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