August 10, 2025

“Eight of the hottest, tannest, craziest Guidos”
“Meet Tony Soprano. If one family doesn’t kill him.... the other family will.”
These are the first advertising taglines for the 2009 premiere of The Jersey Shore, and ten years earlier The Sopranos, two of the most watched representations of the Italian-American community on television.
Jersey Shore, one of MTVs most popular shows, won multiple People’s Choice and Teen Choice awards; The Sopranos won multiple Emmys, Golden Globes, and two Peabodys. And though Tony Soprano’s character tries to add nuance, both traffic in age old stereotypes.
My father grew up self-conscious of his ethnic background. He spoke of it often. When in my 20’s I found I didn’t know how to pronounce my name, he told me it was easier that way. We grew up generically American, Italian in name.
I spent the last two days visiting the most popular Little Italy sights in New York and it was an uncomfortable experience. I now wonder what I thought I would find. At the Cannoli King, the salesman schooled me on the pastry: Italian-American cannolis traditionally have chocolate chips and all their cannolis have chips—Italian cannolis not so much.
As I walk through the Italian quarter, I feel like an imposter. Workers nod in my direction, I look like I fit, but I don’t know the protocols and practices. I don’t know anybody like the people on Jersey Shore, I don’t know anybody who knows anyone like that. They’re Joey Tribbiani on steroids, over sexed, undereducated caricatures. And I don’t see them in Little Italy either. I don’t know anybody in organized crime. I have known a fair number of outlaws, none of them were Italian-American.
The Little Italys of NYC and the Bronx draw people from all over, the workers are always on stage. It’s a performative space of ethnic display. In the Bronx, busloads of Italian tourists unload onto Arthur Avenue. The people of Little Italy are even an attraction to their non-hyphenated cousins. In the end, as I confront my discomfort and think to lift my camera, I know I should take that portrait of a clerk looking out through a cascade of sausages. It’s a trope, but I’m loath to participate.