Although many Italian Americans were sent to the South Pacific, others were willing to fight in Italy herself against Mussolini's Fascists and, in some cases, their own brethren in the regions where they still had living relatives. All of them proved their valor and their loyalty to the U.S.
Most of them had never been to college. Most of them had never been away from their tightly-knit families or their American hometowns. Military life brought them into contact with young men from all over the U.S. and probably contributed greatly to the process of Americanization. Shocked by the horrors of battle, they returned home in an uncertain psychological state. Having encountered other values that were put to the test under fire, they discovered a camaraderie with men of other backgrounds and were ready to break away from their roots. Risking their lives for their country gave them the impetus to better their living conditions back home. They were in no mood to go back to the subsistence level imposed upon them by the traditional values of their insular communities. They were determined to enjoy the freedom they had put their lives on the line to preserve. They were determined to overcome the prejudices of mainstream society, and they were driven to succeed.
For most of them, success meant a steady, well-paying job with a house in the suburbs and a new car. In order to achieve this post-war American dream they were willing to sacrifice their cultural heritage. Italian was rarely spoken to the children and never uttered outside the home. Trips to Italy were not even considered -- why revisit the battlefields of the war or the land that had tested their loyalty and was cursed by the poverty, disease and political cruelties of their ancestors? Vacations were to be taken in the good ol' U.S.A.
It should come as no surprise that the ties to the past were soon broken. The only traditions that were kept alive, as they were in my family, were the ones connected to food preparation. In almost all other things we behaved like the average American family of the fifties, but contact with food exposed our glaring differences. Our picnics were much more elaborate: we had the usual hot dogs and hamburgers but they shared the grill with fat sausages sizzling and spitting loudly like a miniature fireworks display. We also unloaded pots of pasta, baskets of bread and bowls of fruit just in case we were trapped there for weeks and everyone else in the park that day hadn't had the foresight to bring provisions. Much to my embarrassment, the cars and several picnic tables were set up like a military bivouac by my father and uncles so that the famiglia could feast together. But it was fun to feel like I was part of a gypsy encampment with music on the radio instead of violins. Oddly enough, picking dandelions along major highways was a regular family activity that my parents refused to forego even though we stood out like some roadside exhibit of Southern Italian immigrants to every passing vehicle.
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