About Cifolelli

4/7/10

Period 3

REACH Project: Narrative: First Draft

Alberta Cifolelli: My Grandmother’s Story

I always knew my grandmother, Alberta Cifolelli, was an interesting woman. Born in Erie, Pennsylvania during the Great Depression, family and art were always close to her heart. Despite growing up in a lower-class neighborhood, her drive to pursue what she loved shone through and because of this, she ultimately achieved her goals. Along the way, she had many experiences that influenced and shaped her world. What follows is her story of family, friends, luck, and determination, a testament to the lessons she has learned in her life and of how far she has come.  

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I grew up in the classic nuclear Italian family. I had a mother, a father, an elder sister, and a brother seventeen years my senior. All of them were close, and are still close, to my heart. Nancy and Arlene, my best childhood friends, lived just next door and across the street (respectively). My household was of the open and friendly kind; an evening was never complete without guests to listen to the radio or read the newspaper with you. Like all the other families in our neighborhood, we went to the local Catholic church to attend Mass every Sunday. Instead of trying to save up money to buy the food which we could rarely afford, people used their gardens for the purpose for which they were intended: gardening. Our patch in particular had tomato plants and carrots. Other neighbors grew other vegetables or raised their own chickens. There was never a shortage of good, fresh food.  Some people may say that we were "poor," but it never seemed that way to us. Everyone in our neighborhood were in similar situations and did similar things. To us, none of this was unusual.  

Both my parents were from Italy, but they were from very different backgrounds. My grandfather on my father's side was the embodiment of the classic story of the classic immigrant: He came to America to work, leaving his wife and infant son in Italy. It took ten years for him to save up the money to send for his family. My great-grandfather Tonti on my mother's side, on the other hand, was a lawyer. His son, Leonardo Tonti, owned property, including businesses and theaters. This made him relatively wealthy in comparison to many people around him. But a terrible tragedy occurred, reportedly involving the accidental death of an infant. I'll never know for sure. But Leonardo was so distraught, he paid for him and his family to travel to America to start a new life. While this was going on, his brother Antonio decided that he would strike it rich too, by starting again in South America. He moved to Argentina and was never heard from again. Leonardo started a market and lost all his wealth in the Great Depression. But to this day, I've always wanted to go to Buenos Aires. There are apparently many Tontis there, and I may indeed be related to them!  

My father was deaf, and I never knew him to hear. Deafness may run in my family, but I believe his particular case was brought on by an accident involving a baseball colliding with his ear. That never stopped him, though; he wore one of the first hearing devices for the deaf. Despite being large and clunky, it did the job and he regained some of his hearing. Neither did his passion for baseball ever halt. He still enjoyed watching the games on television well into the night. But when the need to get some rest finally took its toll, he lost track of the game and couldn't remember what the score was. I remember many nights when he roused me from the middle of my slumber so he could consult me for the latest information on the happenings of the game.  

I had an older brother named Albert, who I never met because he died before I was born. My first name, Alberta, is derived from his. It’s both a burden and a blessing to be named after someone so close to you. Once I found a letter with handwriting that looked suspiciously similar to mine, but I did not recall ever writing it. Later, I discovered that the handwriting wasn’t mine at all, but the handwriting of Albert. On the other hand, carrying the name of my deceased brother was like carrying on his work and legacy. It may have been a big part of the motivation for me doing so well and becoming an artist.  

In addition to my familiar family, I also had a large number of extended family members, such as Aunt Lizzy, whose only pets consisted of many red spitz dogs, all named Linda. I had a godmother who lived three blocks away, who I visited regularly with my faithful canine companion, Palzy. One day in particular I was off to visit her, and, predictably enough, Palzy was my escort. But my godmother didn't want any dogs inside the house, especially mine, so Palzy stayed on the patio while I went inside. Hours passed. I lost track of time, and Palzy. I took the shortcut out the back door to my home so that I could be back in time for dinner, but later it occurred to everyone that the family dog was no longer with me! We initially feared that he was lost for good, doomed to roam the streets. But I knew that Palzy would never desert me; as soon as I caught a glimpse of my godmother's house, I also caught a glimpse of Palzy, who was just overjoyed to see me once again. Dogs are forgiving creatures that way.  

 My brother John was also a kind and easygoing soul. When he came back from World War II, he celebrated by buying for himself a Chevy. Not a cheap used car, mind you, but a beautiful, sleek, brand-new Chevy. Coincidentally, I had just received my driver's license and desperately wanted to show off my newfound freedom to my friends. John, being the dear brother that he was, let me take the car out for a drive. At first, I had a lot of fun traversing the streets. But then I made a terrible mistake by backing up into a power line, severely deforming the fender. I was perfectly healthy, but I felt sick with guilt. Fenders cost lots of money to replace, money that my family didn't have. I expected to be yelled at, to be scolded and punished, but my brother simply reassured and forgave me, and told me it was all okay. I was still new to the road, and the accident was just an innocent mistake. He should have forbade me from touching his vehicle ever again, but he never did. John was a very compassionate brother.  

John was also the person who first put me on the path to becoming an artist. I was never a good student in elementary school (all my report cards read, "Capable of doing better"). He noticed very early that I had a different kind of intelligence, one that didn't derive its strengths from rote memorization. I loved to draw in my spare time. I also loved to paint, but I didn't always have paint. In those days, children went home to eat lunch and played with schoolmates before returning to school. I was the kid who ate as fast as I could, then ran like the wind back to the school building so that I could make use of the school's art room. So, on the summer before I would go to high school, my brother got me the ultimate gift: a summertime art camp taught by a real painter. This was extraordinary for me, because summer camps were expensive and the only attendees who could go were wealthy kids from upper-class families. Most kids my age got jobs at the neighborhood five-and-ten. Needless to say, the experience changed my life. We spent our time painting en plein air, or in the outdoors. I had so much fun. When the camp was over, the teacher was impressed enough with my abilities that he called my parents via telephone and implored them to send me to his high school instead of the one I was zoned for. This special high school was the kind of school where the only way you could be properly prepared to get a scholarship for college was if you specialized in art. Sure, there were programs for drafting and woodworking as well, but this was an art school, if you went here, you were supposed to learn art.  

My parents would have been ecstatic at the opportunity, but they saw one potential problem: This special art school was an all-boys school, with 400 boys and only 20 girls. Coming from a very conservative family, my parents were obviously concerned about me, the little Italian girl who was never allowed to go anywhere by herself, attending a school where the majority of the students were boys. My father swore he would never send his daughter to a boys' school, so off to regular high school I went. The regular high school had a very dull art program, and it moved at a snail's pace. So, after about a month in that educational nightmare, I took a bus downtown, went to the school board, and switched schools. I forged my parents' signatures for the waiver forms and managed to get in to the all-boys' school.

All the problems and worries my parents had about this school turned out to be entirely false. The boys were nice boys, and I was well respected. I made all the school's posters, whether they were for the dance or the choir. My curriculum worked something like this: For one whole week, I would have nothing but art class, all day, every day. Then, the following week, I would study the usual academic subjects (Language Arts, Math, and etcetera). Meanwhile, I hid my report cards from my parents and continued to forge their signatures. I also tried out for the cheerleading squad, which would prove to be my undoing. There was a football game between the team of my art school, and, by a machination of fate, the team of the high school I was originally attending. My parents, none the wiser, attended the game to cheer on who they thought to be my school's team. Possibly due to the stress of it all, I had a stomachache at that very moment. I was excused from the cheerleading squad. For a moment, I thought I was safe. But as soon as someone in the crowd cheering on the art school recognized me and called out my name, my cover was completely blown.

Initially, my parents were more shocked than angry. Eventually, we came to the understanding that everything at the art school was going fine, and they allowed me to continue going there. (I think I was still grounded, though.) My teachers continued to encourage me to do well. They built the stairway to my success. In fact, the art teacher I met at summer camp entered my work into a competition and won me a national scholarship to go to art school. When I got to art school, I was even placed in the second-year class, I was so advanced. I would have never gotten so far without the help of my teachers, and ultimately the charitableness of my brother John.  

I was a commencement speaker during my senior year in 1949. My speech was about prejudice, and it was focused mainly on African-Americans. I didn't have much experience with people different from me when I was growing up; almost everyone on my block was Italian-American and Catholic. I didn't even know there were people who disliked Catholics until I left my community. If I were giving a speech on the same topic today, it would be a very different speech, encompassing not only prejudice based on race but on religion and political stance. I think it is a waste of brain power to focus your energy on hating a certain group of people for any of those reasons. It's been the fuel of the fires of so many wars. We should be using our precious time and energy on Earth to make it a better place, not to further divide us based on arbitrary differences.  

My only regret in life is that I never got to visit New York City when  I graduated from art school in 1953, which was when I wanted to go. Instead, I got a job at a department store, setting up the mannequin displays. It was a lot of fun, but I decided that if I was to be a painter, then I needed a different way to live. So I enrolled in Kent State University, in the Art Education Program. I wanted to be a teacher.  

Near Kent State was a sports bar called Ray's. I went there often with friends from college. That was where I met Charles P. Lamb Jr., the man who would later be my husband. Charles had just been discharged from the Navy, and was finishing up his degree in aviation technology. I was older and more mature than the other girls who were attending college, and Charles was too. There was never a formal proposal, but it was mutually agreed that we would be married by the end of the semester. We met in January, and by July we had tied the knot. I desperately wanted to call my mother so that I could tell her the good news. I said, "Mom, I'm going to be married."

She asked, "Is he Italian?"

"No, Mom." 

"Is he Sicilian?"  

"No." 

"Is he Catholic?"  

"I don't think so."  

"Well, bring him home then!"   

The political climate for women in the 1950s was not necessarily favorable. After Charles and I graduated from Kent State, we both looked for jobs. I had already found a job teaching art at a high school on Long Island. Charles was still looking, but he had offers in Atlanta, Detroit, and Indianapolis, some more lucrative than others. None of these places seemed particularly appealing, but I told Charles that if I had to pick one of those three places to move, I would definitely choose Detroit. Detroit was the home of the Cranbrook Academy of Art, and I predicted that I could get a job teaching there. But this was the 1950s, and the man was supposed to be the breadwinner of the family. Women did not belong in the workplace if their husband already had a job that could support them. It probably sounds ridiculous by today's standards, but that's the way it was back then. In the end, we moved to Indianapolis and lived there for three years.  

       Indianapolis is jokingly, but almost truthfully, referred to as "Naptown, USA." While it does deserve that title in many ways, my experience there was generally positive. We met many kind neighbors and friends there. There was also a reputable art school in the area, but I taught art at the local high school instead. One morning in particular - March 22nd, 1957 - began like any other morning in a school week. As I walked to my teaching job at the school, I was hit, head-on, by a drunk driver. Ambulances were summoned immediately. On the way into the emergency room, I told the doctor over and over, "I think I'm pregnant! I really think I'm pregnant!" The doctor was doubtful that any woman could still be pregnant after a collision like the one I had, but he ran some tests anyway. It was discovered, much to everyone's surprise, that I was not only pregnant in the third trimester, but that I also had a severely broken pelvis. There was nothing that could be done to help me. I had to stay in the hospital for two months. Even though the odds were stacked high against me, the pregnancy and childbirth proceeded as normal. I was well, and so was my new infant son, who we named Mark Charles Lamb.  

Being a parent definitely changes people. When you are a parent, your needs no longer outweigh those of your children. It is an awesomely titanic responsibility to shape the life of another growing person! A parent must also see to it that their kids are well-nourished, loved, happy, and that they have a good and moral system of values to live by. As a boy, Mark was smart and altruistic, and he cared deeply about his family, including his younger brothers John and Todd. He also had a drive to work so that he could be successful. In high school, he worked at a gas station. But he was also somewhat rebellious, and whenever Charles and I wanted to go out by ourselves, we had to trick him into staying with the babysitter.  

Meanwhile, my work as an artist was teaching me many different life lessons. The first and foremost lesson was in humility. Being an artist is a fiercely competitive line of work, and there is no easy method of doing it. When I taught in high school, I told the other faculty, "There should be no 'C' students in art school because a 'C' student isn't good enough to make it in the real world. You can only have 'A' students, because an artist has actually be good at what they do!" In most professions, if you stick at it long enough, you will grow better at it. In art, the opposite is true: art continues to become harder and harder, because the bar is constantly being raised higher and higher. Over the years, my work has become more metaphorical and symbolic, while making sure that there isn't too much going on the painting that could confusing to the viewer. I try to say more with less.

       I never lost touch with my family. Keeping contact with people from my childhood is very important to me. So, one weekend, I drove by myself back to Erie to visit my sister, accompanied only by my cat, Picasso. In retrospect, it was a stupid thing to try to take a cat in the car. Cats do not travel well, and by the time I arrived in Erie Picasso required use of the litter box. Since I didn't have a litter box in the car, and I didn't want his "leavings" on my seat, I let the cat outside to do his business. Picasso, who was startled in this unfamiliar neighborhood, ran away and got lost. After my visit with my sister was over and it was time for me to return to Erie, Picasso was nowhere to be found. My sister offered to keep an eye out for my cat, and to call me if she found him so that I could pick him up. Every night for the next several weeks, I got calls from my sister. In the background, I could hear the cacophony of countless cat voices meowing in unison. "Tell me what this cat looks like again?" she would ask. "Does it have a white tail?"  

Arlene and I, meanwhile, stayed in contact throughout our lives. In our 40s and 50s, we both ended up living hear New York City. (I was in Connecticut and she was in Manhattan.) My friend received a Ph.D. in Social Work, and did her doctoral thesis on the Italian-American woman. When she died, we were very close and I could not help but feel a great loss. Nancy, on the other hand, was originally very similar to me. We were even born on the same day. But our paths eventually split. I went to college, Nancy did not. The men we married were very different. Nancy now lives in Virginia, near Washington, D.C. with her daughter, because she has no resources of her own. She is a widow, has nothing to occupy her time, and hasn't driven a car in five years. On my bucket list, one of my goals was to visit her and her daughter, who is now my godchild. Our conversation was especially enlightening, given that we hadn’t seen each other since we were young.  

As people grow older, they lose a lot of things. They lose some of their health, some of their strength, and some of their beauty. They also lose friends, family, and people they love to the years. But what they gain is profoundly more important and sacred than all of those things. Old age also brings wisdom. It brings in new perspectives and accumulated knowledge. Learning life lessons is an integral part of growing older, and I’m glad to say that I’ve learned mine. I am always proud of my family, and I would like to be remembered by them as a fun person, generous in many ways.