The Truth about Bravery: A Little of my Family History

There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart.

Jane Austen

My grandparents are… quirky. They do odd things, they are afraid to leave their condo, hear thunder, or be left alone. To me it was strange that it seemed like they were running from us. I didn’t understand the things they did. How could say they loved me and say that they missed me if I hadn’t seen them for three years? It just seemed like a bunch of empty phone calls. But I was (unofficially) a journalist in training, and in my mind I was always looking for a story. It never occurred to me that I didn’t have to look very far to hear a story of true bravery; I only needed to look behind a concealed leaf in my family tree to find a story that would inspire me to write and share the stories of a generation.

            My grandparents are two Italians who have a hard time hearing, and if they want to say something behind your back they simply speak in Italian. My grandfather chastises me for my love of fiction. My grandmother hugs my father like he might disappear if she doesn’t hold him tightly enough. They were both convinced that it was a dream when, after three years of no face-to-face contact, my family went to visit them in New Smyrna Beach, Florida.

            I was quickly bored with their three-room condo, their confusing conversation, and their eagerness to fatten me up. That is, until I took a 6:00 am walk on the beach with my father to take photos of the sunrise. He explained everything.

             I never realized what amazing stories my grandparents had, what they went through to live life like they do today. Their story is one my father had to piece together on his own.

            My grandfather, my Papa, is incredibly intelligent. In school he was able to pick up French very quickly; because of this, he became an asset to his village during the German occupation of Italy in WWII. The German soldiers who occupied Brittoli knew how to speak French, so my grandfather could use his knowledge to help clerks communicate with soldiers. Papa also helped people find new lives across the sea in America. Over time he has forgotten most of the people he helped. He would spend weeks with hopeful immigrants, travelling to Naples to help them with the paperwork. He didn’t expect to be paid in anything more than food, lodging, and transportation. My father told me that, when he was younger, they would go to the grocery store and people would come up to Papa and thank him like an old friend; these were the people he helped.

            My grandmother, my Nonni, had lived through tragedy. Growing up she had a mother, a father, and many siblings; but this all changed when her mother died giving birth to her brother. Her father was left with five children and a farm to tend to. Nonni’s father died a year to the day after his wife.

            She met my grandfather when she was young, and he helped her on her journey to America. Oddly enough, he doesn’t even remember. She thought at the time that he was, as we would say today, a “player”. Practically on her own, he was her only hope of reaching a new life. Despite an uncomfortable ride, she arrived in America and began her new life. She lived in an apartment alone, though this was an anomaly at the time. She had to provide for herself and purchase the necessities for living. A little tea pot, a dish or two, some silverware… She built herself from the ground up.

            Back in Italy, my grandfather was finally preparing to come to America with his family. Not long before they were scheduled to leave, Papa was drafted. Thankfully, at this point, WWII was coming to a close and it wasn’t long before Papa made his way to the United States as well.

            He arrived in America in around 1945 and heard that there was a woman from Brittoli who lived nearby; my Nonni. They were married, bought a house, and became close friends with the landlord and his family. My grandmother and the landlady worked together in factories while Papa became an inventor. Nonni still ached for a family of her own; she had three miscarriages before finally giving birth to my father.           

My father told me this story while we walked along the beach early in the morning as the sun rose over the clouds lining the horizon. Every once in a while he would stop talking and look off with an odd, teary look in his eye. His parents had done a lot of odd things in his lifetime; and yet, you could see it in his eyes. He loved his parents; he knew all they had gone through to be where they are today. Alright… so perhaps they have license to be a little odd. Because the truth about bravery is, it never dies and it always leaves its mark.

My name is Jillian DiPersio and I am a sophomore at Windham High School. After hearing the story of my own grandparents, I have been interviewing the elderly. Through my research and interviews I have been able to dig up some incredible bits of history from the lives of local residents, as well as learn about people who are the products of a different generation. If you or someone you know would like to share your stories, please contact me at jillian@dipersio.com.