Italian, Jewish, Jersey: A Story of Belonging

Sometimes the story of who you are starts exactly where you thought it ended.

(Princeton, New Jersey)

“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”
T.S. Eliot

Growing up in Suburban, New Jersey, I never quite fit in. When I say I didn't fit in, I mean nowhere. I was the only child from my mother's second marriage. By the time I came into the world she had already had three kids. We hardly looked alike, nor shared many deep secrets or even fun hobbies. Every other week they would follow the custody schedule and leave for their father's house, leaving me alone. By the time I got used to them being around again they were back to being gone.

(Little me)

I disappeared into books and music. Writing was a way to understand my inner world, and attempt to make sense of the outer one that I felt rejected me at every turn. My parents worked a lot, and so spending time together meant going to work with them. My mother, Janice, owned and trained thoroughbreds. At one point she was one of the leading trainers in the Garden State.

In the winter we would drive to the freezing cold backstretch at the Meadowlands while it was still dark. Sometimes I'd walk some of the horses in the barn. Other times I'd just admire my leather jacket, ripped jeans clad mother as she gave orderd to her mostly male employees. When the races started, I'd have a nearby adult place my bets for me. Math was never my subject in school but I knew about long shots due to studying the daily racing form. I was always listening in on their convos to make mental notes about what the jockies and owners were up to that week.

It wasn't always the Meadowlands. In the summer we'd sit in our family owned box at Monmouth Park. That was a place that felt more like home than my bedroom ever could. If I got lucky, my cousins on my mom's side would join us. My little cousin Thomas would roll the racing form up and beat it against his leg while cursing at the screen for his bet to win. We all got a kick out of that.

My Mom's family is still deeply entrenched in New Jersey. My great grandfather Rafaele, was the first to arrive on a boat to Ellis Island from Italy in 1924. Then slowly more family members trickled out of our small mountain town of Pettoranello, which at the time was still a part of the southern province of Abbruzzo. Our area Molise became an independent province in 1967. There is still a long running joke in Italy. It is the least well known of the provinces and the Italians even made their own hashtag, "#molisenonexiste" which means Molise doesn't exist. They call it "Molisnt." At 12 years old I traveled there for the first time, and I must tell you that not only does it exist, but it is a majestic mountain maze, the classic Italy that every romanticized Hollywood movie still begs to believe in.

(My grandmother, Jenny, with her mother, Maria Teresa)

My mother's family never let us forget our collective Italianness. We grew up hearing the immigration struggles, which gave way to the struggles of the American dream. My grandmother, Giovanna Nini, crossed the Atlantic at the age of eight with her mother, Maria Teresa Procaccini. Waiting for them, was their patriarch, Guido. He gave Giovanna, a piece of gum, which she promptly chewed. Days later he noticed her mouth still moving up and down. "What's that you're chewing?"
"It's the disinfectant the Americans gave me."
I imagine the uprorious laughter.
Never having chewed gum before, and with all kinds of stories converging into one long line of real life telephone, Giovanna believed that this chewing apparatus was meant to disinfect the immigrants so they could begin their new lives in America.

Over time Giovanna became Jenny, learned English, went to high school, and eventually married my grandfather, Antonio Domenico Nini. After owning a successful Chrysler dealership, he gave it up to pursue the horseracing business. My mom worked long hours at the dealership learning all she could about cars, then she turned that energy to horses.

After her father got sick with three kinds of cancer, an aneurysm, and a multitude of other illnesses, she left behind a future in Molecular Biology, to return to the track. Her career made for an unconventional childhood, but it suited me, a truly unconventional child.

My father's side of the family was quite different. Fredrick was the first born son of a successful New York Jewish family. My grandfather was the Deputy Chief Medical Examiner for New York City. He helped develop the Medical Examiner system used in place today, instead of the old coroner system which often had little oversight. After accepting the position of Chief Medical Examiner for Suffolk County, the family moved out to Long Island.

A few days before my mother was to meet my father's family, she called it off. In her mind she was a divorced Italian catholic with three kids.
My grandfather decided not to take no for an answer. "Freddy, put her on the phone."

"Hello Dr. Weinberg, how are you?"
"Please, call me Sid. Freddy says your not coming to the diner. May I ask why you don't want to meet Diana and I?"

"It's not you. I really do want to meet you. But to be honest I am a divorced Italian Catholic, with three children. Fred is the first born son of a Jewish family. I am sure you'd like him to meet a nice Jewish girl. And I completely understand. I just don't see how this can work."

"Janice, if my Freddy is happy, then I'm happy. We will see you at the diner."

Nowadays it may not seem like much, when nearly half of all Jews marry out of the faith, and a litany of scandles that have caused many catholics to lapse in their faith. But this was the late early 90's. My mother was right to understand the pressure that a first born son in our culture lives under daily. In fact I believe that my father has spent his life comparing himself to his incredibly successful and famous father. I know because I do the same thing.

Ultimately, my grandparents blessed the union, with the condition that any children born, be raised Jewish and attend Hebrew School. My mother kept her promise, much to my childhood chagrin. I attended Hebrew School three days a week for a total of six hours.

My parents were generally not religious. My father used to repeat one line to me often, "How did G-d ever get mixed up with religion." And my mother laughed along with it. Me, personally, I came to resent religion entirely. The funny thing is, the only parent that ever showed up to the Jewish center events was my mother. I am still working on getting my father to come to services even today.

I didnt fit in at school, and Hebrew School was no better. The religious resentment gree within me except towards Buddhism. It made a lot of sense to me to live a life guided by compassion and empathy, and to let things come and go like a tide passing on a shore.
It wasn't until I became an adult that I realized just how important much Judaism meant to me. After my grandparents passed it was the thread that kept me eternally tied to them. Today I send my son to a Jewish school, and I hope to practice the traditions in our home that I missed as a child.

It wasnt easy to grow up in a home where my siblings attended church, and I sat back and watched them receive their communion, totally shut out of the whole process, and mostly uninterested. Meanwhile I was learning all these traditions at Hebrew School with no one to help me implement them.

Growing up between two or more cultures is not always easy and I empathize deeply with Avi. Although he is only five, there will come a time where he might hear the whispers in his mind of, "I am not Jewish enough for them, or I am not really Italian, or I Iook different than other Ethiopians and they see it."

Well-meaning, and some not so well-meaning family members would make comments that highlighted the difference between us. I was never quite Italian enough for the Paisans, and never quite Yid enough for the Jews. Now, looking back I see that being Italian and Jewish, a little rough around the edges, with the unbreakable habit of telling it like it is, makes me, not only enough, but it makes me quintessentially a New Jerseyan, an east coaster that always belonged. Not only that, but I was fortunate enough to be brought up in such a place.

I traveled the world hoping to find something that would explain my missing piece, and help me to quiet the yearning. I wanted inspiration for my art that I didn't think I could get in Princeton, Newark, or the Jersey Shore. Yet, when I returned home I realized, this is home, and this is where the desire to create began. My travels taught me about the human condition. I made friends all over the world. Still, it is as T.S. Eliot said, upon my return, I now understand truly where I came from.

Here is to the next chapter of exploration at home. Let us forgive ourselves for not understanding that we were whole from the start, and let us do our best to make sure that our children understand this lesson from an earlier age.

There is so much more to say, but for now Goodnight and Goodluck, dear readers. Thank you for letting me show you a little bit more of who I am, and the journey I am on to appreciate all those parts of me.

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If you are interested in reading more about my family here are some free articles accessible to all:

https://www.nytimes.com/1996/04/12/nyregion/sidney-weinberg-72-a-mentor-to-a-generation-of-pathologists.html