An Afternoon in Chapel Hill

After a long weekend of warm, sunny October days, with the leaves finally revealing their autumn colors, Monday promised to be equally balmy and beautiful, before cooler weather sets in for Halloween, All Saints and All Souls Day, November. 

A good day, then, to meet a new friend for coffee in Carrboro and then run errands in Chapel Hill, including going to UNC's Davis Library to check out a book that is not available in Durham County. I deliberately parked downtown so I would need to walk through campus to get to the library. The point I pick to enter campus is a veritable allée of ginkgo trees, their yellow leaves illuminated by the dazzling sunshine.

I passed by a bright-red sculpture I had not seen before, designed to memorialize protests that preceded the removal of "Silent Sam," a bronze statue of a Confederate soldier that stood on campus for more than a century before it was toppled by protesters and then removed in 2108.  (Protests against the presence of the monument began as early as the 1960s, but really picked up steam and determination during the Black Lives Matter movement.) I just read that a tree has been planted in the spot where Sam stood vigil to The Lost Cause all those many years; next time I'm on campus I need to stop by there. "Forward Together, Not One Step Back!"

Walking across campus is an exercise in nostalgia. UNC, the nation's first public university, is where I went to law school, where my husband got his bachelors, masters, and law degrees, where our two children both went to college, and where I worked at the law school's career office from 2005 to 2022. I pass by The Old Well, the iconic symbol of the university modeled on the Temple of Love at Versailles. It's no longer a well of course, but a fountain, where a sip is supposed to bring luck in the form of good grades (many line up on the first day of classes for this purpose). I don't need those grades any more, but took a drink anyway. You never know when you might need some extra luck.

The law school has been located just off main campus since the late 1960's but before that it was in Manning Hall, right in the heart of the quad. And it was up those stairs and through those doors, on the morning of June 11, 1951, when Harvey Beech and J. Kenneth Lee walked into Manning Hall to register for summer school at the University of North Carolina School of Law, becoming the university's first Black students. Photographer Alex Rivera captured this moment in time with a vibrant and powerful picture -- I hope this link works so you can see it for yourself. 

Beech went on to become the first Black graduate not just of the law school but of the university itself. In 2004, near the end of his life, he was too ill to attend an awards ceremony, and asked a friend to deliver these words: “Use love to move up and on. Use love, not hate, to make a better world. . ..”

I arrive at Davis Library and take the elevator up to the 8th floor, accompanied by seven young women, some of whom are Black. Thank you, Harvey Beech, and Kenneth Lee, for opening those doors.

To a lifelong reader and English major what is more familiar, more wonderful than finding oneself in the peace and quiet of the stacks of a university library? What treasures await therein!

And then there's the moment when you spy the book you are looking for, in this case Tina De Rosa's Paper Fish, a 1980 novel set in Chicago’s Little Italy during the 1940s and 50s. It was republished by The Feminist Press in 1996, the edition which is sitting on the top shelf and which I check out.

I always love seeing this sign at the library exit. Makes me think of the young adult novel, a favorite of mine as a child, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, where the heroine, Claudia, plots to run away from home and hide out in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, along with her little brother.

The way back through campus to my car was equally lovely.

As I approached my parking spot I walked by what was once the location of Spanky's restaurant, a hangout beloved by many UNC students and townspeople too. Great food, great atmosphere. Before it closed in 2018, after more than 40 years on Franklin Street, founder Mickey Ewell said that “people drove all the way from Washington [D.C.], Charlotte and all different parts of the country to have a last meal” there. I vividly remember sitting in my favorite spot when I could get it, the front window, perfect for people-watching, with my friend and roommate Sandy as we each drank a cold beer and dipped salty potato chips in mustard. No really, yummy! And when I worked at the law school and someone wanted to meet me for lunch, Spanky’s was always high on my list. But alas, even the southern restaurant that replaced Spanky’s is now gone and a chicken finger chain with disposable everything is slated to open next week.

I'm back at my car, the words of a favorite poem, Gerard Manley Hopkins’ Spring and Fall: To a Young Child, floating through my head on this beautiful, nostalgic autumn day.

Márgarét, áre you gríeving

Over Goldengrove unleaving?

Leáves like the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Ah! ás the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By and by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you wíll weep and know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What heart heard of, ghost guessed:

It ís the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

Marinara: A Labor (Day) of Love

It's Labor Day weekend, and I'm making some marinara sauce to which I will add cubed eggplant (salted, pressed, and drained) to make Zoodles alla Norma – a simplified low-carb spiralized zucchini version of Pasta alla Norma. (Simplified: no separate frying of the eggplant and no ricotta salata. . .hmmm, sounds like I need to make the real deal one of these days!) Naturally, I start by sautéing some finely chopped onion in olive oil, to which minced garlic will be added shortly before the tomatoes – pomodori pelati – and tomato paste. (An aside: why do so many recipes instruct you to add onions and garlic to the pan at the same time? Garlic is so vulnerable to being overcooked, turning bitter, and even burning; it should only be added when the onions are just about ready for the tomatoes or other ingredients. My mother taught me this and I reinforced it endlessly with my own two children.)

Anyway, when I finally did add the garlic, when the onions were nicely translucent, and smelled the familiar fragrance of onions and garlic gently cooking in olive oil, I suddenly had a rush of emotion thinking about all the women in my family who had stood over a pot or a pan smelling that same unmistakable aroma. I kept thinking about this as I added basil and pepper and a pinch of sugar and later, the eggplant, and let it simmer. As I mentally ticked off the names of the women in the Mangano and Landino families, I realized I had forgotten the first names of two of my great-grandmothers. Thanks to my brother Joe's laborious genealogical efforts (laborious because it was all done pre-Internet), I quickly looked them up in my copies of the extremely limited edition spiral-bound books he put together.

So I salute each of them, on Labor Day weekend, these women in my family, their hard work unpaid and often unacknowledged, who stood over the stove making sauce, starting with that trio of olive oil, onions, and garlic: my mother Eleanor, her sister Maria, my grandmothers Jennie (née Giovannina) and Maria, my maternal great-grandmothers Maria and Sylvestra, paternal Francesca and Annunziata, my father's five sisters, born Rosina, Francesca, Teresina, Maria, and Carmella, but known to one and all as Rosie, Frances, Tessie, Mary, and Connie.

I wish my grandmother Maria had not died before I was born, or that I had been encouraged to cook with Grandma Jennie – my parents were trying so hard to become more Americanized back when I was a child. I have but a single memory of being with her in the kitchen at Chester Street, maybe I was ten or so, while she cut an onion telling me “Taglia, taglia, fine, fine!” Cut it, cut it, small, small!

Although marinara or Norma sauce can easily be made without a written recipe – and indeed, only one of my grandmothers was literate, and I assume none of my great-grandmothers were – I was working from a recipe from David Ruggerio’s lovely (lots of stories and reminisces) Little Italy Cookbook.  

And dinner, enjoyed like so many dinners by Dan and me, was delicious. Mangiamo, everyone! Let's eat!

 

The 75th Anniversary of my Father's College Graduation

 The Graduate

Today, June 1, 2023, is the 75th anniversary of my father's 1948 graduation from Columbia University. The significance of this event in his own life and the life of his larger family cannot be overstated. His parents immigrated from Calabria in 1899 and 1905. His father was barely literate – I am told he could haltingly make out the headlines of the Italian newspaper Il Progresso; however, on legal documents he signed his name with an “X.” I presume if you can only write one thing, it would be your name. His mother was illiterate, never having attended school at all. Dad had nine older siblings. Three of his sisters did not go to high school; in fact, I believe his oldest sister only went through 6th grade. The other six graduated from high school. All this was a great educational leap forward compared to their parents, their ancestors, but college and then medical school to fulfill a dream of becoming a doctor? How to make this happen to a poor boy born in a tenement, whose father died on the job when he was eight, and whose mother could not read or write? How to figure out what to do? Dad said he and his best friend Howie Cohen (whose parents were also immigrants, European Jews) discussed where to apply to college, of course assuming they would remain in New York. He said they had heard Colombia was good, maybe the best, and they decided to also apply to NYU.  Dad ended up at Columbia, Howie – who subsequently went to law school and became a federal judge – at NYU.

Dad wrote about the year 1945, the year he graduated from high school and started college. He had this to say about getting admitted to Columbia and his first day of classes:

During all this [the last days of World War II in Europe], I had applied to Columbia College and was scheduled for a College Entrance examination on May 4 – a Friday. During the examination at Columbia there was an interruption and announcement that German forces had surrendered in Denmark – a roar erupted – we all stood and applauded it for at least 5 minutes. Then we were told to proceed with the examination. . . . . .

On May 14^th . . . I had my interview at Columbia. My interviewer was Bernard Ireland – Bursar of the University. The interview went well – he was pleased with my record. I thought I’d have a summer off but he insisted that I start Summer session on July 2, 1945, since the Japanese War was still raging and my 18^th birthday was only 6 months away. High School graduation was June 25^th – so I had exactly 1 week to make the transition.

May and June 1945 passed rapidly. My concern over the Pacific War was growing. My college career would be interrupted – my mother was sick at heart to see her youngest might have to go off and fight in the war.

Monday, July 2, 1945 – A hot summer day. My first day of pre-med. I arose about 5:50 AM and prepared myself for the trip – by subway to B’way and 11th St for my first class. 8 AM - Humanities class – a must for all freshmen and sophomores – part of the core curriculum. . . .

 And so it began.

The Diploma

The precious document looks slightly warped under the glass. Is it actual sheepskin? It is in Latin, and my two years of high school study did not equip me to translate it. Fortunately, a translation is available online:

We, The Trustees of Columbia University
In The City Of New York, Formerly King's College,
Present Our Greetings To Each And Every One
To Whom This Document May Come. We Inform You That
[Graduate's Name]
Has Duly And Lawfully Completed All
Requirements Appropriate To The Degree Of
Bachelor Of Arts
And Has Accordingly Been Advanced To That
Degree With All Rights, Privileges And Honors
Customarily Pertaining Thereto.
In Fuller Testimony Of This Action, We Have Ensured That The Signatures Of The President
Of The University And Of The Dean Of Columbia College
As Well As Our Common Seal Be Affixed To This Diploma.
Done At New York On The [Day & Month]
In [The Year].

The diploma attests that a Bachelor of Arts was conferred on Joseph Anthony Mangano on the first day of June 1948:

“DIE PRIMO” – the first day

“MENSIS IVNII” – of the month of June (Latin “Junii” – with an “I” for the J, and a “V” for the U)

“ANNOQVE DOMINI MILLESIMO NONGENTESIMO QVADRAGESIMO OCTAVO” – AD 1948

The diploma is signed by the dean of the college, Harry Carman, and acting president Frank Fackenthal. Fackenthal was preceded by the longest-serving Columbia president, Nicholas Murray Butler, who was in office from 1902 to 1945. Butler, who was born in 1862, resigned in October 1945 (at the behest of the trustees as he was 83 and nearly blind), which means when my father began his studies at Columbia in the summer of 1945 its president was someone who was born during the Civil War! And on June 7, 1948, six days after Dad graduated, Dwight D. Eisenhower became Columbia’s president. Ike served as president until January 19, 1953, when he resigned the day before his inauguration as president of the United States.

The Photographs

My father’s oldest brother, my Uncle Dinny, who was 20 years older than dad and a lifelong bachelor, assumed a paternal role when their father died. My understanding is that Uncle Dinny attended the graduation but I don't believe my grandmother did. I'll have to ask my siblings and cousins to see if anyone remembers. But the two photographs taken that day make one thing clear: the entire family – my grandmother Maria Mangano, Dad’s nine brothers and sisters and their spouses and children – gathered at 19 N 10th Ave. in Mount Vernon, in the kitchen, to eat, drink, and celebrate dad’s achievement. 

The first picture is of my father, his mother, and his brothers and sisters. Grandma Maria is seated in the front row in the center, between four of her daughters, my aunts Tessie, Rosie, Frances, and Mary. In the back row on the far left is my father, only 20 years old, a hint of a smile on his face, and next to him, my aunt Connie and my uncles Lou, Dinny, Frankie, and Charlie.

The other picture shows most of the extended family around the table. My cousin Angelo and Uncle Louie are holding Columbia pennants aloft. My dad stands in the back in between his nephews Benny and Anthony, again smiling modestly but with unmistakable pride. Seated in the front at the left of the table are my Uncle Charlie and his wife Kay, eight months pregnant with my cousin Charlie. In 1974, Charlie would graduate from medical school at the University of Rochester and become the next physician in the family! I’m not sure who took the picture, maybe my Uncle David Fusco, or someone from the Strumpf family, who lived upstairs?

Dad would start medical school in the fall of 1950 at New York Medical College, like Columbia, in New York City, and receive his MD degree in 1954. He fulfilled his dream, practicing medicine for 57 years, and encouraging his children and then his grandchildren in their own educational pursuits. I, his daughter, remain in awe of what he accomplished in his life, and on that first day of June in 1948.

 

My Grandfather James Landino, 125 years today

On this day 125 years ago, February 19, 1898, my maternal grandfather James Landino was born about 30 miles northeast of Naples, in the village of Faicchio. He Americanized his given name, Vincenzo, to James after arriving at Ellis Island in 1915 and was thereafter known as Jim. Despite only having a couple of years of schooling, Jim always managed to find jobs that did not require much formal education but allowed him to dress up and take full advantage of his gregarious personality: barber, liquor salesman, real estate agent. My brother Joe and I were his first two grandchildren, and he doted on us. He had a serious stroke when I was four, and died the following year, in March 1962, when I had just turned five. What passes for my memories of Grandpa Jim are an amalgamation of true memory, things my parents, especially my mother, told me, and photographs. I have, however, always had a very strong sense of how much he loved me and how that love remains a part of me to this day.

Classic James Landino, nattily dressed, visiting who else but his daughter Eleanor and her family. I love the confident pose! (Taken at 19th N. 10th Avenue in Mt. Vernon, the house my father grew up in from the age of six, and where I lived until I was three).


Another picture obviously from that same day. My brother Joe, me (is that a diaper peeking out from under my heavily starched party dress?), my Aunt Maria, and Grandpa.


Christmas 1957, back in the day when you didn’t know a camera strap was in a picture until after it was developed. I’m about 11 months old, and as usual, mom has me decked out in a fancy seasonal dress. I love the way my grandfather is looking at me.


Well, this made me cry. It’s the letter my grandfather wrote to my parents the day he learned I had been born (in Germany, when my dad was doing his two year stint in the Army, and the news arrived in New York via telegram). Carissimi figli --Dearest children, it reads, you cannot imagine our joy in receiving your telegram, that now you have a baby girl and all has gone well. He says he’s so happy he doesn’t know what to write, but sends a kiss to my brother, another to me, and one to my mother and her "husband Joe,” formally signing it “Your father James Landino.” Grandpa, I still have that kiss!

Birthday Girl

The clock has just ticked midnight to my birthday, 66, unimaginable. Some birthdays I remember well, others are simply forgotten, which I liken to sedimentary rock, layer upon layer tightly pressed together, hard to identify one from the other, but somehow, all together, remembered or unremembered, they make me who I am.

But one birthday I do remember is my 7th birthday, in 1964. I have to admit I think I remember it mostly courtesy of a photograph taken that day, undoubtedly by my father, that sits on my bureau. I'm not sure why out of the many hundreds if not thousands of photographs taken of me or my family and friends over the years this one made the grade but somehow it did.

I'm sitting on the couch in the den at 495 North Columbus Avenue in Mount Vernon, my three-year-old sister Eleanor beside me and my mother next to her. My older brother Joe, Joey back then, also seven, is not in the picture. (No, we’re not twins, just baby-boomer-Catholic-spaced less than a year apart. Joe won't turn eight until February.) I'm opening a birthday card, and my sister is holding a gift-wrapped present I will momentarily open as well. It's all just so fabulously 1960s and every detail is memorably vivid to me, from the pumpkin color of the drapes to the apron my mother is wearing, to El and my haircuts with our fringe of bangs, the handiwork of mom. My mother was 31, and although she grayed early in life, here she still has her beautiful dark brown, almost black hair.

I'm wearing pearls and a little bracelet – pretty sure I got the bracelet for my 6th birthday – and my very favorite fancy dress with its black velvet top and three-quarter length sleeves, a black-and-white plaid taffeta skirt and, the crowning touch, a red rose at the waist. (I still love wearing those colors and would buy that dress in a heartbeat today!) I am focused on my task, the task of opening the card, and also the task of growing up. I had been in kindergarten only the year before and put ahead to the second grade, where I quickly learned that kindergarten behavior would not cut it. On one of my first days in second grade, I raised my hand, and when called on, informed the class that I had been to the dentist the day before. My teacher, Mrs. Hartman, nodded and said quickly, “That's nice, Maria” and returned to the lesson. Shamed, I realized that in second grade you do not just babyishly share random information at any time. As I look at this photograph, it is clear by January I have made the transition to second grade behavior!

So what was in the box? Oh I remember that too! My first watch, with its yellow leather band and an accompanying ceramic figurine of Snow White. I had been looking longingly at the three Disney watches in the girls department at John Wanamaker's department store, each with its own cute little figurine of a Disney character: in addition to Snow White, there was the Cinderella model with its pink leather band, and an Alice in Wonderland one with a blue watchband. My new watch was the perfect gift, exactly what I'd hoped for! My mother or father showed me how to wind the watch, carefully, a task I religiously performed every night. Many years have passed since that day, and although the watch itself is long gone, I still have my little Snow White figurine, and, of course, my memories.