Bona Sera,

I am very honoured to have been asked to address you tonight on the occasion of the 6th annual FILO dinner which honours the contributions of Italian women in our community. It is with humility that I share my story with you; a story of a second generation Canadian with deep and proud Italian roots. Believe me I know all about roots, well, the vegetable kind anyway!

My grandfather, Luigi Castelli, who lived with us, quickly gained the reputation of a master gardener in the small French Canadian town where we lived. Our house, proudly remodelled by him, in stucco, with a cement veranda no less, stood on a 3/4 acre lot where every inch was covered with vegetables right up to the sidewalk, in full view of the locals who would stop to gawk at the bounty of vegetables, some of them they had never even seen before . Yes, everything in our garden was edible: not one blade of grass was to be found, even at my repeated promptings to have a small patch of grass at the side of the house in my attempt to blend in. Year after year, I would hear the same reply “But you can’t eat grass!”

And so, it was not easy growing up feeling different from my friends and trying at every turn to conceal the Italian characteristics and traditions that were so blatantly obvious. Looking back now, I laugh at the things that caused me so much angst as a teenager just trying to blend in. To start, I dreamed of someday marrying someone with a real Canadian name who would deliver me from having to spell Donofrio every time I met someone. I remember at some point in my latter teens getting very testy with people and responding “It’s spelled just the way it sounds”… phonics was still in; what was wrong with these people? My prayers were finally answered when I met and married my husband, John Martin, in my early twenties. I couldn’t believe my good fortune, not only had I found the love of my life but I could now be French or English and blend in anywhere I wanted. I remember my husband calling me one day at the Cancer Centre where I nursed and asking for Irene Martin, only to be told that there was no one there by that name. “Of course there is” he snapped “she’s worked there for years! “Oh” came the reply, “you must mean Irene Martin” (French pronunciation).

I was always conscious of sights and smells in our house. Before inviting my friends over, I would always make sure that grandpa wasn’t busy making and hanging his smelly sausages, eating his stinky baccala, or fermenting his grapes to make wine. I was especially careful to keep them away at mealtime, as grandpa would inevitably say something to me like ”Mangea, mangea, you’re too skinny, no man’s gonna want you!”

As if that wasn’t enough, the “old man in the fedora”, who was the oldest of 8 siblings back in Italy, and who had always taken his patriarchal role very seriously, now fully embraced it once again for the protection of his Canadian granddaughters. He seemed to be omnipresent. Wherever my sisters and I would go in town, we would catch a glimpse of the man who looked like he belonged in a godfather movie. Try as we may to give him the slip, he would always show up and observe from afar, all the while ensuring our safety. To this day, we are convinced that many potential boyfriends were kept at bay by his unnerving presence.

Yes, growing up in an Italian family was the extent of this teenager’s description of hardship.

The next part of my story however, paints a very different picture of hardship! As I research my heritage in greater depth, the extent of my ancestors’ quest for survival is just beginning to unfold and their undaunting courage becomes more evident.

My Grandparents immigrated to Canada in the early 1900’s.

My paternal grandmother, Stella Maio, was summoned to Canada, to marry Giuseppe Donofrio, a recent immigrant from Pescara in Abbruzzo. Her family had agreed that my grandfather would make a suitable husband and so she made the voyage from Calabria to Ottawa with her mother in tow, to marry a man she did not know or had ever seen. He built a house in Ottawa East on Hawthorne Ave, where the house would stand until the City of Ottawa expropriated my grandmother, kicking and screaming, in order to build what we now know as the Nicholas/Lees Queensway ramp. My grandfather died of pneumonia in 1930 leaving a widow, her mother and 9 children. My father, George, the eldest boy now in his early teens, became by default, the man of the house and the main provider. He worked where he could, doing odd jobs, collecting junk from the nearby dump to sell to a second-hand shop owner, cutting blocks of ice out of the Ottawa river and selling them to stock iceboxes, and later, working as a coal heaver for the Grand Trunk Railway just as his father had done. It was the depression! Things were tough! He did what he had to do to feed his family and survive!

My maternal grandparents, Luigi Castelli and Angela Girardi, emigrated from Ascoli Piceno in Le Marche, arriving in Montreal after an arduous ocean voyage which claimed the life of their 6 month old daughter. Their second child, a son, born in Canada, also died at the age of two. By the time my mother was born in 1914, my grandmother, paralysed by the fear of losing yet another child, was unable to look after her. An aunt was summoned to Canada to help raise my mother who would be treated like a little princess, loved and coveted by her overprotective family. She would be given the best of education but was forbidden to go out to work. It was decided that her time would be spent volunteering in the local hospitals as an interpreter for Italian immigrants who were ill and did not understand the ways of their new country. In the meantime, my grandmother, Angela, was indeed an angel to many hobos whom she collected from the nearby railroad track, bringing them home to feed them and sending them on their way with clean clothes. As you can well imagine, this was a source of great tension as my grandfather would often come home to find a hobo sitting in his kitchen, eating his food. He would scold her – this was the depression! What was she doing sharing their food?

My parents married in 1940, and as my father was still the main provider for his family, he brought his new wife to live with them in Ottawa. There they all lived in extremely cramped quarters, during the war years, raising 3 children. My mother, ostracised by her elderly in-laws who referred to her disdainfully as “La Marchegiana”, was relegated to menial household tasks and banned from the kitchen for fear she would steal their recipes. She later recalled these years as some of the most challenging of her life.

However, unbeknown to her, things would get much worse!

Following the death of their fourth child, a son, my parents felt the need to get out on their own and disengage from their extended family. They had heard about an incredible Government initiative to colonize the North in return for ownership of a parcel of land, and so, armed with faith and a promise of a better life for their young family, they ventured into the unknown, as their parents had done. They remained in Abitibi, literally in the middle of nowhere, for five gruelling years, clearing and working the land, building a roof over their heads all the while barely surviving the harsh winters. They never did qualify for that parcel of land but this is where I was born along with 2 other siblings.

Realizing that they needed to return to a kinder environment in which to raise their growing family, they returned to the Ottawa area and bought a small farm. However, the many demands on their limited resources literally resulted in yet another struggle for survival.

Odd that these years on the farm are remembered by my 5 siblings and me with great fondness. We worked and played together; were each others best friends. There was always laughter and songs; we felt loved, we felt safe & protected, we felt cherished, and true to form with the Italian love of food, we never went hungry! These were the bonding years that cemented the strong relationship that I still cherish today with my brothers and sisters.

My mother, Ersilia, was the heart of our family!

We instinctively knew that she was on our side. She ruled with a velvet covered iron hand and was our lioness at the gate, our protector. No one messed with her!

I was inspired by her strength of character, her positive attitude in the face of adversity, her unquestionable faith in God, and her unconditional love of her family. She believed in me, but more importantly, she taught me to believe in myself. For instance, it was her love of laughter that prompted me to pursue my research into the benefits of laughter and embrace the mission of spreading the word about its positive effect on quality of life. She was proof of that!

As I connect the pieces of my history I become more insightful about myself and I begin to understand that my heritage is the cornerstone of who I am. I never imagined that I could be a successful businesswoman but I realize now that I am a builder just as my ancestors were. Although I started Retire-At-Home Services out of compassion for seniors such as my parents, who struggled with the prospect of moving out of their homes in their twilight years, I saw an opportunity to use my nursing skills to build a business and make a difference to seniors in my community.

Retire-At-Home now employs over 150 people, servicing hundreds of seniors in the Ottawa area. We offer them the dignity of choosing their health care options therefore improving their quality of life. I am very proud of this accomplishment, and as my parents and their parents before them, my ultimate goal has always been to make a better life for my children and my grandchildren, all the while improving the community in which I live.

Tonight as we celebrate the accomplishments of Italian women in the community, I am reminded that we are all builders and that we each have the capability of improving our community, one person at a time. We start by cherishing our children; a loving look, a kind word, a gentle smile, a hug or a pat on the back goes a long way to moulding them into successful community builders.

This is what Italians do best! Our love of family is our greatest asset. And, as much as my grandfather cherished his land, he made the sacrifice of giving me my patch of grass for my 16th birthday, because I, was far more important to him than his beloved garden.

As I grow older, I recognize that one of my greatest regrets is that I don’t speak Italian. However, the determination to blend into the French Canadian culture as a teenager is now directed at reclaiming my Italian heritage and language. As I walk around my living room practicing my rudimentary Italian I am amazed and amused that my life circle is now being completed.