The Sicilian Inheritance

by Jo Piazza

Sicily may have no choice but to be a part of Italy. But our people will never be of Italy. We are not Italians. We are Siciliani.”

She claimed that the ruins at Agrigento were better than the ones at Segesta because there were fewer stray dogs and therefore less dog shit in the temples.

The island of Sicily is “God’s kitchen,” she insisted, but I should only eat in the restaurants that write their menus on the chalkboard on the wall each day. A printed menu meant they were buying frozen food from the supermarket to cut costs. I should also always ask where a restaurant got their tomatoes. If they came from Naples they were probably poisonous because the Camorra, the Napolitano Mafia, got a government contract to bury waste in the foothills of Mount Vesuvius, which made the produce grown there toxic, but not too toxic to export.

“We’ve always been a poor island. But our people never minded. If we were poor in the eyes of the world, we were rich in other things. We had good food in abundance. We had good families. We didn’t need much. The island always provided for us. But the invaders who ruled us wanted money for their beautiful cathedrals and their wars. There were taxes and then more taxes. Only once we were taxed did we realize that we were poor in terms of money. The invaders and foreign rulers also bled our land dry. And then when Italy became one kingdom—”

“Ciao, ciao, caro mio.”

Bye bye my dear

It is hard to be a historian without becoming a nihilist because you see the worst of history repeat itself over and over again.

“And the eggplants, these round slices are felle, or butt cheeks.

“Astarte.” “Is this some kind of cult?” “It is more a way of life, a spirit, a story we pass down, a way of reminding ourselves that the only way for a woman to survive in this world is to help other women.