Alex Gallo-Brown shares the difficult adventures of three generations of men in an Italian-American family.
—
Excerpts from Succession
I.
My father used to tell me
how he would sit
on his grandfather’s lap
to watch the fights.
How when he would ride home
from the pizzeria
on cold Connecticut evenings,
the hot cheese would heat his knees
through the cardboard,
where the pizza would stay
unless he wanted a face
of his father’s hand.
Whap! Quick, and painful.
Another story went
that a family member
was connected.
It was only after his friends
were better educated
and Scorcese had made
all of those movies
that my dad could brag about
his tangential Mafia ties.
At the time, though, I imagine
it was a little scary.
I can’t say for sure.
I was born on a different coast.
On television, Italians carried guns,
discharged movie poetry
in rapid, profane bursts.
Sunday nights the Sopranos
reserved our house.
My mother served spaghetti
to our ghost-skinned guests.
My father and I
were the only Italians.
II.
My great-grandfather loved
to watch the fights.
The preceding sentence
encompasses everything
I have ever known
about the man:
his intransigent interest
in watching other men
club each other bloody.
The fights were, I imagine,
a story without need
of subtitles or translation.
The junction of fist with body,
the jarred face, the two men
performing their ancient dance,
pummeling each other for
prestige and power.
IV.
My grandfather,
my father’s father,
spoke five languages,
Italian included,
but would hear nothing but
English in his house.
Once, when I was young,
I watched a movie on TV
about an Italian immigrant
who squeezed olives one
by one into a jar.
It was a joke, of course,
a satire of Coppola,
but this is sometimes how
I imagine my great-grandfather.
Not his son, who was educated
by Jesuits. A student of language.
My dad’s family ate American food
in the house except for on special occasions.
My grandmother served waffles for breakfast,
tuna fish for lunch.
My grandfather voted Republican
until the day he died.
When my dad turned twenty,
he ran off to another coast
to grow his hair long
and smoke as much weed as he liked.
I was raised among communitarians,
hippies, Swedes.
VII.
Once, on Christmas, I saw my grandfather.
He was watching football in his living room
from a big, soft chair.
He had used to cheer
for the University of Connecticut.
Now he rooted for Iowa
and their Hawkeyes.
I didn’t ask how he had so seamlessly
made the switch. How he could be living
one life on one coast, then auto dealerships
for miles and fruit an endangered commodity.
Where are all the Italians? I wondered,
watching him watch the game.
My life is full of TV shows, movies, adopted stories.
When I was born, they tell me
I did not want to leave
my mother. That the doctor
hooked forceps into my face
and forcibly yanked me
into this world.
That my skull
bore purple marks.
My dad used to say
that he thought I was ruined.
But I came forth. I survived.
Here, I remain.
***
Editor’s Note: Alex Gallo-Brown has published with us before. See his poem “A History of Violence” and his essay “Grief: A Beautiful Place to Visit.”
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