My Sense of Identity

Acquaformosa, Italy

I am from words and painting with them; from Webster and his dictionary. Passionate about all things Scottish Terrier. Lover of Scotland, though I've never been.

I am from the Land of Pleasant Living, Charm City, ethnic, blue-collared, neighborhoods, with the smells from McCormick's Spice wafting through the air.

I am from the Black-Eyed Susans and the Chesapeake Bay; from the Atlantic Ocean and the waving grasses on sand dunes. From tenacious crab grass growing up through the hot cracks in cement sidewalks. From sumac growing wild in abandoned lots.

I am from Italians whose family tree has roots in Albania and from the wilds of Wales on her side of the mix. Of the family Dituri turned Dietor to hopefully fit in better as Americans, Raimondo's, from the Zink's though little is known about that. And for awhile I was of the Duggan clan. Now am claimed as a Frock. But, I keep Dietor in memory of my father and those who have past.

I am from the exuberant, abundanza, and deeply loving. Loud and raucous. The harsh but caring. The realest, the pragmatists who secreted big dreams. From immigrants and those who were brave enough to follow their dreams. From the fey on her mother's side.

I am from Catholic tradition. Pre-Vatican II, with incense, rituals, mystery, awe. And choirs and organs. Wearing your 'Sunday Best,' each week. Women with mantillas and hats in church. Men who removed hats when coming through the doors. Little girls with patten leather shoes. Little boys with cowlicks wetted and flattened and springing back in defiance before Mass had ended. Confession lines on Saturdays. No meat on Fridays. No place for women in the leadership.

I'm from Baltimore City with roots there since 1907. And my family comes from the earth someplace south of Rome and Naples, called Acquaformosa. Relatively unknown, unseen except on local maps. From pasta and garlic. Tomatoes and basil. Seafood and sandwiches.

From the grandparents who owned an outstanding restaurant. From a mother who was an artist, wild and untamed. Crazy and unpredictable. From a father who was the wisest man I've ever met. I am from Green grocers. Cooks. Home makers. Printers. Car salesmen. Roofers. Boarding House owners. Lamp-lighters. From hard working entrepreneurial folk.

I am from a place of Sunday family dinners of home made pasta and a sauce pot on the stove's back burner. I am from a home where there is always room at a dinner table. No one who comes through the door as a stranger ever leaves without becoming a friend.

I am from the tradition that everyone deserves a place to call home where they feel safe, loved, fed, and are greeted with, "Welcome home; how was your day?" Where your feelings weren't considered as important as your physical needs. Where tears were dried with chiding, "If you want to cry, I'll give you something to cry about," and an offer of a taste of sauce on bread. Cheese sprinkled on top. With a waiting while you ate it and the wise advice, "Better? Go on then."