The Feast (part 1)

A miracle:  Having sold his goods in a neighboring town, the man was traveling back to his village.  It was dark and he was riding a cart pulled by a mule.  As the story has been told, the man was attacked by several robbers and beaten up.  Lying there badly hurt he prayed to the Virgin Mary for help.  An apparition of the Blessed Mother appeared in the sky.  The robbers fled, leaving the man to die.  He was carried to the safety of his home by his mule.  He lived to tell of this miracle. The year was 1903 and the place, Altamura, Italy.   

Would you think I was weird if I told you that every year my family gathers in a small concrete park in North Bergen, NJ to carry around a life-size statue of the Virgin Mary?   And how before that, she was carried by members of my family in a park in Brooklyn?  That our entire family — men, women and children, regardless of height and/or strength — participate?  That we bear the weight of the statue on our shoulders parading her around to the tunes of Italian folk music as played by a brass band, whose median age, I must tell you, is like 70 years old?  That for 15 meters we, as does each family that takes part in this festa, pay our respects to our ancestors and to their homeland, remembering those who are no longer with us and asking protection from the Virgin Mary for the year ahead?  I would probably find it a bit odd if I were you.  But for me, it’s perfectly normal, and, until I left the United States, it was how I spent every single Labor Day weekend – aside from the year I was born and the year my cousin got married. 

My family’s history is not unlike many other immigrant stories from the early 20th century.  My great grandfather, Giambatista Ferrandino, would journey to America from his small town of Altamura, in search of a better life.  He would settle in Brooklyn, NY among others from his town.  They spoke barese.  They made a living by delivering ice. 

In 1925, seven men, all from Altamura, formed an organization, a society, with the purpose of preserving their devotion to their Madonna, Maria SS. del Buoncammino, the protector of safe passage, and carrying on cultural traditions.  The organization would also serve as a benefit society, providing assistance to members who were in greatest need.  First order of business for the society was to organize a festa, or “feast”, to celebrate the miracle, as they had always done back home in Italy. 

Today, my father is a member of this society, as his father was. We carry on the traditions of our family. 

When I was a young girl, I would walk with my great grandmother Anunziatta (Nancy) the 100 yards from our family’s designated area in the park to the chapel where they kept the statue of the Virgin Mary.  We’d enter the chapel and she’d point out the painting that hung on the wall and the framed original charter of the Society.  Then, she’d tell me the story about the man and the robbers and she’d point out the name of my great grandfather, her husband.  Then she’d say something, probably in the barese dialect ’cause I never understood it, kneel in front of the Madonna and make the sign of the cross.  Then we’d walk the 100 yards back to the family and wait for the procession to begin.  

One year I had learned how to dance the Tarantella for a ballet recital and I remember how it brought her such great joy to watch me as I went through the steps of the traditional southern Italian folk dance. 

I never knew my grandfather.  He died several years before I was born.  I’m named after him.  My grandmother died when I was 6 years old.   So, aside from the photos I’ve seen and the stories I’ve been told, I don’t have many memories of her.  My father doesn’t believe in visiting cemeteries.  The feast was always my connection to them, my one opportunity during the year to be close to them to feel their presence and to feel like they were watching us.  I miss that part of it all.

to be continued….