Alma de Color

Massismo D’Azeglio, an Italian statesman, once said of the newly-formed country of Italy, “We have made Italy; now we must make Italians. To make Italy out of Italians one must not be in a hurry.” I feel as though the search for my own identity is very similar to D’Azegli’s statement; “We have made a family, now we must make them Salussos. To make Salussos of a family, one must not be in a hurry.” It has taken three generations of Salussos in the United States to make me. I am the product of culture translated over oceans and time, and, though I have searched to discover my identity, I have learned that I am an unfinished product. I change moment to moment, piecing together the clues to who I am, who I was, and who I may be in the future. I run this leg of the identity journey, but I change, moment to moment, taking my time in fulfilling the next portion of the Salusso legacy.

Barney opened his eyes as the morning light peeked timidly in through the window over the East Ridge. The miners in Butchertown were switching shifts a gain, calling greetings to one another in the streets. Barney rolled out of bed and stretched. He splashed water in his face from the basin and then carefully dressed for another day of delivery, carefully putting on his starched white shirt and tie, like he did every morning. The garden at Bull Run was particularly abundant this summer, and he was grateful. He walked into the kitchen and set about making his customary pancakes for breakfast. His little robin chirped in his cage. Barney chuckled quietly to himself. So nice, his little “pettirosso” or robin. She loved pancakes. He broke off a few crumbs and fed it to the bird between the wires of the cage. It was time to let her out for the day. She would come home just before the sun fell behind the western horizon. He opened the cage, and she flew out the window, and Barney

A large part of Dad’s drive was a result of his relation ship with his father, George. By the time Steve arrived in ’ 52, George had accumulated heart problems and lost int erest in working. Steve’s youngest sis ter Carol described Papa as being a “great worker, a marginal manager, and a man who sought what he could not a chieve.” His wife, Rut h, described him in a poem titled “The Boxer”: My husband is a boxer---------- Not the fisticuffer kind; But all his papers, legal things, And things that he must find. He averages one box a week, But when stacks begin to fall, There comes the question, Where to put it? Front porch, Back porch? HALL? When something is lost, confusion reins, Each box must then be checked. And I must keep my wifely charm, So he won’t feel henpecked! I love this

In 1952, the U.S. developed the first hydrogen bomb, following on the heels of Britain’s atom bomb. The Korean War would still continue for four years before it ended. Hemmingway and Steinbeck both published novels, Jonas Salk developed a vaccine for polio, and Superman died. And while all the world writhed in conflict and birthed major events, Stephen Bernard was born in Butte, MT on January 18th. When he was four, his family moved out to Divide, MT. My father has lived an entire life of driven pursuit of provision. Even as a very young child, he was given many responsibilities. He told me of the summers he acted as a human fence, guarding the fields and garden from bovine invasion. He also helped feed and milk the cows while he was in grade school at Divide School. In addition to the hay, they fed potatoes to the cows. His mom, Ruth, would drive into Butte and pick up a carload of people to help with the potato harvest, and then fill large sacks with the tubers and pour them

Prologue I am born of earth and sweat and passionate ambition, but who am I? My surname is Salusso; would not this rose, by any other name, perhaps be a different flower altogether? Our names carry history and definition. My great grandfather first came to America from Pinerolo, Italy in 1907 seeking better work, and forged a new life here. I know him through documents, through dusty photographs, and stories, and I know him because his blood runs in my veins. I seek to bring to life these characters of my past, to give them voice and to research the border between factual history and historical fiction. In this project, I will trace the lives and histories of my great grandfather Barney Salusso and his bride Margarita Chiono Roncoglioni, their son George and his wife Ruth, and, finally, my own parents. My intent is to discover how the marriage of authorial voice and oral tradition, history and sensory memory, have birthed my own identity as an American devoid of la lingua di orig

OK, so a crazy random occurrence...occurred today. I was sitting in ICT, trying to cram for my Arabic exam tomorrow, write my final written and oral presentations for the same class, and trying to organize my thoughts on life and love and happiness and then the.....(Houseplant Song, anyone??), when all of a sudden, I was distracted by an elderly lady sitting by herself at one of the tables. I thought of my grandma, and was struck by a strange protective feeling towards the woman. Anyway, after a bit, I resumed my studies, only to be distracted again by a younger woman, (presumably her daughter), asking in a perceivably irritated manner if she would be able to walk out to the curb. I didn't want to interfere, so I kept pretending oblivion, until I saw the old lady standing by the door, alone, for a long period of time, barely able to support her own weight. So I went and asked if she would like some assistance out to the car...afraid of a slip and broken hip or something. And

She looked out the rose-stained window and watched the rain drip Down like torrents of slippery, hot blood, And wondered when the last bit of rain Would fall, plummeting down to the ground in silent agony, Vastly alone among the thousands of comrades; She wondered most about the man she missed. And he was in the middle of the smoke and mist, Fighting for his life, his breathing labored and sweat a steady drip, Wondering how many had fallen in his company of comrades, Lying on the weeping ground, covered in their own blood, Fear tormented his soul, and so he fought in agony, Blinded by the salty mist of tears and of rain. They had been battling for days, sloshing in the rain Fighting blindly with dark shadows in the swirling mist, Their muscles groaning almost audibly with agony; Bone-chilling weather slowing their movements like a cold molasses drip, And turned cold the once hot and boiling blood That surged through the veins of the fighting comrades. But the men had not always been su

Mist My love is vague and fleeting after rain, Like twilight he is neither day nor night, I often dream, beneath the stars have lain, In hope he might transpire upon my sight. Most oft he blurs the visage trapped behind His cloak of swirling droplets. Just as I Reach out to touch, he disappears on wind; He comes and goes upon my ling’ring sigh. On silv’ry threads he shivers, then he shines, With kiss of light from quiv’ring gentle breeze To tease and tug upon the lethal lines But won’t be caught; entrapped by none of these. To see my love, await the coming dawn, When fears and all obscurities are gone. The Silhouette When rays of sleepy sun come peek upon The stretched horizon found to east of shore, When darkness, fear, and dusk are found no more, The morning after night is hailed the dawn. My love to me is slowly taking on A shape I see I think I saw before, The vapored sunlight bright as gold does pour Around his formless face. And with fear gone,

The writhing worm is scared of those things new, Ling’ring at a crossroads, baffled by a call; Butterfly soars on wings of gold and blue. Possibilities shine like honeyed dew, Lurking mouths await the line to sink and fall; The writhing worm is scared of those things new. Empty wings fill with foretaste out and through, Perched on the chrysalis, she hopes to enthrall; Butterfly soars on wings of gold and blue. With fears the early bird will her pursue, Grasp her in its fearsome beak, and make her fall; The writhing worm is scared of those things new. Early morning sun, a breathtaking view, New horizons education’s flame recall; Butterfly soars on wings of gold and blue. Blind to which joys or terrors may ensue, Eager to begin, no matter what befall; The writhing worm is scared of those things new, Butterfly soars on wings of gold and blue.

She sits at the airport waiting for her flight; Butterflies have waged a war against her insides As she has never made this trip before. Iron bangles graced her wrists and vermillion stained her feet and forehead. The butterflies have been replaced by daggered hunger But the menu lists “oxtail soup”, and she Cannot see the choices for fear of the “Other.” Iron bangles graced her wrists and vermillion stained her feet and forehead. In place of oxtail, she eats curried eggs With her new husband. He is a stranger To her, and she a stranger to this land. Iron bangles graced her wrists and vermillion stained her feet and forehead. Her hands craft letter sent home with love While he catches up on world with Boston Herald And together, they are far apart still. Iron bangles graced her wrists and vermillion stained her feet and forehead. On a whim, he takes her to visit The conventional lady who sheltered him upon his arrival He waits for his bride to be criticized. Iron bangles graced her wr

At the hand of the Dictator many souls died, And the poor noble Spaniards started losing their pride. So their children were kidnapped to an island offshore, Brainwashed to a fascist legend and lore. A few citizens fled to the hills to resist; For their efforts the soldiers refused to desist. The brave rebels attempted guerilla warfare, Often beaten by the forces found there. The same General was seen to be hero or damned, Depending on blessings or beatings men had. All Republicans ran and they fled for their lives, Had to burn all their papers and send off their wives. At the end of his reign, the country was torn, Ravaged by years of the ache it had borne. Countless War Children with no hope of home, And a country divided, the marrow from bone.

Silken streams of words insinuate Meaning through lines of limerick, loathing, or love, Sending senses whirling, swirling, Suddenly, all senses are soaked in sound. And now, scripted scents ascend upward, Inodorous without description of smell, No cinnamon, saffron, or sage gracing literary nostrils, Without a scribe to script them. Ebony sable of animal or Landscaped brick layers illuminating Sensile stirrings, sensuous symbols Soaring so seductively over essays. Irresistible lexical appetizers indulge The luscious lemon-lime longings, leaving Savory sensations simmering Slowly on the tongue of sensorium. Effervescent auras of amber Luster sparkle, illuminating lengthy Scores of scaled salmon swimming Upstream in their journey to spawn. Audible essence ambles along the avenue of inner ear, Lilting laughter jostling in lively lines like Sweet images of summer summonings Of shade, and of sun, and of sound. Rushing stre

Haiku Her form is lovely Unknowing of her beauty Weeping starvation Placid waters sleep Ancient rainbows, not of gold, Feed on drops of sky Sky blood red at night The air is thick and choking Someone tossed a butt

Southwest Montana has an ol’ Small bar near railroad tracks. It has a lot of spunk and soul, Near full of Jills and Jacks. He searched for love in places strange; And strolled through two glass doors To see her running, making change For people drinking Coors. He looked at her, she looked at him, Across the noisy room. He flashed a toothsome grin at her, Was hoping love would bloom. The night was young, and he was not, But not aware of it. The girl had served shot after shot, And craved to rest a bit. He sidled up to order beer, He asked for one or two, And waited for what seemed a year To tell her his "love" true. He flew at any chance to talk, She found his chatter void. And wished he’d leave and take a walk, To leave her less annoyed. He asked if he could take her out, Get to know her better, She told him that she’d do without His spoken love letter. Attempted one more gambit move, Emboldened b

Conflicts on the outside Fears on the inside ~but God~ I try to rescue my life I lose it I try to save you from the serpentine surge of self destruction You drown Who am I to carry the world on my shoulders? Are they so broad, to bear the curséd pains One already paid for? Conflicts on the outside Fears on the inside ~but God~ The Lion of Judah sheathes His claws for now And waits for me to end my parade, my self-centered rant, He longs for me to let Him fight for me. How long must He wait? Conflicts on the outside Fears on the inside ~but God~

I just finished reading "The Shack" by William P. Young, and have here included the parts that made me think the most. Perhaps they will make you think too... God's voice had been reduced to paper, and even that paper had to be moderated and deciphered by the proper authorities and intellects. It seemed that direct communication with God was something exclusively for the ancients and uncivilized, while educated Westerners' access to God was mediated and controlled by the intelligentsia. Nobody wanted God in a box, just in a book. Especially an expensive one bound in leather with gilt edges, or was that guilt edges? Freedom is an incremental process. 95 Most birds were created to fly. Being grounded for them is a limitation within their ability to fly, not the other way around. You, on the other hand, were created to be loved. So for you to live as if you were unloved is a limitation, not the other way around. 97 All love an relationship is possible for you only

So, I've decided to post some of my creative writing on here, like when I started this blog thing. So here is a self portrait I did a while back to introduce myself to a writing group. Enjoy! She sighed the potent sighs of longing and sank against the wall, sweat pouring in rivulets down the side of her face. Crying sobs of a violin flowed in through the window, drawing the soft bow of nostalgia across her core strings. She was alone in this foreign land. It was strange to her, and yet frightfully exciting in the same breath. She hadn't realized how much she missed the music. She left her country to find a new life of rich simplicity, but, in doing so, had forgotten to bring the former part of her self to support the new one as it grew. Weeks without the comfort of threads of notes woven together into a tapestry of music had worn her soul thin. But now, she closed her eyes, listened, and breathed in the spice-laden air of this tierra nueva . She thought of home

We began our “great adventure in the southern regions of the northern hemisphere on the western side of the world” (Sam) early on Friday, the 28 th of December. Sam’s flight was delayed, and mine left first, even though he was told I probably wouldn’t make it out that day due to the snowstorms. We had the rest of our flights together, with little to no layover from Denver to Dallas to San Salvador to San Pedro Sula to La Ceiba. I found it interesting traveling with another person; time went by much more quickly. Honduras is a deeply intriguing country. When we deplaned in La Ceiba, I instantly noticed the air, heavy and rich like a vaporized silk. It was like walking into a rainforest sauna! Howard Pandy, an employee of La Hospital Loma de Luz, and his wife picked us up at the airport, took us to Quiznos to pick up some dinner, and dropped us off at our hotel. We ate and watched TV for a bit before I returned to my room and fell asleep once more