grandchildren, for you can crochet many tablecloths through the
years when you have little else to do. And I will pass on, too, stories about the woman who made them.
My grandmother must have known how little we valued what she made. Yes, we used the tablecloths on Thanksgiving, Christmas,
New Year's, Easter. But we never wore her sweaters, used her afghans. When my grandmother finished an afghan, we would throw
it into the bottom of a closet; so garish and ugly were their colors that no one with any self- respect— this is my mother
talking— would use them or display them.
But still, my grandmother kept knitting, kept crocheting. As if to crochet and to knit was what mattered. As if what she made
was not important. As if the admiration of others did not matter. When she died, there were twenty or more sweaters, fifteen
or more afghans, thirty or more tablecloths with patterns that looked like constellations of stars or gatherings of snowflakes
or clutches of flowers or spiderwebs or motifs in Moorish temples, stuffed in bureau drawers all over the house, in boxes
under her bed, and in the bottoms of closets.
Once, I saw my grandmother finish a tablecloth and begin a new one on the same day without stopping to take some refreshment,
without holding the completed work up to the light of the window, without stopping to admire what she had accomplished. To
crochet and to knit in the absence of anyone's desire but your own. To crochet and to knit because the very act of knitting,
of crocheting gives you what others do not, what others cannot give you, what the country you left, what the country you came
to does not give you: a sense of worth and some small scrap of human dignity.
My grandmother's hands, all dry and cracked and sere like the land she fled, making beauty. My grandmother at her needlework,
affirming her right to exist in a world that did not want her.
DARK WHITE
In the photograph of my grandmother on her Certificate of Naturalization, she is dressed in black, as she always was: her
life was one of perpetual mourning even before my grandfather died, for the family she had left in Puglia that she never saw
again.
In the photograph, she is double-chinned, although she was not corpulent. Since arriving in America, though, she was well
nourished. And for this, she was grateful, always blessing her food, blessing herself, and saying a prayer of appreciation
before eating.
My grandmother never ate excessively. She considered gluttony unpardonable; and if you committed this very great sin, she
believed you would burn in hell. She said that to eat just enough was a very good thing, and this is why she was happy she
lived in America. But to eat too much was a very bad thing.
She condemned those of her relatives and my father's relatives who put too much food on the table, who ate too much, who threw
food away when they could have transformed leftovers into another meal— a beautiful pasta, a nourishing soup, a simple frittata.
My grandmother believed that eating too much, or throwing food away, meant that you were eating or discarding what could have
been eaten by someone who was not eating enough. And when you were fat, according to my grandmother, you were showing those
who could not eat enough that you could eat whatever you wanted, waste food even. This was the sin of pride: showing that
you were rich enough to eat too much.
After we visited relatives, whenever my grandmother talked about the people who had eaten too much, she derided them, and
walked around in imitation of them, and puffed out her cheeks as theirs were puffed out. She cursed and swore at them. She
said that they were no better than the rich people where she came from, who ate too much while the poor ate too little. That
they were no better than the Romans, who ate and puked while their undernourished slaves looked on. No better than the popes,
cardinals, bishops, and priests who dined
years when you have little else to do. And I will pass on, too, stories about the woman who made them.
My grandmother must have known how little we valued what she made. Yes, we used the tablecloths on Thanksgiving, Christmas,
New Year's, Easter. But we never wore her sweaters, used her afghans. When my grandmother finished an afghan, we would throw
it into the bottom of a closet; so garish and ugly were their colors that no one with any self- respect— this is my mother
talking— would use them or display them.
But still, my grandmother kept knitting, kept crocheting. As if to crochet and to knit was what mattered. As if what she made
was not important. As if the admiration of others did not matter. When she died, there were twenty or more sweaters, fifteen
or more afghans, thirty or more tablecloths with patterns that looked like constellations of stars or gatherings of snowflakes
or clutches of flowers or spiderwebs or motifs in Moorish temples, stuffed in bureau drawers all over the house, in boxes
under her bed, and in the bottoms of closets.
Once, I saw my grandmother finish a tablecloth and begin a new one on the same day without stopping to take some refreshment,
without holding the completed work up to the light of the window, without stopping to admire what she had accomplished. To
crochet and to knit in the absence of anyone's desire but your own. To crochet and to knit because the very act of knitting,
of crocheting gives you what others do not, what others cannot give you, what the country you left, what the country you came
to does not give you: a sense of worth and some small scrap of human dignity.
My grandmother's hands, all dry and cracked and sere like the land she fled, making beauty. My grandmother at her needlework,
affirming her right to exist in a world that did not want her.
DARK WHITE
In the photograph of my grandmother on her Certificate of Naturalization, she is dressed in black, as she always was: her
life was one of perpetual mourning even before my grandfather died, for the family she had left in Puglia that she never saw
again.
In the photograph, she is double-chinned, although she was not corpulent. Since arriving in America, though, she was well
nourished. And for this, she was grateful, always blessing her food, blessing herself, and saying a prayer of appreciation
before eating.
My grandmother never ate excessively. She considered gluttony unpardonable; and if you committed this very great sin, she
believed you would burn in hell. She said that to eat just enough was a very good thing, and this is why she was happy she
lived in America. But to eat too much was a very bad thing.
She condemned those of her relatives and my father's relatives who put too much food on the table, who ate too much, who threw
food away when they could have transformed leftovers into another meal— a beautiful pasta, a nourishing soup, a simple frittata.
My grandmother believed that eating too much, or throwing food away, meant that you were eating or discarding what could have
been eaten by someone who was not eating enough. And when you were fat, according to my grandmother, you were showing those
who could not eat enough that you could eat whatever you wanted, waste food even. This was the sin of pride: showing that
you were rich enough to eat too much.
After we visited relatives, whenever my grandmother talked about the people who had eaten too much, she derided them, and
walked around in imitation of them, and puffed out her cheeks as theirs were puffed out. She cursed and swore at them. She
said that they were no better than the rich people where she came from, who ate too much while the poor ate too little. That
they were no better than the Romans, who ate and puked while their undernourished slaves looked on. No better than the popes,
cardinals, bishops, and priests who dined
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