Memoria Italiano

The last two Thanksgivings have been unorthodox, last year in Italy, this year in COVIDland, neither observant of this peculiar remnant of the American exceptionalist mythology that permeates my life. Even more ironic, the discovery that one of my ancestors on my father’s mother’s side signed the Mayflower Compact, way back when, initiating this whole glorious/inglorious mess, bequeathing me my share white man’s burden/shame/guilt/curse. Not sure of whether to be thankful or not for whatever scrap of the genetic code and cultural history that inheritance has left me, although I am thankful for many things in spite of everything else, more serendipity than fate.

Falling into the black hole of genealogy, I have found legion in my ancestry, as reliable as the records may be: pilgrims, puritans, fishermen, bastards, royalty, legends, all manner, Colonials, Canadians, Englishmen, Scots, Irish, Welshmen, Normans, Frenchmen, Viking, Visigoth, Frankish, Austrian, Bohemian, Azerbaijani. A history of northern Europe lies in my blood, opportunity and opportunity lost, nothing clear, nothing pure.

All the while I’d rather be back again in Lucca, so far from my roots, dreaming of a Tuscany long gone yet still reflected in the land, the soil, the stone of the streets and structures, the very quality of the light as the sun sheds its energy on each hillside. The land speaks of how civilization has sought to reshape it and how in turn the land has reshaped civilization and its history. Some wine, some cheese, bread dipped in olive oil, and the sun on my face with my closest sitting nearby, under a blue, blue Tuscan sky. Thanksgiving.