Survival of Cultural Childhood Conflict

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Web~Witch is living and writing with a passion, surrounded by the picturesque beauty of a quaint New England town in Massachusetts. She is inspired by the gorgeous maples, the rolling hills and the vast sea. As a mother of five children, four daughters and one son, she has learned that life offers many challenges, yet, has found that there is always a path of least resistance. She enjoys every day and what it has to offer. Her dream is to pass along as much positivity as possible to others. Enjoying life to its fullest , laughing, spreading joy and humor and paying it forward is what describes the heart and soul of this woman. Welcome to her little corner of the world. Do enjoy some New England charm and warmth while you are visiting. Ta, WW

Survival of Cultural Childhood Conflict

I am a second generation American descended from French and Italian roots. (I know, it is no big deal, however, that is not where the story is going.) Hang on; it is going to be a rough ride!

The realization of our mongrel blend showed its true colors, as we the children of Georgette and Giuseppe, approached school age. When these two nations merged in holy matrimony, the question that needed a fair and balanced answer was, "which school should we send our children?”

Moreover, the religion of choice happened to be Catholic. Thus, choosing the proper educational facility for the offspring took quite a bit of discussion between the proud parents. (Actually, “discussion” might be a mild way of putting it.) Let me proceed to enlighten you on this seemingly no-brainer task of deciding which school gets the “prize”.

Our mother went to the French parochial school within close proximity to her mostly French pedigree, neighborhood. Our father, who was the son of the “flower of Italy”, to say the least, was presupposed to become a student of the famed “Holy Rosary”, Italian parochial school. "Fugettaboutit", the local Italian parochial school could never keep, what we now call the “ADHD” personality, tamed. Thus, he was shamefully sent on to the local public school.

Consequently, were we children to be sent to the French school that our mother attended? That would be a reasonable decision, would it not? Why wallow in well thought out rationality? It is not going to happen, folks.

Moreover, even though our father graduated from a public school rather than the fine Italian parochial school, his mother, (you’ve got it, the flower of Italy.) would not hear of his children going to the French school. She naturally demanded we attend the Holy Rosary School over Saint Anne’s. She did not quite say it in that way as her words were longer, scarier, and not in English.

Accordingly, that left the closest to walking distance choice of Catholic educational facilities, Saint Mary's High School. Yes, alleluia, the all-accepting, all-inclusive, Irish- American, Catholic school.

Suitably, that was the prizewinner. That was the home of all those misplaced second generation Americans. (Go JKF-ers!) Fittingly, it became the best choice for children in the middle of a multicultural family war.

The next thorny issue argued by the proud pedigree parents was, should we be taught to speak Italian, French, or both? Since someone would argue the unfairness of learning one language over the other, neither one could win the argument. We children did not understand why we could not be taught to speak both languages. However, back then, our parents in their wisdom figured out that we children might be too confused if presented with both languages. Thus, we learned English only.

Nevertheless, the crap really hit the fan when the wonderfully English speaking, neutral school of choice started teaching French in the fourth grade. That was the pivotal point where we learned something truly useful from our paternal grandmother...how to swear and curse in a different language! (Can you say, “I hope you choke on it” in Italian?)

To think our parents thought two languages would be confusing! Go figure.

May memories of childhood make miracles in the mind.
If they were bad, may they be forgotten in time.
Never lose the gift to share a few lines.
Of joy and laughter from your heart so fine.

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