Until we begin thinking about Italian migration in terms of diaspora, we remain stuck in the center of our own experiences, which, as I have learned, is one of many. For me, it began when I left my Italian neighborhood—filled with those Italians who never really identified with the land they had to leave and ventured into what my grandfather called, “’merica.” They lived in Little Italys. I left my little Italy every day I went to school, and came back into it to do homework, work that never validated where I had come from.
For those who did not leave the neighborhood, ’merica didn't wait for them to arrive; it came to them through newspapers, radio, film and television; it came to them in schools that taught them that Italians only mattered if you wanted to talk art, music, and eventually food—once the ’mericans got a taste of pizza...
