Language and its deceitfulness has warped my mind into a permanent shape of complexity. It’s paradoxical craft allows it to connect people, but at the same time it acts as an agent of estrangement. Migrating from the small city of Vallecorsa, Frosinone in Italy to the opportunistic, enigmatic realm of America, I envisioned my 13 year-old Nonno (grandfather in Italian) arriving at Ellis Island, and immediately being overwhelmed by a scene of confusion as he watches the flapping lips of immigration officers failing to communicate with him. Nonno followed his instincts to Boston, where he miraculously settled down and shared his language and story with his new creation of an American family. Years later, when I contort my mouth in peculiar ways attempting to speak this unfamiliar language, I fail miserably and he chuckles.
…show more content…
Conversing with Nonno would start with a loud, friendly “hellooo dare!” as he failed to pronounce the “th” sound because of his intriguing accent. This blaring greeting would cause my sister Alex to burst into tears, which is where I first learned that Italians can be unpleasantly noisy. The fear of my Nonno laughing at my defective Italian again forced me to keep it simple, so a basic “ciao” would do for me whenever I would visit his home in Brighton, Massachusetts. As I grew older, The difference in language created a wall between my Nonno and me, and I did not have the power to decipher the complex language. I would often get depressed because of the thought of not knowing the language of my own past time. Sure, I loved him to death and he loved me, but there was a large piece of the puzzle missing that kept us
Conversing with Nonno would start with a loud, friendly “hellooo dare!” as he failed to pronounce the “th” sound because of his intriguing accent. This blaring greeting would cause my sister Alex to burst into tears, which is where I first learned that Italians can be unpleasantly noisy. The fear of my Nonno laughing at my defective Italian again forced me to keep it simple, so a basic “ciao” would do for me whenever I would visit his home in Brighton, Massachusetts. As I grew older, The difference in language created a wall between my Nonno and me, and I did not have the power to decipher the complex language. I would often get depressed because of the thought of not knowing the language of my own past time. Sure, I loved him to death and he loved me, but there was a large piece of the puzzle missing that kept us