Angelo's Saturdays
High School: Grades 9–12
Story
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The atmosphere at home compounded Angelo's mixed feelings. He had only been in Chicago for a year, but the memory of his homeland seemed to recede with every waft of stench from the alley below. He pleaded with his grandfather to describe to him the home his family had left in Sicily and the small but beautiful plot of land they had farmed for generations. His grandfather talked of the ancient olive trees and the taste of newly squeezed lemons over roasted lamb that had been slaughtered to mark a special occasion. As Angelo was lulled to sleep, he could almost feel the hot, dry wind called the sirocco that blew north from Africa over the rocky terrain. Angelo longed to know this land and to touch its soil that his great-great-grandfather had worked.
As the Blandinos all lived, ate, and slept in one crowded room, it was not difficult for Angelo to hear the conversations that took place after they thought he was asleep. His mother would scold his grandfather: "Yes, yes, yes, Vallelunga is as beautiful as you say it is. But I will tell you what is not beautiful: working that dry, stone-like soil. It could hardly ever feed us when I was a little girl. Do you want to put these notions in Angelo's head so that he wants to go back and suffer some more? Besides, there are no possibilities of any jobs other than working the land—I want him to have a better life."
His grandfather would reply, "I think working that land is better than working as a newsboy downtown—wherever that is. I have heard that there are all sorts of bad boys there who aren't afraid to lie, steal, and who knows what else."
Then his mother would just sigh and say, "It breaks my heart that only a few blocks away is a school that he could go to if we just didn't need that money. Vito's English is improving; I am sure in no time he will be able to apprentice himself to a tailor or in a shop."
His father would then say in a soft tone, "Sandra, you know we need the money Angelo earns. He could probably make more in one of those metal-stamping or tobacco factories, though."
To this response, his mother would always raise her voice slightly and would become more animated: "You know the air in those factories is foul and disgusting. He will get sick there! At least as a newsboy, he is out of this neighborhood where I am sure the air is much better for him to breathe."
Then both parents would stop talking, not knowing any longer what to say. His mother would sob softly. "You'll see," his father would try to reassure her, "someday he will learn English and maybe be a shopkeeper, or maybe he will be the priest of a large parish."
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If these conversations occurred while Angelo was still awake, he would cover his ears. He did not want to be a priest; he did not want to be a shopkeeper, or a tailor, or a grocer. He wanted to paint—not walls, but pictures of faraway places. As Angelo saw the pictures in his head, he imagined that the paintings would have the ability to transport anyone looking at them to a world away from this city.
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