Deirdre Clemente

I became “Italian-American” by choice.

 Technically, I had the cred. My father was raised in East Liberty, the Italian American neighborhood in Pittsburgh. Like many, his grandfather was a tailor from Naples, whose son became a draftsman. My father is a well-respected professor, who shuffled off to college and out of the old neighborhood.

 My Dad’s Italian-American-ness was largely limited to food—cured meats, hard cheeses, bean-filled soups. My paternal grandmother made Italian-American food only at Christmas. She was actually of German descent, but learned to cook from her sisters-in-law, who, of course, hated her because she wasn’t Italian.  She under- stuffed manicotti and put big chunks of pork into a relatively thin red sauce.  I used to help her rise out the cans of tomato puree with just a splash of water to add to the sauce. Every time I do that, I think of Grandma Clemente.

For much of my life, my last name was the extent of my identity as Italian American.

In 1996, I went on a study abroad to Rome, where I learned how to order a drink at a very loud disco and “best practices” for the restoration of 500-year-old frescos.  Rome gave me literacy in what being “Italian” was. I learned the swearwords, the saints, and food.  I came to understand the many differences between Italian and Italian American dishes.  I fell in love with Italy. And multiple Italians. With a need for disposable plastic and an appreciation for Doritos, I had the American part down pat. After my study abroad, Italian-American culture fit with ease.

I am now a curator and a historian—a career born of the time I spent in Rome.  As a scholar of the fashion industry, it is hard to escape the significance of Italian Americans. We are everywhere. Over the years, I’ve shared this history with students, colleagues, and the general public. I’ve shared Rome with many people I love. Last visit, my daughter balked at green peas alongside her “so small” meatballs. She later asked her Pappy to make them that way.  He did.

 I married a well-coiffed, charming Irishman who speaks Italian, but I kept my maiden name. Not for equality or even out of laziness, but because it marks me.