PART ONE
Chapter 2
Giuseppe Garibaldi’s campaign to annex Sicily to Italy touted land reforms as incentives to lure Sicilians into joining. Those who got involved were not seduced by these promises, nor were they motivated by any nationalistic pride. They became involved to better monitor new campaigns and policies that would eventually affect them. The contadini (farmers) were all too aware of how poorly Sicilians had fared under their many rulers, and so they protected themselves by maintaining consistently virile vigilances always tinged with vigorous suspicions of authority. They had no illusions of being protected by this new government and its new laws. “La legge va contro al popolo” (The law works against people) is what they would say.
L’ Omini du Crocifissu (Men of the Cross), had begun as a social group, but gradually became a mutual benefit society. At first, the men vociferously discussed and argued politics, and vehemently complained about the contadini’s unfair treatment, ever the same now as before the unification. Rocco Aquilino presided at the meetings where men dunked dark, crooked, and tightly wrapped cigars into water glasses of red wine, in tempos matching the discussion’s pace. The men savored the sweet wine and tobacco while protesting the bitter tastes that came from being denied their rights and rightful lands; and, too often, being made fools of. And then at night’s end, among final opinions and fraternal declarations and half-completed card games, the men would ritually light the cheroots before adjoining.
The group viewed the cross as a fitting symbol of the oppressive burdens and humiliating scourges they had suffered at the hands of ever-changing governments and from the latifondisti, large landowners. Eventually the men agreed that talking and complaining had not, nor would it have ever, solved their dilemmas. They were now of the mind that only decisive action would create any lasting changes. Toward this end, they planned for strikes and riots followed by assaults on large property owners to capture Rome’s attention, and to force the latifondisti into giving back certain parts of their ill-gotten estates. Land ownership, they believed, was the key to creating shared wealth that would eventually generate tax revenues apportioned at reasonable and balanced rates. They would insist that Rome allow them to withhold greater amounts of local revenues in their treasury to finance and create honest governments that would maintain efficient and reliable services. And finally, they envisioned a new government that would create its own militia to protect and defend the island against future invaders.
Rocco Aquilino spoke passionately of injustices to his people. His family once held extensive lands outside the small village of Burgio. He always began his speeches recounting how his father was swindled of all but a small plot of land by greedy opportunists, themselves neighboring landowners called galantoumini. These unscrupulous neighbors were able to use their wealth to collude with certain government officials to alter original documents. One neighbor, Don Filippe Esposito, was able to produce documents that showing the Aquilino family properties had been sold to his family many years ago for non-payment of taxes. Having lost most of his property, Rocco’s father, Francesco, was relegated to living on a 2-hectare plot in one corner of his once huge estate. It was a miracle, through oversight, that this land was not also taken with the other.
“My father set out with ten other men to confront Don Esposito,” Rocco remembered, “They were armed and ready to fight any gabelotti (hired henchmen) who tried to stop them. They were prepared to isolate the don, seize his equipment, and ransom his farm animals until he relented to give back the land. ‘na cretinata—a foolish deed—” Rocco bowed his head. “They were very quickly assailed by combat troops immediately dispatched from Rome as a courtesy to the landowners.”
“I wanted to go, but no one would let me. I was too young,” Rocco said. “I still see my brother Michele heading out on foot, trying to keep up with my father. He was the first to die challenging the soldiers,” Rocco continued with clenched teeth. “Then more died that night. My father returned tied to a horse half dead as a model of what happens to those who fight for their rights.”
Rocco continued, “It was many months before he recovered from his wounds. And even then, he only sat in that chair in the corner. Humiliated and broken over not being able to protect his family or regain his property, he uttered barely a word to anyone, looking up rarely. He couldn’t look anybody in the eye, least of all the family he felt he had failed to protect. One morning, for no reason, he didn’t wake up.” There was always a long period of respectful silence following Rocco’s monologue. “I won’t fail this time,” he said.
The Aquilino farmhouse stood at some distance from the cluster of conjoined dwellings of the paise (small hamlet) in one corner of otherwise cultivated fields called corona. The ground floor served as shelter for the farm animals, mules, cows, and sheep. The sleeping quarters were in a loft above them. The men met in a top floor, in the kitchen. Living in close quarters with animals, the farmers knew their temperaments and behaviors, expecting that any different animal sounds or erratic movements would serve as alarms signaling intruders, possibly soldiers. This might give them enough time to hide, or scramble from the farmhouse to make their escapes.
Rocco slowly lit the kerosene lamp, keeping the wick short, to keep from lighting the house too bright. The nature of his utterance caused him to speak just above a whisper, although the farmhouse stood in isolation.
“If we don’t take back our land we will be chased from our own country,” Rocco said.
“Foreign soldiers are in our land and tell us how we should talk, what we should grow, hunt, and eat.” spoke Vincenzo.
“Every one of us has had family cheated, robbed, and even murdered by foreigners, with the help of the north and the church,” Mario said clinching his fist in the air.
“This land was ours, and now it’s occupied by Count Esposito, nu spagnolu (a Spaniard). I won’t rest until I restore my rightful heritage and make the bastard wish he never heard of Sicilia,” said Rocco.
“The first throat I will cut will be Gaspare Mancuso’s,” spoke Mario. “And when he is gurgling in his own blood, I will ask this gabelotto to repeat the threats and insults he used on my family and other peasants while demanding extra money besides the rent, or unfair contracts that would give him a larger part of the produce.”
“My cousin, Leonardo saw him pull old man Auggie Riberia off a cart, yelling at him and then hit him with a whip,” Giovanni continued.
The peasant farmers knew all too well what absentee landlords did not: While hired to watch the contadini, charged to collect whatever they deemed to be a fair share, the gabelotti pocketed much of what they collected, handing over but a fraction to the landowners. Witnessing their cruelties and greed, the contadini harbored an intense rancor for these men who once worked side by side with them. Each man claimed to know at least ten other men who would join the fight, and it would be in this word-of- mouth manner that a small army was to be formed.
Throughout the meeting, Rocco was distracted by Salvatore’s aloofness. The discussion’s intensity man to man seemed to falter into a deep hole that was Salvatore’s silence.
“Sarbaturi?” Rocco asked, “Ch hai?(What’s the matter?)”
“Chi hai? What do you mean ‘Chi hai’?” Salvatore shot back, shaking his upturned hand with thumb and fingers together in a point. “I’m listening for Christ’s sake. What do you want me to say?” The hand opened up as if flying into the air.
Rocco glanced at him suspiciously. He didn’t pursue the issue, however. He could have asked whether there was any truth to rumblings by certain paesani that Salvatore had been friendly with Mancuso, maybe even distantly related. More is the case, Rocco didn’t really want to believe this of a childhood friend, or more painful yet—know. It wasn’t the Sicilian way to ask. If these things were true, the honorable thing would be for Salvatore to admit them and accept what came from the truth; however, with no such confession and no real proof, Rocco would bide his time before passing judgment.
Rocco spoke to the group:
Paesani e figghi di Sicilia;
The time has finally come for us to act. We can no longer be treated as fools—in our own country. The foreign landowners buy all the land and leave it to dry and blow away with the African winds, while we starve from lack of work and lack of land to grow food. The lands we sweat on make the patrunu richer because he gets the profits, and pays no taxes, while everyday we must pay more: his share and ours. Our mules and donkeys and chickens are taxed; yet, their horses, cows, and sheep are exempt. Semu tanti babbi! (We’re awefully foolish). We send our children off to sulphur mines and watch them pass the landowner’s children playing under trees our ancestors planted. They merrily chase each other across grounds our great great grandparents cleared and cultivated with the sweat of their bodies and the strength of their calloused and battered hands. We watch as the church teaches their children to read and write while teaching ours to sweep and dust. They must finally realize that we live and die by the lands we own. Without them, we are nobody. Semu nuddu mmiscati ccu nenti!
We have already recruited 100 men who vowed to bring in a hundred more who will fight for liberation. We will start on the farms with labor strikes, and then we will occupy them, holding the owners and overseers hostage until we come to an agreement. There has already been some activity in the sulphur mines in Agrigento; and, other workers in Palermo intend to spread strikes out to businesses. Once we have gotten their attention and there is some progress reached, then we will petition the prime minister to allow us to reclaim our lands and reduce the taxes on grain, salt, and our animals. We will expect the Church to let us have the first chances to buy their lands, before they sell to foreign landowners, as in the past. It is time for us to stop being stepchildren who are mistreated in this new marriage called Italian Unification. As our movement goes forward today, we demand that Sicily be a sovereign state enjoying the same rights, and freedoms, and respect as our northern stepbrothers of unification.
We ask this in the names of San Pellegrino, Santa Rosalia, and Santa Giuseppe, and in the name of the father, son, and holy ghost.
Rocco’s speech was received with cheers and handshakes all around.
The men poured wine and altogether held glasses high in a toast: Semu Siciliani. Sempri Siciliani. We are Sicilians. Always Sicilians.
AFTER LAUGHING COMES CRYING: Sicilians Immigrants on Louisiana Plantations, Joseph L. Cacibauda, edited by Gaetano Cipolla
Published by Legas Press, P.O. Box 149, Mineola, New York 11501, USA with the help of a generous grant from Arba Sicula
Available from the publishers and available at online book dealers.
To contact the author please email at [email protected] Subject:After Laughing Comes Crying
Chapter 2
Giuseppe Garibaldi’s campaign to annex Sicily to Italy touted land reforms as incentives to lure Sicilians into joining. Those who got involved were not seduced by these promises, nor were they motivated by any nationalistic pride. They became involved to better monitor new campaigns and policies that would eventually affect them. The contadini (farmers) were all too aware of how poorly Sicilians had fared under their many rulers, and so they protected themselves by maintaining consistently virile vigilances always tinged with vigorous suspicions of authority. They had no illusions of being protected by this new government and its new laws. “La legge va contro al popolo” (The law works against people) is what they would say.
L’ Omini du Crocifissu (Men of the Cross), had begun as a social group, but gradually became a mutual benefit society. At first, the men vociferously discussed and argued politics, and vehemently complained about the contadini’s unfair treatment, ever the same now as before the unification. Rocco Aquilino presided at the meetings where men dunked dark, crooked, and tightly wrapped cigars into water glasses of red wine, in tempos matching the discussion’s pace. The men savored the sweet wine and tobacco while protesting the bitter tastes that came from being denied their rights and rightful lands; and, too often, being made fools of. And then at night’s end, among final opinions and fraternal declarations and half-completed card games, the men would ritually light the cheroots before adjoining.
The group viewed the cross as a fitting symbol of the oppressive burdens and humiliating scourges they had suffered at the hands of ever-changing governments and from the latifondisti, large landowners. Eventually the men agreed that talking and complaining had not, nor would it have ever, solved their dilemmas. They were now of the mind that only decisive action would create any lasting changes. Toward this end, they planned for strikes and riots followed by assaults on large property owners to capture Rome’s attention, and to force the latifondisti into giving back certain parts of their ill-gotten estates. Land ownership, they believed, was the key to creating shared wealth that would eventually generate tax revenues apportioned at reasonable and balanced rates. They would insist that Rome allow them to withhold greater amounts of local revenues in their treasury to finance and create honest governments that would maintain efficient and reliable services. And finally, they envisioned a new government that would create its own militia to protect and defend the island against future invaders.
Rocco Aquilino spoke passionately of injustices to his people. His family once held extensive lands outside the small village of Burgio. He always began his speeches recounting how his father was swindled of all but a small plot of land by greedy opportunists, themselves neighboring landowners called galantoumini. These unscrupulous neighbors were able to use their wealth to collude with certain government officials to alter original documents. One neighbor, Don Filippe Esposito, was able to produce documents that showing the Aquilino family properties had been sold to his family many years ago for non-payment of taxes. Having lost most of his property, Rocco’s father, Francesco, was relegated to living on a 2-hectare plot in one corner of his once huge estate. It was a miracle, through oversight, that this land was not also taken with the other.
“My father set out with ten other men to confront Don Esposito,” Rocco remembered, “They were armed and ready to fight any gabelotti (hired henchmen) who tried to stop them. They were prepared to isolate the don, seize his equipment, and ransom his farm animals until he relented to give back the land. ‘na cretinata—a foolish deed—” Rocco bowed his head. “They were very quickly assailed by combat troops immediately dispatched from Rome as a courtesy to the landowners.”
“I wanted to go, but no one would let me. I was too young,” Rocco said. “I still see my brother Michele heading out on foot, trying to keep up with my father. He was the first to die challenging the soldiers,” Rocco continued with clenched teeth. “Then more died that night. My father returned tied to a horse half dead as a model of what happens to those who fight for their rights.”
Rocco continued, “It was many months before he recovered from his wounds. And even then, he only sat in that chair in the corner. Humiliated and broken over not being able to protect his family or regain his property, he uttered barely a word to anyone, looking up rarely. He couldn’t look anybody in the eye, least of all the family he felt he had failed to protect. One morning, for no reason, he didn’t wake up.” There was always a long period of respectful silence following Rocco’s monologue. “I won’t fail this time,” he said.
The Aquilino farmhouse stood at some distance from the cluster of conjoined dwellings of the paise (small hamlet) in one corner of otherwise cultivated fields called corona. The ground floor served as shelter for the farm animals, mules, cows, and sheep. The sleeping quarters were in a loft above them. The men met in a top floor, in the kitchen. Living in close quarters with animals, the farmers knew their temperaments and behaviors, expecting that any different animal sounds or erratic movements would serve as alarms signaling intruders, possibly soldiers. This might give them enough time to hide, or scramble from the farmhouse to make their escapes.
Rocco slowly lit the kerosene lamp, keeping the wick short, to keep from lighting the house too bright. The nature of his utterance caused him to speak just above a whisper, although the farmhouse stood in isolation.
“If we don’t take back our land we will be chased from our own country,” Rocco said.
“Foreign soldiers are in our land and tell us how we should talk, what we should grow, hunt, and eat.” spoke Vincenzo.
“Every one of us has had family cheated, robbed, and even murdered by foreigners, with the help of the north and the church,” Mario said clinching his fist in the air.
“This land was ours, and now it’s occupied by Count Esposito, nu spagnolu (a Spaniard). I won’t rest until I restore my rightful heritage and make the bastard wish he never heard of Sicilia,” said Rocco.
“The first throat I will cut will be Gaspare Mancuso’s,” spoke Mario. “And when he is gurgling in his own blood, I will ask this gabelotto to repeat the threats and insults he used on my family and other peasants while demanding extra money besides the rent, or unfair contracts that would give him a larger part of the produce.”
“My cousin, Leonardo saw him pull old man Auggie Riberia off a cart, yelling at him and then hit him with a whip,” Giovanni continued.
The peasant farmers knew all too well what absentee landlords did not: While hired to watch the contadini, charged to collect whatever they deemed to be a fair share, the gabelotti pocketed much of what they collected, handing over but a fraction to the landowners. Witnessing their cruelties and greed, the contadini harbored an intense rancor for these men who once worked side by side with them. Each man claimed to know at least ten other men who would join the fight, and it would be in this word-of- mouth manner that a small army was to be formed.
Throughout the meeting, Rocco was distracted by Salvatore’s aloofness. The discussion’s intensity man to man seemed to falter into a deep hole that was Salvatore’s silence.
“Sarbaturi?” Rocco asked, “Ch hai?(What’s the matter?)”
“Chi hai? What do you mean ‘Chi hai’?” Salvatore shot back, shaking his upturned hand with thumb and fingers together in a point. “I’m listening for Christ’s sake. What do you want me to say?” The hand opened up as if flying into the air.
Rocco glanced at him suspiciously. He didn’t pursue the issue, however. He could have asked whether there was any truth to rumblings by certain paesani that Salvatore had been friendly with Mancuso, maybe even distantly related. More is the case, Rocco didn’t really want to believe this of a childhood friend, or more painful yet—know. It wasn’t the Sicilian way to ask. If these things were true, the honorable thing would be for Salvatore to admit them and accept what came from the truth; however, with no such confession and no real proof, Rocco would bide his time before passing judgment.
Rocco spoke to the group:
Paesani e figghi di Sicilia;
The time has finally come for us to act. We can no longer be treated as fools—in our own country. The foreign landowners buy all the land and leave it to dry and blow away with the African winds, while we starve from lack of work and lack of land to grow food. The lands we sweat on make the patrunu richer because he gets the profits, and pays no taxes, while everyday we must pay more: his share and ours. Our mules and donkeys and chickens are taxed; yet, their horses, cows, and sheep are exempt. Semu tanti babbi! (We’re awefully foolish). We send our children off to sulphur mines and watch them pass the landowner’s children playing under trees our ancestors planted. They merrily chase each other across grounds our great great grandparents cleared and cultivated with the sweat of their bodies and the strength of their calloused and battered hands. We watch as the church teaches their children to read and write while teaching ours to sweep and dust. They must finally realize that we live and die by the lands we own. Without them, we are nobody. Semu nuddu mmiscati ccu nenti!
We have already recruited 100 men who vowed to bring in a hundred more who will fight for liberation. We will start on the farms with labor strikes, and then we will occupy them, holding the owners and overseers hostage until we come to an agreement. There has already been some activity in the sulphur mines in Agrigento; and, other workers in Palermo intend to spread strikes out to businesses. Once we have gotten their attention and there is some progress reached, then we will petition the prime minister to allow us to reclaim our lands and reduce the taxes on grain, salt, and our animals. We will expect the Church to let us have the first chances to buy their lands, before they sell to foreign landowners, as in the past. It is time for us to stop being stepchildren who are mistreated in this new marriage called Italian Unification. As our movement goes forward today, we demand that Sicily be a sovereign state enjoying the same rights, and freedoms, and respect as our northern stepbrothers of unification.
We ask this in the names of San Pellegrino, Santa Rosalia, and Santa Giuseppe, and in the name of the father, son, and holy ghost.
Rocco’s speech was received with cheers and handshakes all around.
The men poured wine and altogether held glasses high in a toast: Semu Siciliani. Sempri Siciliani. We are Sicilians. Always Sicilians.
AFTER LAUGHING COMES CRYING: Sicilians Immigrants on Louisiana Plantations, Joseph L. Cacibauda, edited by Gaetano Cipolla
Published by Legas Press, P.O. Box 149, Mineola, New York 11501, USA with the help of a generous grant from Arba Sicula
Available from the publishers and available at online book dealers.
To contact the author please email at [email protected] Subject:After Laughing Comes Crying