In October, my music mentor asked me to learn this song months ago. I was in Philly at the time, and the simple idea of it made my heart break. I had heard the whole song just once before. As soon as I heard the first line again, my heart cringed: “La meio gioventu’ partiu l’America….”

The best youth left for America.

The life I’ve lived, is on both banks of this ancestral wound.

Born in the Bronx, my parents, who were both born in Italy, decided to return when I was 10. When I started my first year of high school, my brother moved back to the US, for college. Boy did I miss him. I didn’t have the tools to grieve, but boy, did I miss him. Because I was a girl, moving back to the US at 19 was inconceivable, though it would be just a matter of time. I was jealous of his new life; it was the life I wanted. At that age, I felt like I’d never be able to leave the small Italian town I so hated. I felt like he had it all and I had been left behind.

At 25, I decided to leave for the US, too. I moved to Philly. I broke my grandparents’ expectations that as the youngest child, I’d stay to take care of Mom, Dad, and them. I broke the expectation of my aunt who had no children of her own, that I’d stay to take care of her. I broke my father’s expectations that I’d never live without my family nearby. Every trip I made, at each arrival we rejoiced, while the departure unleashed the guilt, grief, and rage of the wound. For two decades of living in the US, I watched friends and family resent the life I had chosen: “you don’t live here,” was(is) the common refrain that established(establishes) the separation. They resented me the way I resented my brother. They felt abandoned the way I had felt abandoned. They felt they have no way out. The way I did. I felt removed from them, misunderstood for my choices, distant for my experiences of life, foreign to my own, as losing my own belonging.

For me, this song, L’America, pokes at both banks of the wound, a long, sore ache. It’s bigger than me, I’m learning. It’s ancestral. I suspect it’s the ancestral wound I’ve come to contribute to healing in this lifetime. It’s a new thought. I’m still discovering my life as a tool of healing for the ancestors and the next generations, as well.

The song is from Salento, the heel of the boot in Italy and dates back to the 1870s, when Italy first became a nation and the first substantial migration from Italy to the US began. Italians were poor and hungry, they faced the ocean in the hope of finding a more prosperous life for themselves and sending money home so their loved ones would not starve. The best and brightest left, the ones who were more likely to make it left, so the ones at home could survive, too.

If in October, from the US, I had a hard time even touching this song, from Italy, a few weeks ago, while I was grieving something else, the sadness of the song brought me comfort. This woman’s grief chant, mirrored the grief rising in me.

La meju gioventù partiu l’America
La meju gioventù partiu l’America
la meju gioventù,
oh Maria, sorta mia,
la meju gioventù partiu l’America.

The best youth left for America

The best youth left for America

The best youth, Mary, my destiny,

The best youth left for America‎

Maritama è sciutu l’America e nu me scrive ‎
Maritama è sciutu l’America e nu me scrive ‎
forse ca s’ha truvata,
oh Maria, sorta mia,
forse ca s’ha truvata n’americana.

My husband left for America and hasn’t written me,

My husband left for America and hasn’t written me,

My husband left for America, Mary, my destiny,

My husband left for America and hasn’t written me.

Se iddu se lha truvata l’americana
Se iddu se lha truvata l’americana
jeu m’aggiu truvatu
oh Maria, sorta mia,
jeu m’aggiu truvatu nu paisanu.

If he found and American woman,

If he found and American woman,

I have found, Mary, my destiny,

I have found someone in my town.

L’America nu se chiama chiui l’America
L’America nu se chiama chiui l’America
se chiama la ruvina,
oh Maria, sorta mia,
se chiama la ruvina de la casa.‎

America is no longer called America,

America is no longer called America,

It’s called the ruin, Mary my destiny,

It’s called the ruin of the home.

The first and the last lines of this song still grip my heart. They recall the pain of who is left behind and the pain of who leaves. I’m still discovering how to heal this gripping. For now, just for now, I’ve learned to play it. I trust the song to reveal more layers of wisdom as I do.

Rituccia (As my people call me….)