Cousin Dario asked me, in English (cuz he's been living in England for the past nine years), "do you consider your mother an Italian or an American? I always thought of her as an American."
My initial reaction was American, for when she came to the States, after the war with a really handsome American Army guy, it was appropriate to assimilate into the culture. To eschew one's native country in order to more easily "fit in." However, Mom was guided by innate Italian mores and beliefs...she didn't talk about it, she lived it.
La Bella Figura is one of those innate, driving forces....Italians NEVER go out in their sweat pants; one dresses to go out, one looks his/her best when they go out, one doesn't want to embarrass him/herself. The beautiful figure. In clothes, behavior, relationships, behavior, cars, behavior...always la bella figura.
Mom lived la bella figure, every day she carefully, meticulously put on her makeup and dressed, even if she wasn't going anywhere. She kept her clothes well-cared for-- "if you take care of your clothes, they'll take care of you," she'd say as she carefully folded one of 20 cashmere sweaters. She always "behaved" in public, expecting us to do the same. (ahhh, the consternation I caused her!)
It seems this began from the day she was born...when she was 16, she wanted to go to a dance and didn't have a new dress or money to buy one (my Nonno was a caretaker for a school and they lived in the basement). So, Mom took curtains off one of the windows in the school (image large, picture windows in an old palazzo) and made herself a new dress. Off she went, had a great time, but came home to a fuming father who smacked her (it was common practice back then) and ripped the dress to shreds. Mom was sobbing...not because of the smacking, but because the beautiful dress was ruined. La Bella Figura....
When she met my Dad, it was very important for her to impress this handsome guy in uniform. She was embarrassed to have him come to the basement of the school, (LBF) so she asked a friend of hers if he could pick her at their large, lovely villa. So, Dad picked her up and dropped her off there...when he dropped her off, she'd go to the second floor terrace, wave goodbye, wait until he left, then scuttle back to the basement. One night, for some unapparent reason, he hid behind a tree after saying goodbye, and saw her slip out of the villa into the school. The school was brightly lit and music poured from the windows (I can't tell ya why, but it did), so Dad thought Mom was going dancing after their date. He confronted her at the end of their next date (why did he wait until the end of the date???) and my mother, ever mindful of la bella figura, more interested in saving face than in explaining, told him to "vai via," go away! The next week Tom brought flowers and apologies; Mom threw shoes and told him to stay away....eventually this all got worked out, obviously, and Mom maintained her bella figura.
I am reminded oh-so-often how we absorb our parents' ideas and beliefs, through modelling and lecturing and demanding, our parents instill their primal forces in us. Many times they are so deeply held, we can't even access them, they're just there.
Soooo, my Italian, American, Italian-American mother brought her curtain-dress, her basement life, her handsome guy with her to Texas (there's another story!) where she lived what she believed, shared her life and her ideas with me, my brother, Scott, and sister, Sandy, guiding us with love and honesty, and overlaid everything with La Bella Figura.
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