Recently, someone
complained to me that all my stories make it sound like Super Mario and that I
shouldn’t make fun of other countries. He happens to come from another country
and feels insulted.
My intent is not to make fun of Italy,
and nowhere in my jokes do I, but I do have fun with the accent that comes with
immigration and its effect on my life. The people who spoke broken English
loved me, they gave me many names of affection, physically said I love you with
a pinch on my facial cheeks, kisses that seemed endless, and stories that they
themselves told to me with their precious accents.
Many a time Mom would laugh at herself,
as did my grandmother telling stories about themselves from long ago.
I had an uncle, Uncle Joe, who may be
the inspiration for many of my stories. Putting on his Italian accent Uncle Joe
would tell a story and have a room filled with relatives and me pitching
forward in hysterics, it was his gift. I love all those sweet moments I recall.
I had aunts that would open their mouths and you had no choice but to pay
attention and prepare for your sides to hurt, their reactions to themselves and
their predicaments.
But most of all, I could hear the
laughter, the laughter I am told you have when you read my stories. Hearing how
you feel about the joke makes me connect to Mom and Dad, Aunt Angie or Aunt
Tessie, Grandma or Grandpa and then I don’t feel so bad about missing the
people I love, because, you people fill that void.
I love you all!
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