L'Italo-Americano

PAGE��� 46 L'Italo-Americano Do You Believe in Santa Claus? Part one SALVATORE���DI���VITA CONTRIBUTOR One Christmas day some years ago, as my family gathered around the Christmas tree, my granddaughter looked up at me and asked, ���Grandpa, do you believe in Santa Claus?��� Without hesitation, I answered, ���Yes ... Of course I do!��� I lied to her. I really didn't believe in Santa Claus. But I shrugged off my guilty feeling by placing Santa Claus on a par with the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. ���So what's the harm?��� I asked myself. ���In time kids will grow up realizing that Santa Claus does not exist.��� I looked at it as a kind of kids' rite of passage, so to speak: Once they learn the adults' secret, they become members of an exclusive club which excludes children younger than themselves, those who still believe in Santa Claus. So, what else was I supposed to do? At that time, my knowledge of Santa Claus didn't go beyond the poetic narration of ���The Night Before Christmas.��� Did you really expect me to believe that some fat guy in a red suit is going to fly around the world in a sleigh pulled by a bunch of reindeer? Give me a break! My mind was just about made up when I heard something that piqued my curiosity. It had something to do with grave robbers and St. Nicholas. ���What?��� I asked myself, ���Grave robbers and St. Nicholas?��� Hmm! Now, that's what I call interesting! No one would expect St. Nicholas and grave robbers to be linked to the same story. So how did the legend come about? The search for an answer was not easy, since I discovered numerous arguments regarding the existence as well as the non- existence of Santa Claus or St. Nicholas. Although the legend of St. Nicholas began in the fourth century, it was an incident that occurred in the eleventh century that got my attention. Therefore, I will begin at the end of the story, in the year ... 1082. It was then that a bunch of Italian grave-robbing sailors removed the body of St. Nicholas from its place of internment in Myra, Asia Minor, resting place for the Bishop. However, the city of Bari was chosen because, according to legend, Bishop Nicholas had once passed Bari on his way to Rome and was so taken with its beauty that he chose it to be the site for his burial. Therefore, in compliance with the bishop's wishes, the body was transported to Bari, in the region of Apulia, Italy where a cathedral was built in his name. which is known today as Turkey. At that time, Myra had been conquered by Muslims. Some saw it as an opportunity to move the saint's relics to a more hospitable location. During the planning stage, there was great controversy between Venice and Bari regarding the appropriate The death of St. Nicholas had been quite sad. He died in prison on December 6, 350 AD. Many mourned his death: Sailors, migrants and various travelers told and retold tales of Bishop Nicholas throughout Europe. But why was the Bishop in THURS DAY, ��� DECEMBER��� 13, ��� 2012 prison? Well, as the story goes, Bishop Nicholas displeased Emperor Diocletian by speaking out about issues which the emperor did not want mentioned. There were many things within the emperor's government with which Nicholas disagreed and he made his opinions known. As a result of his outspokenness, Bishop Nicholas was banished from Myra. He was never alone, however, for wherever he traveled his reputation as a man of integrity and courage preceded him and he was praised by everyone including the Pope. At long last, Bishop Nicholas returned to Myra. Once he set foot on the land, he was immediately arrested and thrown into prison where he remained until his death. Accounts vary as to whether or not Bishop Nicholas had achieved sainthood. Some say that Nicholas was made a saint by the church, but others dispute this contention, saying that Nicholas was never officially canonized. They argue that this was not a common practice in the early church. In those days his devoted followers simply spread the word of his righteousness, creating an even larger following and venerating him as the ���people's saint,��� a kind of sainthood by popular demand. Nicholas was a bishop known for his generosity and kindness to children. One of the more well known stories tells of a father who had three daughters. They were so poor, they were about to lose their home. The three young daughters decided to turn to prostitution to save their father from financial ruin and to keep their home. When Bishop Nicholas learned of their predicament, he visited their home and left three stockings, each containing a gold piece within. It has been said that this act began a tradition of hanging Christmas stockings and stuffing them with gifts. He became known as the patron saint of sailors, children, travelers, unmarried girls, bakers, weavers and many more in countries around the world. So how did St. Nicholas become Santa Claus and how is he connected with Christmas gift-giving? It seems that a poem known as ���A Visit from St. Nicholas,��� also known as ���T'Was The Night Before Christmas,��� was published anonymously in 1823. Some give credit for the poem to Clement Clark Moore who is said to have created it while riding in a horse and carriage through the snowy streets of New York City. When he arrived home, he wrote it down for his children. There are others who claim that it was written by Henry Livingston Jr. But notwithstanding its authorship, the poem is probably responsible for some of the concepts we have of St. Nicholas which included a description of his physical stature, his method of transportation, the sack of toys on his back, and the night of his visit. Prior to this poem, ideas about St. Nicholas varied considerably. But how did the kindly, plump old man with a white beard and a red suit, become the familiar Santa Claus we know him to be today? Certainly not from the Poem. In the poem, there is no mention of a red suit, nor is he referred to as Santa Claus: It reads in part: ���The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.��� So how did Saint Nicholas become Santa Claus? To be continued ... neighbors, have accepted our son and us more quickly than we ever could have hoped. I have no horror stories to tell you about Italians or their infamous bureaucracy. You can find plenty of those on ex-pat websites. Rather, what I���ve found since moving to Italy is that ���coming home to a place you���ve never been before,��� as the old John Denver song about Colorado put it, is much more complex, much more eye-opening, much more enlivening than one can truly prepare for. I suspect that many ItalianAmericans who have never set foot in Italy grew up with just as strong an identification with the country of their ancestors as I did. I know, also, that many others fantasize about being recognized as citizens and moving here. In this column I���ll write about my experiences in Italy as someone who is, according to Italian law, ���Italian by blood,��� but Italian-American by unpbringing. But I���ll also be writing as someone whose young son is (to my constant surprise) growing up in many ways without the hyphen. In many ways, that is, as simply an Italian. Alessandro was two when he began attending an Italian asilo nido during a three-month trial stay we made in Piemonte before deciding to move to Italy longterm. He was just short of three when we moved to Venice. After more than two years of Italian pre-school, after countless hours of extra-curricular play with Italian friends, he is comfortably bi-lingual. And though he is actually only half-Italian by blood, as my wife has not a drop of it in her, he is already more Italian than I can ever dream of becoming. It is through friends that he���s made that doors have been opened into Venetian homes and culture that would otherwise have remained closed to my wife and me had we arrived as simply two adult immigrants. It is through him that I���m reminded on a daily basis of the differences between growing up in Italian culture and growing up in ItalianAmerican culture. He is growing up Italian and American, while I will always be that hyphenated thing, an ItalianAmerican. And he is an intimate and enlightening reminder of how much difference that little hyphen can make. Home to a Place I���d Barely Been Before STEVEN���VARNI CONTRIBUTOR In spite of the fact that I was born and raised in Modesto, California, and that the furthest east I���d ever traveled was Reno, I grew up firmly believing that my ���nationality��� was Italian. I didn���t speak the language (though my parents and grandparents did). I knew nothing of the country���s history. I���m not even sure I could have found it on a globe. A quick glance in any dictionary would have corrected my mistake and informed me that ���nationality��� was actually a matter of citizenship. But that���s not how we used the word in my Catholic grade school class in the 1970s. I was one of two Italians among a good number of Portuguese, a few Mexicans, a couple Irish, a German, and a few white-bread types who, as far as the rest of us were concerned, had no nationality whatsoever. In fact, my nationality only truly became Italian���in addition to American���three years ago. After spending four years acquiring the required documents, all duly authenticated and notarized, my young son Alessandro (born in Asheville, NC) and I were recognized as Italian citizens in a letter dated June 15, 2009. In the years since graduating from college, I���d read books on Italian history and contemporary society, as well as works of literature ranging from Dante to Pavese, Montale and Sciascia. I���d studied the language on my own in fits and starts. I knew infinitely more about Italy than I did as child and finally I had the passport to prove that my nationality really was Italian. I could vote in Italian elections. I no longer had to concern myself with visas. I could move to Italy. Two years ago I actually did. To Venice, with my wife and son. And since doing so I���ve never felt so American. It���s not simply the fact that many Italians can seem both more gregarious and more rude than many Americans, both more tradition-bound and more antiauthoritarian, more social while being every bit as individualistic��� Well, actually, it is these things, but not only. Nor is it a problem of not feeling welcome. On the contrary, we are extraordinarily lucky to have relatives here who couldn���t be more warm and helpful. My father���s parents were raised in a tiny village high above Genova, my mother���s in Sicily, and since moving here we have become close to second and third cousins Alessandro at a park in Venice in Genova and Piemonte and in my maternal grandmother���s hometown of Troina, whom we���d never met. We���ve made plenty of Italian friends, too. The parents of our son���s classmates, as well as

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