“If you are not faithful to your roots, you are not grounded,” my 80-year-old mother said to me with much pride for being Piemontese. Sitting across the dinner table and digesting her message, I marveled at the profoundness of her words. Her friend, Ron, looked on with curiosity. His expression reaffirmed that only “Trapiantati” know the true meaning of these words. When Vivina Burzio left our village of Pranzalito, my allegiances to Italy and America would be forever divided.

I WAS FIFTEEN MONTHS OLD when my mother immigrated to the Promised Land, with feelings of doubt and guilt. Vivina realized that postwar Italy offered little in education and job opportunities for a young woman raising a toddler. She didn’t see this as a courageous journey—although it was—but as one of necessity. Vivina consoled herself by telling everyone, including herself, that it was part of the short-term plan to establish her roots in the United States and then send for me. But as the best-made plans are meant to change by destiny’s will, the strategy became a long-term affair.

My grandparents would often explain to me about my mother—what she was doing and how she wanted me to come to America. This always frightened me, for I knew that there would be an upheaval in my life one day. I expected the move to be imminent.

The upheaval did transpire eight years later, in July of 1957, when I was nine years old. It wasn’t an ordinary emigration. For one, my grandparents had to sell all their property and leave their way of life behind to accompany me to the New World. With much consternation, they placed their life’s belongings, including many family heirlooms, in trunks and made reservations on the luxury liner, Andrea Doria. We never expected that the uprooting from the Piemonte would become a life-threatening event.

Excerpt from ALIVE; All of us in the small vessel, bobbing in the shadow of a dreadfully inclined liner, were trembling and crying—wondering if we were really safe as the swell of heavy waves banged us into the hull of Doria. We rowed away slowly but surely, our stomachs retching to the movement of each wave.

In a crowded lifeboat, we reached our rescue ship, the Ile de France. We felt fortunate to be alive, even as we watched our trunks descend lower and lower to their final salty storage.

It wasn’t until I came to America that I understood what is was to to Piemontese. I have learned through the years that our identities become much clearer when we are able to leave our familiar surroundings—whether for a short or long period of time—and then return. At first, I missed my friends; there were only a few of us elementary-age children in Pranzalito, a small farming village near Ivrea. Soon, I missed my community: neighbors who knew my life history, my one-room schoolhouse, even going to Chiusella to swim while Nonna scrubbed home-spun sheets on boulders.

Later, in 1977, when I returned for the first time, I was able to appreciate even more what I had left behind: the majestic Alps, the people who had molded my first nine years and the rhythmic pace of everyday life. But now, during my yearly trips “home” to the Piemonte, I want to dig into the details of my childhood: what games did I play? What clothes did I wear? How did I act? My friends research their memory banks to remind me. “We ran through the cornfields and berry bushes, picking ears of corn and then painting them to create the face and body of dolls.” “We went to the brook to pick buttercups or catch frogs for a ‘fried frog legs’ lunch.” “We went to the pasture fields along with our families and cows.” “The whole village danced at the outdoor dance floor for the feast of San Maurizio.”

AND NOW THAT I HAVE WRITTEN A BOOK ABOUT MY LIFE, and specifically about the Andrea Doria tragedy, my identity feels even more complete. My research which has led me back to Pranzalito, has also brought me closer to my father’s family in Torino. The Del Pontes and Torino have brought me even closer to my Piemontese roots. The book’s message, to exonerate my people from a historic injustice resulting from the Andrea Doria—Stockholm collision, has brought me to the heights of ethic pride:

Excerpt from ALIVE; I am saddened not only by the loss of life but also by the aftermath of the tragedy; by the fact that Andrea Doria passengers initially blamed their captain and crew without knowing a single fact; that the Italians were later stereotyped as incompetent at sea, thus tainting the image created by master mariners Christopher Columbus and Amerigo Vespucci; that the hearings
in the Federal Court in New York came abruptly to an end without a trial; that the Italian Line and its government did not stand up and speak loudly on its own behalf. But most of all, I feel remorse for having participated in assigning blame to the Doria’s crew for many years. My opinion was based on hearsay, media inaccuracies, and lack of information.

But now, my research and writing have led me to exonerate the captain and the crew by acknowledging their innocence in the collision and their participation in “history’s greatest sea rescue.” My work has also led me to a transitional phase in my own life: feeling quenched with satisfaction in knowing the truth and fulfilled for feeling proudly reconnected to my Italian roots.