Oh, Beautiful: An American Family in the 20th Century (62 page)

Throughout her life, the 40-year-old Mary Jo had roamed far and wide in a little-noticed quest for mystical connections with the larger universe: finding nirvana in music, catching waves with dolphins, broadcasting the blues, meditating at an ashram, consulting a psychic, and joining Native American powwows. Her sense of awe had also become attuned to the everyday transcendent encounters that occurred closer to home: watching corn grow, looking into a dog’s eyes, writing and performing songs, and observing the interaction between her parents and their grandchildren.

Upon the altar, Mary Jo championed an eminently visible, accessible, and traditional force as the staying power behind Mom and Dad: “They hold the family together with a bond stronger than any man-made steel. God knows they pray. And God knows we pray, cross our fingers, knock on wood, cross our hearts and hope to die, hold our breath. Always together.”

I was no longer quite the agitator I once was.

I stepped toward the podium in a proper suit and tie, not used clothing in rejection of American consumerism. At 37, I was at peace with the cards that life had dealt me.

I was single, and I was grateful for it. I treasured the simplicity, solitude, and contemplation, like a contented monk. I disposed of the clutter in my home and kept one closet empty. Feeling as free and as happy as could be, I traveled far and fell in love with the undeveloped earth, from the rainforests of Costa Rica to the peaks of Nepal. I found humor and joy in the quirkiest of characters, from brother monkey to sister yak.

As I looked out from the lectern, I could see history repeating itself. Despite the differences among us children who were parading up and down the altar, we had learned from Dad and Mom to keep pushing ourselves to look beyond the differences. For my tribute to Dad and Mom, I strung together a few verses to echo the vibration that seemed to be playing itself out across the generations like some kind of musical refrain:

“
When you look at your children, the answer appears

As to how you’ve stayed unified all 50 years.

Your example has been the best gift from above:

It’s the gift that we call unconditional love.

“
Six completely dissimilar children adhere

To their own codes of honor, yet none of them fear

Clashing politics, lifestyles, opinions, beliefs,

For they know love goes deeper than any such griefs.

“
For the rest of our lives, that will carry us through,

And we’ll pass to our children and loved ones the cue.

As you’ve taught us, we’ll teach them to honor the bond

And to stay close together till death and beyond.”

Other than being brothers and sisters, we all shared one common trait on the altar that day. We were no longer quite the individualists we once were.

Dad was 75. He wore a badge of the Blessed Virgin Mary on his lapel. As he sat in the front pew, he raised his forehead in earnest, but the former Marine was at ease. During the Mass, he was thinking about “how glad” he was to have survived 50 years together. “How honored” he was to have his family and friends with him. “How pleased” he was to affirm that “what God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”

Mom was 74. She wore a crucifix necklace over a floral print dress. She greeted those in the pews around her with the cheeky grin and delighted eyes of her childhood. Yet she also exuded the self-assurance of someone who could point herself in the right direction and enjoy each step along the way. During the Mass, she was thinking about “how fast life goes. How every day counts. How easy it can be to waste it all away.”

At Mom’s request, the recessional song was “Let It Be” from the Beatles:

To get from the church to the dinner party, I hitched a ride with the photographer, who was a friend of mine. Relaxed in the passenger seat of his car, I became reflective.

I flashed back to the time when I was six years old. I once again saw my older brothers and sisters as kids joking around about who was a Polack and who was a dago. I remembered wondering what it meant to be an American. I looked further back at previous generations—first at my dad and mom, then at my grandparents on both sides—and it started to become clear what it all meant.

“
You know,” I began to fit the pieces together, “the anniversary culminates more than 50 years. It culminates a century. The whole 20th century of my family’s life in America.”

“
Is that right?” the photographer negotiated traffic. “How so?”

I took a long, slow breath. “Immigration. Assimilation. Going our separate ways. Coming back together again. It’s a big balancing act. A great big balancing act.”

“
Balancing what?” the photographer asked.

I told him about Serafino and Maria Di Gregorio. “They argued over the decision to come to America in the first place. It was a big fight. He wanted to chase his dreams. She wanted to keep the family together. I guess they compromised by bringing some of the family with them. They were a big, extended immigrant family.”

I told him about Michal and Marja Godzisz. “They argued, too, over pretty much the same thing. But they never resolved anything. He came to America. She stayed with her folks in Poland. It’s too bad their son had to choose between them.”

“
So your grandparents struck a balance in one case, but not the other.”

“
That’s right,” I nodded. “But that was just the beginning. Then Dad and Mom carried on their own version of the same argument. He became this rugged individualist, the self-made man who stood up for his beliefs no matter how many people he pissed off. But she’s always been the communitarian. For her, the whole point of life is to share it and enjoy it with one another while we have the chance. Otherwise, life ain’t worth the trouble.”

“
It’s interesting how different all you kids are, too,” said the photographer, who had seen each of us on the altar up close. “But you seem so tight-knit.”

“
That’s it!” I pounded the dashboard. “That’s the balancing act! We internalized the argument.”

He smirked, suppressing a laugh. “You mean you guys are all torn up inside?”

“
That’s one way of putting it!” I laughed out loud. “We couldn’t reject the Dad in us. We had to go out in the world and find our own places, too. We clamored for that freedom. But we couldn’t reject the Mom in us, either. We clung to all those things that make life worth living. They left it up to us to figure out how to have it both ways.”

“
So how
did
you?” the photographer kept driving.

I sighed. “It wasn’t easy.” I then told him our stories. I told him about the 1970s, when the cabal of four siblings in Genie’s pickup truck made a solemn vow never to allow a moral principle—be it erroneous, dubious, or righteous—to split the family apart. I told him about the 1980s, when Stan accepted my sexuality by appealing to the higher power of brotherhood and when Joe clipped his wings by moving in with Mom and Dad to help them out. And I told him about the 1990s, when Mom muted her declaration of independence for the sake of the common good, moving to another bedroom instead of to another state.

In all cases, rampant individualism could have torn the family apart. In all cases, checking that impulse had kept the family together. “The imbalance always seemed to weigh too heavily toward the individual,” I summed up the decades of family turmoil. “What held us together was the rejection of individualism run amok.”

Striking the balance between the individual and the community constituted the ideal life in America, at least in my family’s life in America, at least in our finest hours. In those defining moments, generation after generation, the individual exercised freedom in a way that made the community stronger. That was the meaning of our America. That was the best of our America. That was the beauty of our America.

To be an American in the fullest sense of the word meant to discover oneself as an individual
within
a community. The community could be the family, the neighborhood, the house of worship, the school, the military, a profession, a band, a team, a social cause, an artistic movement, a scientific pursuit, all of humanity, or all of creation. Some of the most meaningful moments of our lives in America occurred whenever we could find the power to be true to ourselves and yet to transcend ourselves at the same time on behalf of something greater, on behalf of some selfless endeavor that took us far beyond any fullness of individual purpose that we ever could have attained in isolation. To be an American meant to sustain the paradox of an individualism dependent on everyone else.

“
I can see the same tension in my family and a lot of the same patterns,” said the photographer. All four of his grandparents had immigrated to California from Mexico. “But the more successful we become as individuals, the harder it seems to keep the family together. We really have to work at it. That tension is there. It’s real. It’s hard to strike that balance. It’s messy.”

“
It’s like jazz,” I riffed. “In jazz, the musicians try to find a harmony amid the cacophony of voices. They play solos, but they complement each other at the same time. To make music, they have to listen to each other and work things out as they go along. They have to negotiate everything on the fly. But in the end, the music is richer and fuller than before, because each player adds something unique and new to the score.”

Jazz seemed like the best metaphor for America at its best. A dissonant harmony. An assemblage of eccentric characters who stumble upon new expressions of beauty by tripping over one another. Just like the everlasting marriage of an irreconcilable man and woman. Just like the give-and-take among brothers and sisters who have gone their separate ways.

“
Dad was the greatest American of us all,” I suddenly blurted out.

“
What?” the photographer abruptly swung his face toward mine and then back toward the road. “Wait a minute. I thought you said he was the rugged individualist.”

“
He was. He came as close as anyone in our family to being a self-made man. But he also knew better than any of us that being a self-made man depended on being fortunate enough to belong to a family, a community, and a country that gave him the chance to make something of himself.”

In his family, Dad found salvation in his Uncle Joe, Aunt Emily, and cousin Joe the priest. In his community, Dad found astounding generosity among people of ordinary means who loaned him money on several crucial occasions. In his adopted country, Dad found unimagined opportunities with the Civilian Conservation Corps, the G.I. Bill, a G.I. home loan, and private corporations that were properly regulated by the federal Securities and Exchange Commission that he had written about in college.

“
He was a self-made man who knew full well that no man truly makes himself without relying on others and giving back to others,” I said.

“
That is so important!” the photographer heaved a sigh. “So many individualists think it’s all about them, and they forget about everyone else.” He pulled the car into the parking lot of the restaurant where everyone gathered for dinner.

“
Dad was a hero,” I concluded. “And Mom was a hero for putting up with him.”

Midway through the celebration, after dinner but before dessert, Mary Jo pressed the play button on a boom box, invoking the oompah-pah of the “Beer Barrel Polka.” Claps and cheers erupted, prodding the bride and groom to wow the room once more.

They were 74 and 75, but they did not disappoint. Dad escorted Mom to the open space at the front of the dining room, where they stood and faced each other, holding hands. On the count of two, they swooped into the polka, spinning alongside the tables and startling people with the sudden and unpredictable kicks of the dance, swirling in infinity like the yin and yang, independent yet interdependent, just as rambunctious as ever.

Bibliography and Discography

CHAPTER 1: THE GREAT WAR

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Buehner, Kristin. “Lehigh Row: A Neighborhood Built for Immigrants Had Disadvantages, But It Fostered Traditions That Remain,” Globe-Gazette, March 22, 1998, A1.

Buehner, Kristin. “Lehigh Row: Neighbors in an Isolated Community,” Globe-Gazette, March 22, 1998, S1.

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