An Italian-American Writer & Poet with a Yankee Outsider Perspective
It’s not mine or even my daughter’s, but my step-daughter’s wedding that suddenly appears over the horizon like a glowing ball of tendriled flowers. We will sit down with thirty-five others who love her and the adorable groom. What to … Continued
Recently, two excellent Minneapolis Institute of Arts docents guided my writing class from Metro State through a “City and Country” tour, with an added stop in the African rooms. I’ve followed this practice of taking writing students to the MIA … Continued
Spelling isn’t my strong suit: the author from Ferrara is Georgio Bassani. Title of his work correct: The Garden of the Fitzi-Continis. Other wonderful writers I’ve encountered in Italy sometimes have nothing to do with Italy. Their books sit on … Continued
So many kinds of racism, so many ways it hides or shows its true colors. In the Southern United States, with its centuries of enslaving Africans and Native Americans, white settlers, then citizens developed intricate, deep, subtle but often overt … Continued
“Don’t say such a thing in public,” I can almost hear him admonish. Yet, when I think back, piece together his behavior, that becomes the simple conclusion. Racial prejudice nearly ate him alive. He could have been worse. As far … Continued
In 1988, the Twin Cities went six weeks without rain, from mid-May to the early July. Usually June is one of our wettest months. We had bought our 1912 house several years before; it was bare of greenery except for … Continued
My father, the classroom professional, instructed us in manners, in American presidents, in Southern secession (after he, the boy from Pittsburgh, learned it himself). He also tried to teach us an ancient, musical, time-keeping method which I pull from memory … Continued
Often the items we save from the past have become icons; meaning had streamed into them. So I have brought from South Carolina my parents’ photos from BB. “before babies” as my mother used to say. My father, Leonard Henry … Continued
Here’s where the generation divides: Those who think it’s easy as pie to leave a comment on a blog, and those who pause, scratch the proverbial pate, and give up. Do not despair: my mother learned to drive way over … Continued
My Swedish grandmother was the most hidden of my family relatives. First, she died before I was six months old. Second, the name we were taught to call her wasn’t really her own, but derived from her husband’s nickname: Papa … Continued