I wrote something similar before in here

but I had time to expand and explore more with it, I'm hoping to turn it in as a assignment later on.

Third generation

My own upbringing and watching the generations before me unfold and turn to dust, told me the story of the immigrants. My theory or hypothesis in this paper is focused on my Italian family specifically, but out of curiosity I researched and found I wasn’t the only Italian with the same observation. Nor was this theory secluded to Italian immigrants I discovered in talking with other friends and researching online. I call this theory the “Generations Unravel”. The definition of unravel is as follows: to free from complication or difficulty; make plain or clear; or to take apart; undo; destroy. There are many Authors I've recently come into contact with who have greatly influenced my writing and thought process on this theory, they must be acknowledged.

Angelo Pellegrini was introduced to me last summer by a family friend. His book "Americans by Choice" has changed my life immensely. In this book the man wrote on various Italian immigrants on the west coast. It was an inside look for me to know perhaps the hardships my own great-grandparents endured when they came to America. I also was able to find the answer to other cousins in this book as Pellegrini had written on some family I had in the Seattle area the Patricellis.[1]

The second Author which I was just made aware of recently by a fellow Italian is John Fante.[2] I picked up the book “Wait until Spring Bandini" a few months back and I have not been able to put it down. I have cried and giggled while reading this, similar experience to what "Americans by Choice" did to me. Again like Pellegrini did in his book, he made me painfully aware of the differences that became of generations. In this book he wrote of an immigrant family who had three boys who were all American born. The father and mother were very poor and spoke little English. In rebellious fate the three boys were very different and slipped as far away from their parent’s as possible.
When I started to look for answers for myself this past year to find out about who I was, it became clear to me that I needed to go to the closest source .My great-grandparents are dead so the main source was gone. My grandfather, their son is dead, so my source on the immigrants and first generations within my family were short. Of my grandfathers nine siblings only one is still alive. She is a woman who scares me. Extremely intimating, but she is the generation who will have my answers. I found old friends of my grandfathers and great Aunts, Uncles and ones that knew my great-grandparents and something became very apparent in the pattern in the way they spoke of their heritage. It was the kind I grew up seeing in my grandfather which brings me into the first generation.
First generation equaled denial. I had noticed in many of the first generation born American Italians I have met, many were ashamed. To hide this they joke call each other "Wop”,"Dego" my grandfather I recall hearing him on the phone echoing in and out of English and slang Italian with his friends. He never wanted to speak of the past with us ,the newest generations, NEVER. I noticed this with others of his age group; they just wanted to be accepted, sure their parents were born elsewhere but these guys, these guys they were Americans not Italians. They were not dirty like people said they were. Ellis Island wasn’t the only place where name changes happened. They happened right here in Shame. They wanted to be like John Smith down the street who had the nice cloths and toys, and ate something other then Macaroni. This shame and the Denial continued onto generation two.
The second generation I like to call “We Are American” In this group I observed my father my uncle and their childhood friends and the few I have made contact with since planning for an Italian reunion family picnic. Many spoke of being proud, loved embracing their Italian heritage, some attend "Italian festivals”, many brag of their cooking skills and love of vino. Still some aren't even aware of the town their family came from, know a word in their families tongue, and never knew the pain of being called a "wop" when it truly was meant to be a racial slur. They are American they go to work every day, they pay their bills and life just goes on. This goes into third generation.
Third generation find themselves asking who am I? This would be me, in all that I have found in this group it’s like a lost sea of people trying to swim to the ship. By now many of us are blended, Irish, Scottish, Native American a little bit of everything maybe. But the few who still identify themselves as an Italian-American like I, struggle for our answers. Many we are hungry for the knowledge the ancestors took with them. Many long for the land their family came from. Some now discovering what their true surname is. How can we truly be recognized by Italians of the native land, if we have lost through the generations everything that made us Italian, and now has turned us American.

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[1] "Americans by Choice", by Angelo Pellegrini, (1956)

[2] “Wait until Spring Bandini", by John Fante, (1983)