August 20, 2025

My mother died at a fairly young age, I don’t know much about her side of the family. I know her mom didn’t seem to like us very much. Later in life I asked why grandma didn’t come to her daughter’s funeral, and didn’t come see her in the hospital. It seems Grandma Clare never forgave her daughter for marrying an Italian. We never saw her again.
Mom grew up in Queens, just east of Jamaica. That area was notoriously dangerous when I was growing up. Now it’s reasonably safe with a grade A- on the crime statistics websites. The house is well maintained with new siding and windows, and an SUV in the driveway, I see Mercedes, Range Rovers, and Audis driving down Murdock Ave, and property values often range in the low millions.
Today the area has a strong Caribbean influence. Walking the streets of her neighborhood I see Haitian and Dominican restaurants, the neighbors are friendly, greeting me with a nod and hello, and take pride in their homes with well manicured lawns and beautiful plantings.
When my mom grew up, it was a European community with mostly German, Irish, and Italian immigrants—a working class neighborhood. Her father was a hardware salesman and died soon after I was born. One of my earliest memories is of him in a wheelchair. I was in a stroller and in my imagination at the time, I understood how we were the same, both being wheeled around, Though I’m not so sure I saw it quite so poetically as my memory constructs the encounter.
Grandma claimed German heritage, but DNA tests show no German blood. I come out 61% Italian. With the possibility that my dad was 100% Italian, that means mom was at least 22%. So between the two of them, it’s possible one of my “German” grandparents was nearly half Italian. I wonder the pathology that generated so much anger toward her daughter.
When my dad died, we found my mom’s diary from her teen years. It turns out mom was a bit more rough around the edges then we knew. This sweet loving woman of my childhood had entries about friends released from jail and shooting rats at the dump. It turns out we were a lot more alike than I imagined.