My Immigrant Story

How I became John

Caveat Lector: As is the case with most childhood memories, facts are often blended with imagination. It is my belief that recalling events from our birth to the age of seven - the age of reason - much of what we think we remember was likely shaped by what our parents and siblings recounted, or what we think might have actually happened. Our memories may easily  be tricked by something called wishful thinking. The following anecdotal excerpts are vivid examples of this theory. Some of the names are changed to protect the innocent and some of the incidents are highly embellished for dramatic effect, but the thematic truth, for the most part, is based on facts.

Chapter 1: What's in a name?

Part A  When I was five years old, this question never came up. My name was simply who I was ... Gianni Sandro Esposito, un piccolo ragazzo named after my nonno, Giovanni D’Onofrio Sr. Anyone living in or near the Piazza Centrale, near our second story flat, called me Gianni, including my mother, Maria Nicola; and my brother, Cesare Luigi. I assumed that names (like the brassy logos on the car-hoods of an Alfa, Lancia or the rare Ferrari that my dad repaired) gave us pride and a sense of identity. When I became the six-year-old know-it-all who immigrated to Canada, my sense of pride and identity shifted dramatically, along with my understanding of how or why insensitive people conveniently assign labels to newcomers. A few months after our dreary transatlantic crossing to Canada, I discovered that in this country and culture, a name represents not only who you are, but also what the future may offer, such as whether you will one day become rich or poor, a prince or a pauper, one of us or one of them. In my new world, far from my beloved place of birth, names suggested degrees of advantage. Today, as I rewind my life's memory-movie to 1964, the year that I became a follower of musical guru Bobby Zimmerman, I finally understand why he crooned: 

I ain't lookin' for you to feel like me
See like me or be like me
All I really want to do
Is, baby, be friends with you.

- Bob Dylan -        

But in 1954, as a youthful newcomer to Canada, I discovered that the welcoming hand of friendship was often extended reluctantly and I soon learned that I could never fully become one of them.

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Part B. It was a Monday morning, and this was the day of reckoning. My dad would walk with me, all nine long slushy, snowy blocks to the East Side Public School, adjacent to the East Side fire hall. I fought back tears when my father turned to leave, abandoning me at the main entrance to the dark brown brick building, a sombre fortress to an unknown education. As I reached the landing of the concrete stairs, I dared not look back to see if papa had paused momentarily, in case I changed my mind about the importance of schooling. Suddenly, a student about my height, a blonde-haired girl wearing a long winter coat, a wool scarf, and fluffy earmuffs, held open the thick oak door as she gestured, “Follow me; it’s just this way”. I responded with a nervous smile, and wondered what my guide had said as we entered the building, arriving at our destination without incident. Or so I thought.

Chapter 2: What shall we call you?

 "Sowhatshallwecallyouyoungman?!”, screeched the silver-haired Mrs. Janet or Janine Bradley, our kindergarten maestra at the East Side Public School, peering down with her steely grey eyes towards my muted and confused face … the latest addition to an already overly-populated classroom. It was 1954 and the post-war immigrants from Italy – she referred to us as refugees – for her arrived in endless waves, annual European tsunamis of children from across the Atlantic, all seeking a life of opportunity and the impossible Canadian Dream. I did not attempt to speak to her, nor did I have the faintest notion what she was babbling on about. She had introduced herself by pointing to her name tag with flourishes of a seeming secret sign-language, much like an orchestra maestra conducting an unheard symphony. She pointed a tiny baton to a small wooden milk-crate filled with tiled letters of the alphabet rescued – much like her refugee children – from boat loads of discarded Scrabble game boxes.

“Me, Mrs. Bradley. What is your name?”, asked the teacher, now in louder, more emphatic English, like the distorted sound from a vintage gramophone that needed rewinding. I made no reply. Fearful, perhaps disoriented, I feigned a smile as I stared in utter confusion at my silver-haired zoo-keeper. This first day of school seemed so different from the familiar Convent Day School (il Convento di San Giuseppe) many miles across the ocean, where, the teaching sisterhood of St. Joseph not only knew my name, but always offered me biscotti before morning recess and the occasional hug in the event of a scraped knee or bumped nose from playing soccer. Their hugs smelled of an intoxicating aroma of talcum powder and altar wine, especially Reverend Mother Adriana who always seemed fair and just with discipline.

Mrs. Bradley, on the other hand, seemed austere and aloof, roughly seizing my frightened immigrant hand to point to herself and then to me, once again repeating, “Me, Mrs. Bradley. (Pause) What is your name?”, this time slowing her speaking tempo down to a snail’s pace, in the strange hope that this adjustment might suddenly spark my understanding of English. After a few failed attempts, and the release of her grip on my aching wrist, I finally sensed what this teacher was trying to say. Slowly, I opened my mouth, and spoke haltingly, “Si, mi chiamo Giovanni Sandro.” I expected a mother superior hug, anticipating that this moment of recognition would at last appease my warden. It was only the first day of  school and I had already mastered some degree of English comprehension. Alas, I expected too much.

My intrepid drill-sergeant, deserving a medal of honour for her sheer determination, devised an alternate plan of attack, armed with the weather-beaten Scrabble board. She pointed to herself, for the third time as she arranged the tiny alphabet tiles from the wooden crate in a straight and equally-spaced row of letters apparently spelling her name, B-R-A-D-L-E-Y, and then spread out two more rows of tiles on a tiny desk, finally announcing in her megaphonic voice, “Mrs. Bradley”, finally pointing to a four-letter row that spelled, J-O-H-N. “This is your Christian name in Canada. A lovely name that all of your Canadian friends can spell and easily pronounce”. I laughed, thinking she was joking, like Reverend Mother Adriana when she teased we were  all out of biscotti at recess today. Perhaps she was asking me to show her how to spell my name in proper Italian. I reached into the magic letter crate, retrieved six new letters, swept away the J and H tiles to spell G-I-O-V-A-N-N-I. Now, she’ll understand, I smiled victoriously; only to find that she no longer had time for my audacity. She noisily scooped up all of the tiles, hurled them back into their receptacle with an apparent display of exasperation over the stubborn little Italian and finally announced to the entire class: “We shall call you John. In Canada, your name will be John”. Speechless, I again felt tears starting to well up, just as the start-of-recess bell heralded Mrs. Bradley's march to the front of the classroom, “All right boys and girls. Time for recess! 

There'll be no biscotti at recess in this Canadian school, I thought to myself.​​​​​

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