Giacomo

Giacomo Darro who made his friends call him "Jack" looked forward to going to church on Sundays. He would select a pew in the rear of St. Agnes on 17^th and Wharton and watch the local parishioners as they came in. He watched the pretty girls as they took their seats and wondered where that special young lady would be praying that Sunday morning. Giacomo came from a large family near Catania and conditions were hard for coaxing enough provisions from the dusty soil to feed such a family. There was sadness but some relief when Giacomo told his family he would try to make a life for himself in America. When Giacomo’s grandmother died, the Darrofugio family adopted him. Of ten children, Giacomo found his place right in the middle with his favorite stepsister Lisa Maria just a year younger than he was. She had made him promise to bring her to America when he had saved enough money for her passage.

It was Lisa he was thinking about when the priest came out to the altar to begin the services. Life in America was better than life in Sicily but still not an easy life. Giacomo looked down at his callused hands and wondered how he would survive if he had not been a strong man. He thought of his family living near the sea in the small village of Giappo near Catania. He remembered the narrow streets and the sunny piazza where he would gather after church on Sundays with his friends. Like many Italians, Giacomo liked to sing. "Una voce d’angelo!" A voice of an angel, the parish priest Don Pietro used to say.

Now here he was in a new country, far away from all his familiar surroundings and good friends. Philadelphia was full of immigrants from southern and eastern Europe and from Ireland. The Italians were the latest to arrive and therefore occupied the lowest social rank among the newcomers.

The Irish seemed to resent the presence of the Italians most of all, maybe because they occupied the same church and similar employment. On several occasions, Giacomo had narrowly avoided getting into a fight with an Irish coworker named Danny O’Donnell who seemed to want nothing more than to tangle with this new dago from Sicily.

Next to the church of St. Agnes, after Mass, the men gathered to play bocci like they used to do in the old country. The clicking of the steel balls brought back so many pleasant memories of his village and Giacomo’s eyes misted over as he watched a game in progress.

"Do you want to play?" Asked a voice behind him.

"No, mille grazie." Jack answered. He wanted to say more but he could not respond in English. He played the game well but today he would only watch. As he was about to return to his boarding house, the parish priest, Father Sweeny waved at him and motioned him to come over to him.

"You are new in the parish, my son?" Father Sweeny asked.

"I no speaka inglese, perdoname." Giacomo faltered.

Father Sweeny took Giacomo by the arm and led him to the rectory where they shared some home-baked cookies and some hot tea.

Giacomo understood nothing of what this gentle old man was saying to him but he was comforted by the kindness. From that day, Giacomo was determined to learn this difficult language of America.