union man, with a career as a boilermaker.
My grandfather did everything he could during the Great Depression to clothe and feed his 6 kids and give them a good life.
One of the things the young immigrant men did when they came to America was to get pictures taken in fancy clothes and send them to their relatives in the “old country” to prove they had good jobs and were able to provide for their families.
My Mom, Josephine Cifonelli, was the eldest. She quit high school to take care of her 5 younger siblings so my Grandma Margaret Rose Cifonelli could work. Back then, sacrifices were real — not just giving up your cell phone when you were “grounded.”
There are so many stories about my Mom and the four brothers who came behind her. One had to do with her taking a frying pan to my Uncle Sam’s head when he was being stubborn. Another was how she took care of her younger brother by making him apple pies with a “NY” in the center because the loved the New York Yankees. The fun I would have with all four Cifonelli uncles growing up!
My father, Frank George Biviano, was born a few minutes after midnight on President’s Day. He was the son of immigrants, Frank and Rose Biviano, from Lipari near Sicily. My Dad was the kindest man I’ve ever known. He worked hard at Brewer Titchener Corporation and was 100% loyal to his wife and two little girls. Dad had a real gift for delivering puns. He was a loving man, who would give anyone the shirt off his back.
My uncles called my Dad “St. Francis” because he was so kind to others. Years later, I would name our son Michael Francis Lloyd, in his honor.
Frank loved outdoor grilling, Sunday dinner with meat sauce at 2:00 PM, gardening, and hanging out on the porch at 24 Mildred Avenue drinking a Manhattan. He asked any neighbor he saw to come by for a drink. He also loved the NY Yankees. I still have his retirement ring from Brewer Titchener and many other small bits of things that remind me of him.
My father was in the Old Timers Band in Cortland. Apparently, there is some story about him being one of the younger members of the band and my Grandpa Cifonelli disagreeing on the way the band was being managed. The band would stop across the street from my grandparents’ house on Bartlett Avenue each year during the St. Anthony’s Day parade. I joined the Old Timers Band myself, on flute and piccolo, when I was in high school.
Such lessons I learned growing up Italian and Sicilian. Back then “Columbus” was a voyager and a discoverer and Columbus Day was a national holiday to be celebrated. We would’ve never even have thought a day would come where Columbus statues would be vandalized and destroyed.
The interesting part is that many modern-day people don’t know about the discrimination against Italians during the Depression and many years after.
This 2019 Columbus Day expose in the New York Times is worth the read:
How Italians Became ‘White’: Vicious bigotry, reluctant acceptance: An American story.
I suffered from discrimination too — in a small hometown that was half Irish / half Italian.
Me and my Italian girl friends were called “dago” and “wop” so often, we started telling jokes to humor one another.
“What’s an Italian’s car sound like when it gets a flat tire?
WOP – WOP – WOP”
We all dealt with it and were just fine, on the playground and in the classroom. Walking home from school in the snow was always fun, though the temps got down below “zero” sometimes.
One day, one of the blonde headed boys teased me while walking home. I came home and cried.
That night after dinner, my Dad taught me to say: “I may be small, but I am mighty!”
I learned this at a very young age and it’s probably why, though I’m only 5’ tall, people know me see me as a strong woman who doesn’t take any crap from anyone.
At the end of the day, no matter what, I wouldn’t trade my heritage for any other.
My Dad would say:
“There are two kinds of people — those who are Italian and those who wish they were Italian.”
I still believe that – though I married an Irishman. But that’s a story for another day.
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