The Journey Overseas

In 1959, in Napoli, Italy, my parents, Carmine and Rosaria Morrone, stood with their three children, looking down over the huge ship's railing, waving to all the people and their relatives. They tried their best to smile, but couldn't help the tears from streaming down their faces, all the while friends and relatives on land did the same, trying to keep the parting of their loved ones remembered with a sad smile. They did not know when they would be able to see or hear each other again, nor did they know what they would find in the country where they were headed. However, they were leaving with reassurance that their new land would be a better one to raise their family, with more richness and goodness, even if they would not be able to understand the language at first and did not have a lot of money for a fresh start. All in all, they knew it wasn't going to be easy. The most painful thoughts, however, were those associated with losing that safe feeling of being in their birth land with all their loved ones, especially their parents, knowing they wouldn't have their daily support. Sad bitterness was felt deeply in all their hearts.

It was February 7, 1959, a bitterly cold and windy winter day when the Ispettorato ship departed from Italy's port to go on a ten-day journey, arriving in Halifax on February 17, 1959. Once it arrived at the port in Halifax, my family had to take a taxi to the train station, after which we would head to Toronto.

We arrived in Toronto on February 19, 1959, a snowy and cold day. We were very tired though incredibly grateful to have arrived, while feeling sadness to have left all our relatives behind in Italy.

We were so pleased to see our Uncle Frank, and he was waiting at the train station with so much happiness and eagerness to see his little sister Rosaria and her family. And so our journey ended, but in so many ways it was only the beginning.

My Childhood

When my parents arrived in Toronto, my sister Emilia was seven, I was four and my other sister Maria was one year old.

My father was the youngest of his twenty-one brothers and sisters, and his father had passed away. Being the youngest child, his mother was very attached to him. When my father left Italy, his mother couldn't accept him leaving, and thinking that she might never see him again, she took sick. She stopped eating out of sadness, and after three weeks, the harshness of the separation took over her health and she passed away at the age of seventy.

With the war taking place, my mother was always kept in her parents' house. Her parents were worried that if she went out, the war soldiers might rape her. She was also the youngest of the five children; therefore, she never attended school and never learned how to read or write.

My father chose not to go to school. Being the youngest, he was given money from his brothers and sisters. He would go into town and watch movies, eat, buy himself what he wanted and enjoyed himself.

My parents were both born in 1930. They didn't have any formal education. They were sponsored by my mother's brother Frank. Hoping for a better life, for themselves and their children, they left Italy, leaving behind their home, loved ones and childhood memories. They arrived in Canada not knowing what was to come of their lives.

After settling in, with my dad working hard and saving their money, they bought their first house in 1960. My parents had a house where they lived and also rented to families. One family lived upstairs, another in the basement and we lived on the middle floor.

Our home was located on 16 Stonehouse Crescent, in the middle of Dufferin Street and Gladstone Ave. At the side of the house was a laneway and our garage along with a big backyard.

Everything we needed was close-by, all walking distance –– the church, school and stores.

The children's bedroom had one huge bed where we all slept. We also had a large window that looked out to the front of the house. Our bedroom was also where we kept our only television. Our parents' bedroom was next to ours and the baby's crib was in their room. Our home was always overfilled with people coming and going, there was always lots of noise and things were constantly happening. But we always had our dinner together as a family, sitting down and eating together, and talking about the day's events with love.

We had been in our home for about one week. My mother went to the corner store to buy bread, and I was left behind. It was cold outside and there was snow on the ground. Wearing my pyjamas with no socks and no shoes, I opened and closed the front door, and went outside looking for my mom. I must have been four-and-a-half years old. After a little while, with no success at finding my mom, I was cold and started crying.

A policeman on his motorcycle came by and stopped his bike. He picked me up and talked to me, though I didn't understand what he was saying. I didn't know how to speak English at the time. Though I remember I liked him and felt safe with him. He went to some of our neighbours' doors but nobody recognized me. My sister didn't open the door to anybody, so the policeman put me on the back of his bike –– there was a seat in the back –– put a blanket on me and tookme to the police station. I liked it there. All the policemen fussed over me, giving me candy and chocolate, and even went out to buy me shoes (pretty ones), as well as colouring books to keep me busy.

The next thing I recall was seeing my mother; I ran to her and I remember she had tears in her eyes. I told her I was okay and having a lot of fun. The real estate man talked both English and Italian. My mother called him for help because I disappeared and naturally she was scared. He asked the neighbours and they told him that the police knocked at their door with a little girl. That's how they found me. When we went home, I got in trouble and was not to tell my dad what had happened. My mom was so happy that she arrived home before he did, as he would have blamed my mom for what had happened.

My dad was overprotective of all his children. We would have to lie all the time that we had strange things happening to us. For example, at school, after fighting with friends, I would have to tell my dad that I got hurt on my own or that we fought with each other at home.

As a child, I had a problem pronouncing words. If someone would ask, "What is your name?" I would answer, "Fracula." If my...