‘"If Athens shall appear great to you," said Pericles, "consider then that her glories were purchased by valiant men, and by men who learned their duty.”’ That is the source of all greatness in all societies, and it is the key to progress in our own time.”
Robert F Kennedy –
Day of Affirmation Address, University of Cape Town South Africa, June 6, 1966
The above comment followed a more oft-quoted line from his iconic address to the students of South Africa – in which, Kennedy affirmed how few persons will be provided so great an opportunity to shape history itself, but that each of us has the opportunity through a single act of boldness and strength to foment a tidal wave of change, capable of toppling any such wall or system assembled to stand in the way of hope.
He’d traveled to South Africa as an agent of change, urging students of that university to never falter or feel alone in their pursuit of equality and their universal call for fairness amidst any and all individual liberties. It’s also worth noting that this address was made 2 years to the day before Kennedy had been shot and killed while walking through a hotel kitchen in Los Angeles. He was my favorite president that we never had, and he was the descendent of Irish immigrants who came to the US in the mid-19th century, seeking a new life and opportunity, as so many do, and so many have done since.
My parents came from Malta toward the end of summer 1995, a few months before I was born, and settled in Rochester, Minnesota. My father’s older brother had made the same journey a few years prior – both are doctors, and became residents at the time – seeking to be trained at the Mayo Clinic, which then and now remains the largest private hospital in the world.
Though this was my mother’s first experience in the US, the move was not my father’s. Rather, he had visited institutions prior to committing to Mayo and experienced America through uninitiated and yet eager eyes: his stories of walking through Cleveland and most memorably South Dakota make me smile even today. I often think about the man he was and the people that my parents now are, having spent half their lives living in Malta and the other half living in the United States.
South Dakota was the first place on my father’s list. In a way, for him, that was America. There’s a great image of my father, situated under the hills at Mount Rushmore, excited for the prospect of an adventure not dissimilar to those of the films he’d admired back in Malta, all featuring the American West. I suppose my grandfather played a role in this too, as he loved John Wayne.
For this reason I’ve come to cherish John Wayne as well. He is, after all, the very freedom and stoic disposition that could only be found in a lawless country, wherein the decorum of pompous persons stood no ground, and an individual’s character was all that mattered in the face of obliteration from the earth. I imagine that Kennedy would’ve agreed with this position.
I wonder about that part of my family that I know through stories and feel close too only from the photos that drape the walls of our house, which I have recently considered to be less of a home. They are memories rooted in an oral history, supplemented by an occasional photo and elevated by soft smiles from those recalling such moments. Many of which are regrettably becoming faint as time goes on. I wish I knew them in their youth rather then learn in reverse and look past the withered frames that stand before the heroes of my family’s past.
My family and our various living room(s), kitchen tables and back yards have proven more of a home than any structure we’ve occupied through the years. It never required much adornment. Rather, it only required the space to come together and to cook / eat / play. We kept our photographs hidden, other than the seasonal sort that hung along the main walls and frequented our neighbors and friends as cards during the holidays. Any and all things more personal were stored away, with the exception, of course, of our family’s older images, those same photos of the past that I’d mentioned that illicit in me such a visceral reaction. I never thought this odd in the moment but I do figure it a unique feature of our more so public past: those faces became the same ones that I shared with my family and soon my friends, who came over to enjoy a meal.
Thus, whether they belong to me or the world, I know that my imagine and image of home has been refined by the consistent sight of those faces on my way to school each day. I do often picture my grandfather during the war, of which I’ve seen no photos, but know that it started when he was only 18. It would be an injustice to start such a story and skim the many trials, turmoil, and loss that took hold of Malta and my family during those years; and so I’ll hold off on that for now. He is in my heart regardless. As are the memories from his 80th year and that Christmas dinner when we were all together: I imagine you have memories that are similar in kind.
Some time after the war and about two decades prior to either Kennedy was formally employed in Washington DC, a sense of hope had finally returned to Europe – it was born from a great silence that followed the burial of millions. The continent had held its breath and exhaled, shed tears and looked around. Therein plainly were the need to rebuild and an ever-greater need to heal.
Franklin D Roosevelt had addressed Malta’s courage and it’s great loss, saying during an address to the Island and the world:
“Under repeated fire from the skies, Malta stood alone, but unafraid in the center of the sea, one tiny bright flame in the darkness—a beacon of hope for the clearer days which have come… Malta's bright story of human fortitude and courage will be read by posterity with wonder and with gratitude through all the ages… What was done in this Island maintains the highest traditions of gallant men and women who from the beginning of time have lived and died to preserve civilization for all mankind.”
My grandfather of course had stayed, as he was a man of unwavering character, and raised his family there, rebuilding his home, and starting again: a fact about the phoenix that people do not often recall is that once the bird is reborn from ashes, it lives for a thousand years. And so, from these ashes the people of Malta and much of Europe slowly re-learned how to dream.
It saddens me to consider how this history has been tarnished by the recent political position(s) of an administration. It is my hope, therefore that this page could one day serve as a magazine and possibly a forum for discussion on immigration, domestic policy and subsequent reform. I will for the time being use it to tell the occasional story from my family’s past and of my friend’s, their families, and the journey to discover a new life and opportunity in this significant place: our home.
**This article is a preliminary piece. I’m aiming to start a magazine that will, through superior curation, examine the first generation experience of Mediterranean Americans. So, we’ll see how this goes : )