RIP Antonio Bifulco 4.21.1932 to 2.26.1996

15 years is a long time. 15 years ago, I was 7 years old and in second grade, getting ready to make my First Holy Communion. My sister was 3, almost 4 and in pre-school. We had moved to California a year and a half before and were still settling in.

15 years is also the amount of time that has passed since my grandfather, Antonio Bifulco, died from complications of lung cancer. I remember that morning like it was yesterday and the hurt still cuts just as deep, if not more now because of the time that has passed. They say that time heals all wounds. Unfortunately, time also allowed me to learn more about my grandfather’s illness and I’ve been witness to the havoc that cancer wreaks on families every day. I have learned the cause of his disease, smoking, and wish like hell that he had grown up in a world that knew the dangers of it. Instead, he grew up in Italy, during the time of war-torn, Mussolini-ruled Italy, having been born in San Giuseppe Vesuviano in 1932. If there was ever a wish in my heart so desperately for a time-machine, it is now.

It was an early, cold February morning. I was up and getting ready for school, like the rest of my family, getting ready for the day. Mom and Dad in their room showering, hair-drying, tie-tying. Little sister’s eyes still full of sleep, her adorable little face probably non-too happy to be awake so early, especially since it was still dark out. Besides she was never really a morning person when she was younger. I thought I had heard the phone ringing, but the details on that are fuzzy. What followed isn’t. I knew something was wrong when I heard my aunt’s voice on the machine downstairs. My parents couldn’t find the phone, or something. The only thing I clearly remember is my dad opening his door looking and me and it hitting me. I raced at him and he scooped me up as I sobbed “I knew it! I knew it!” My grandfather had died. My Popi Tony. The man who had come to America alone at the age of 26 to make a new life for himself. The man who had raised my father and aunt, working as a bricklayer and pizza parlor owner. The man who improved his English skills by helping his children with their homework. He was gone. Forever.

I had known it was coming. My dad had warned my sister and I at Christmas. That time was a happy time. I came home from school one day, probably the last day of school before winter break, to my Nani, Popi and Aunt Maria sitting on the couch and talking with my parents like they had been there for ages. I was SO excited. I had missed them so much since we had moved to California. But my grandfather was very thin and very weak. I think I knew in the back of my mind that something was very wrong, but I was only 7 and really didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. I have a vague memory of my dad leaving in September that year to go on a trip with his dad. I found out later that they had traveled to Italy and Brazil so that my grandfather could say goodbye to his family. I can’t even begin to imagine who painful that must have been for my dad and the rest of my family. My grandfather was the one who traveled back to Italy as often as he could and has just as many memories with our family there as he does here.

There’s a picture that I have, unfortunately not in my possession (it’s in my room at my parents’ house) of my grandfather that last Christmas Eve. It’s by no means a flattering picture, but it’s one I stare at all the time when I have it near me. He’s eating his spaghetti and is looking at the camera as if he was caught off-guard by the person taking the picture. His sweater is brown, over a white checkered collared shirt and both seem too big for him. His forehead is scrunched and what was left of his eyebrows are raised and his eyes, underneath his glasses, are wide. There’s barely a wisp of white hair left on his head that is spotted with liver spots, probably because of the cancer treatments he had been going through. He’s surprised. That image is seared into my memory. I’m sure we have happier looking pictures from that Christmas. I know we do. But that one is one that I kept. My dad buzzed his head over the summer last year and had lost some weight and I got the shock of my life when I Skyped with him and my mom. I was at our family’s house in Italy and hadn’t seen them in person since May. I know he did it because my dad is practical and figured that the shorter he cut his hair, the longer he could wait between cuts (he’s frugal and I love him for it). But he scared the crap out of me. He looked too much like his father in that picture. I mean, I know he is healthy and not nearly as thin, but God, he looked too much like him.

I cried that night. I cried for the memory of my grandfather, the man that I wish I could have known more, the man who tried to teach me his native language when I was learning to talk, the man who watched me with my grandmother every week when my parents were at work. I was his first grandchild and he loved me. I loved him. I still do and I think about him every day. I wonder at my actions and what he would think of me today. I hope I’m making him proud. I really do.

Somehow and at some point, my family landed in New York at the end of February. There was still snow on the ground; a lot of it. I remember my Uncle Stephen, my mother's brother, took my sister and I out to the front lawn of my mom’s parents’s house, with whom we were staying because of all the commotion at my dad’s family’s house, and we made a snowman that was lying on its back. I don’t remember why, but I remember laughing. We made its legs by packing a bucket full of snow and placing it on him. Well, my uncle probably did. My sister was all bundled up with just her little, round like a cherub face and red from the cold, peeking out from her scarf and hat and snow suit. She was so sweet and didn’t understand really what was happening. I talk to her about it now and she has a few sharp memories of these days, but her biggest memory is the lack of one. She was so little when we moved that she never got to know him. I wish you had, baby girl. He was wonderful.

I remember going to the wake. There were so many people and so many flowers. To this day, I can not get a whiff of flowers without having a flashback to that day and that scene. I don’t talk about it much though. There were balloons saying “Loving Husband” and “Wonderful Father.” My grandmother was crying as people consoled her. And I remember this. I wanted to see him, one last time, so I walked straight up to the casket with my sister and stared down at my grandfather. I thought he looked funny. He was skinnier than I had remembered (even at Christmas, he still had a little belly) but it was gone. He had makeup on, from the funeral home mortician, and a suit. I had never seen him in a suit.

Then I did something that my mom told me later that kind of shocked her. I reached out and held his hand and touched his arm and his face. It seemed the right thing to do, but he was cold. The Popi Tony I remember was always warm and smiling and laughing, eyes alive with merriment. Sitting at his kitchen table (which is still in my grandmother’s kitchen; I can’t bring myself to sit at the head of the table where he would always sit) with pants belted around his middle with a plain white undershirt on and slippers. It seemed to be his uniform. Occasionally he’d throw a cardigan on, usually navy blue or green it seemed.

My sister and I didn’t go to the funeral. We were dropped off at my mom’s sister’s place to play with our cousins. Rebecca and Rachel didn’t quite understand what was going on or why were sad. My aunt said something about our grandfather passing and that scared my cousin’s into thinking it was our shared grandfather (who is still alive and kicking, if I might say so). Somehow and at some point, we flew back to California to try and resume our normal lives. I was strange for a while. I didn’t feel like socializing at school and was always looking in the clouds for a sign of him. At night, if I had done something “bad” during the day, I would lie flat on my back with my blanket tucked around me for fear of him coming down from Heaven and smacking my bottom. I had heard stories of my dad getting the belt and I was terrified. I laugh at it now, but it was a real fear for me.

I also wondered, and still do, if we had stayed in New York, would he have lived longer? We were his family. My aunt didn’t marry until after he passed, so when my family moved to California, it was just the three of them. They say you can die of a broken heart. I know I shouldn’t think like this, but I wonder if he sort of gave up fighting, because we were so far away now. I hope he didn’t. Again, time machines would really come in handy for me sometimes.

I miss him. I miss him so much. I think about him every day and wonder what he would think of our lives. Me, on my own up here, working in San Francisco and having spent a summer in his home country. My sister at school in North Carolina, finding herself in the crazy world of college. My aunt married and raising her son in Brooklyn and my grandmother, still living in the house they shared on Long Island. I wish I could talk to him again, see him again. I’ve nearly forgotten what he sounds like and definitely what he smells like. Next time I’m home, I’m making copies of home videos so I can have them for myself.

RIP Antonio Bifulco April 21, 1932 to February 26, 1996. Ti amo e mi manchivi molto.

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

This book has been on my radar for quite some time, but I never had time to read it or see the movie (which I sooo want to do, even after reading the book). Finally I got the chance (thank you, $3 book sale at Borders..you make my life. I’m going to miss you when you’re gone.) and absolutely tore through the book. I could not put it down. Generally I try to keep my book reading to the train because I want to make them last as long as possible. Not with this one. I couldn’t put it down. I would read on the morning ride, the evening ride AND before bed. Which is highly dangerous for me, because I tend to lose track of time and before I know it, it’s much later than I wanted it to be. Anyways, I LOVED this book. Elizabeth Gilbert, your writing is magical. I truly felt like I was there. My favorite part of the book (because I’m biased) was her story about her time in Rome. I felt like I was there with her and since I’ve been there before I could picture somewhat the places she was talking about. I only wished that she had talked more about her trip to Florence (I swear I miss that beautiful city more and more each passing day).

               The fact that this all took place after she had gone through the worst part of her life was incredible. When she talked about her divorce and depression, I felt, again, that I was there with her and I just wanted to reach out to her after I had finished reading and see if she was ok. Which is completely silly because she is perfectly fine now and happily married to the love she found at the end of the book. That was another thing I loved about this book. It’s a real story. It wasn’t a made up novel. I am really beginning to like biographies. I used to think of them as dry and boring but if they’re written in the right tone and it’s a good story, I can just eat it up (no pun intended).

               I highly recommend this book to anyone and everyone, men and women included. She is a fantastic writer and I plan on finding all of her other books and reading them as well. She even has a quasi-sequel to Eat, Pray, Love that is about marriage and her journey to her current marriage.  

Stones into Schools

     So per my previous post, here is my so-called "review" of the second book I read. It's a book that a year ago I probably would not have read. Stones into Schools is the follow up book to Three Cups of Tea, the biography of American climber Greg Mortensen. I had heard of Three Cups of Tea because it was gaining so much notoriety and being read by friends and family (my sister had to read it her junior year of high school) and then was assigned to read it for my anthropology class last fall. I loved the book. We only had to read up to a certain point, but I devoured the entire thing. I would say it was more pleasure reading than assignment reading. Mortensen’s story is truly amazing. If you haven’t read the book, you need to. In fact, if you’re at a certain level in the U.S. Military,  you have to read it. But I digress. The first book is written in third person, as Mortensen had help writing it. “Stones” is written in the first person and it is clear that Mortensen was the lead writer on this one. And it is wonderful. He really makes you feel like you are zipping round Pakistan and Afghanistan with him, and spending torturous months back in the U.S. after the 2005 devastating Pakistan earthquake. He writes it with an ease that makes you not believe him when he swears that public speaking and writing are not his areas of expertise. I was transported to a different world, a world that I am sad to say I really didn’t know much about. When the Pakistan earthquake occurred, I knew about it on a surface level but really didn’t pay much attention to it. I wish I had. 
     What his organization, the Central Asia Institute, has done is truly amazing. Since they started building schools in 1997, and up to the point of this books release, they have built 145 schools focusing on education for girls throughout Pakistan and Afghanistan. This feat is absolutely staggering given the attitude towards women in those countries, especially the rural areas. But look at me, I'm getting a little too outside my comfort zone.
     It was an amazing book and I strongly recommend both books to anyone who is looking for a new and interesting read. It really takes you to a different place and that, in my opinion, is the real purpose of books. To transport us to places we can't physically be at that moment.

        

Books, Books, Books

     Over the last month, I have been able to do something again which I really haven’t had time for over the last four years (even if I did sneak it in, therefore sacrificing study time): read for pleasure. My hour long train ride to and from San Fran daily has given me the time to actually read again. And oh boy am I ever. I’ve read about 4 books over the last 4 weeks. Some heavy, some lighthearted. I went a little crazy at the sale bin at Borders.

Now I’m not going to try to fool myself into thinking I can pose as a book reviewer. I promise you that. But I will be reflecting on what I read and writing about them here. I started this out as one long post but I realized I wouldn’t be able to without producing a massively long and drawn out post. SO, my new plan is that for every book I read, I will write on post about after. I’ll do my best to do this shortly after, or else I’ll have to go back and read that book again. And again. Aaand again.

     Here’s a quick one on the first book I read. And it’s quick because this book was a very quick read, but probably the most fun.

     The first book I read was a quick read, mainly because it was written in a way that those of my generation can’t seem to get enough of. The name: Twitterature. Yes, you read that correctly. This book is in short, amazing. It is a collection of all the great works of literature, minimized to 40 tweets or less, and each tweet has to be 140 characters or less. So that means I read all the greats in about 5 minutes each. It’s the most entertaining way of figuring out if you want to dive into the unabridged version, which I may very well do, once I’m done reading the 10 other books I bought on the first round. Follow the link here and read about it. http://www.twitterature.us/us/index.htm.  It was put together by two freshmen at the University of Chicago. Can you imagine being 19 years old and already having a book published through Penguin Books? Nice!

Feeling Nostalgic

              I get into a mood every once in a while, when I peruse Facebook and look up old high school classmates or community college classmates to see where they are in their lives (ahh the beauty of FB and its non-communicating communication abilities). It gets me thinking about the time in my life when I met them, when it seemed that I was around them every day and couldn’t remember what life was like before meeting them. It was my daily routine. Natural to me to see them and talk to them and to know little details of their lives. Now, it’s me looking at big happenings in their lives because it shows up on the newsfeed. I’ll admit it, I’m a curious Facebooker. I like to look into pictures. It makes me smile and happy to see people I once knew so well doing so well in their lives.

               Another component of looking at their lives now and wistfully looking back is to show myself how far I’ve come and what I’ve done over the last few years of my life. I know I’ve talked about this before, but I still can’t believe how much life has changed over the last 5 years. Five years ago, I was embarking on my last semester of high school. Oh my goodness. Now that feels like forever ago. That’s right, my five year reunion is technically this June. Do we need one? Hell no. Our generation is different from our parents in that if you have the tiniest desire to keep slightly in touch with high school classmates, you can, as I mentioned before. If our parents lost touch of a classmate, well then it’d take a miracle to find them again. Or Facebook if they’re tech savvy, which most of them are. My dad got on Facebook and promptly was found by at least 20 old high school classmates. I wish I could have been a fly on a wall in his high school days, and my moms. Just to see what they were like. If I was anything like them. I think I was like my mom. Bookish and sweet. Not  too many friends and not part of the in crowd but not a total wall flower either.

               Anyways I’m getting off track. I tend to do that with these posts. As I was saying, I’m nostalgic. High school nostalgic, community college nostalgic and even a little SJSU nostalgic. That part of my life was so recent and ended even more recent that I really haven’t had a chance to get nostalgic. Although this past summer definitely lends itself to that. I think it’s because the people I surrounded myself with over the summer are so far flung from me now. I Skyped this morning, while getting ready for work, with a friend in England, who is coming back to the states in two days to stay with his girlfriend, another friend we hung out with over summer. Another girl wrote on my wall saying she missed me. That’s what got me thinking. So thank you Kimmy & you’re beautiful too J. Then I started looking at old high school classmates. And most of my high school classmates were also my junior high and elementary school classmates. How strange that I don’t talk to really any of them. I see that a lot of them still do see each other often and it makes me wonder what life would be like if I had too.

              Oh well. Here’s to being nostalgic J. 

Life Changes In A Flash

12:30 p.m.

This time last week, I was walking out of an interview, with an internship offer floating in my mind, and my voice gleefully yelling into the phone, “MOM! I got an offer!!” More gleeful yelling commenced, as my mom was at work on her lunch break and all of her coworkers could hear and as they had been hoping I would get something soon, they cheered as well. It was a happy moment, mixed with the fear that I was going to get a ticket in San Francisco for leaving my car a minute too long in its street parking stall. Don’t worry I made it back to the car on time and breathed a HUGE sigh of relief and then screamed with happiness. Hey, I’m in SF, people do stranger things every day.

               Now, I am on my lunch break on my third day of aforementioned internship. I.Love.It.  Looooove it. The staff meeting on Monday completely opened my eyes and ears and I knew right then that this was going to be a good fit for me and a great opportunity. I am at an agency who deals with multiple clients and in the staff meeting, we went through all of them, providing updates and ideas for ongoing projects. The ease at which ideas flew around the room and the conversational tone of it all made me smile and think “oh yeah, I know this is where I’m supposed to be.” I think the words “I am with my people!” came to mind. I was busy that day, and yesterday and today. Busy little bee. Thank goodness, because two weeks ago, I was sitting on the couch at home running through a huge list of PR firms in the Bay Area and sending out resume after resume. That’s what I mean about life changes in a flash. It literally did. I got the offer on Wednesday and started the next Monday. That quick. In fact, Monday marked exactly one month since I graduated from SJSU.

               I know that I am lucky to have found something so fast. I have to pinch myself to make sure this is real and then stick it in my head to work my booty off to make sure that I deserve the luck that life has given me. At PR day, two months ago, our keynote speaker talked about how most of finding a job was luck. Yes, skills and connections helped, but timing…timing is everything. The luck of timing has been on my side for a long time. It started with getting into SJSU. I had already enrolled in a different school but unfortunately that school, which I steadfastly believed to be my dream school was about $30,000 above my budget. Per year. Yikes. So instead I took a semester off, worked two jobs and applied to CSU’s. SJSU was my top choice and I got in. I transferred mid-year and this is where timing was on my side. It was far easier to get in mid-year as a transfer than in the fall, first of all. Second, the following spring semester (Spring ’10) was shut down for any transfers. At all. My class was the last class to get in mid-year and to avoid the difficulty of everything being impacted. Whew. And now, timing is on my side. The market has absolutely been horrible for finding a job, but now it’s looking up and companies and agencies are hiring again. They want to hire the lowest billable possible but they’re hiring. Which gives hope my fellow graduates and me.

               So two years ago, I was just starting at SJSU, fresh-faced and alone in a new, strange city. A year ago, I was on the board for PRSSA, forging friendships and professional connections and continuing to find myself. Now, I’m a college grad and an intern at an amazing agency in a gorgeous city. Life changes in a flash. 

Graduation

I’m graduating from college tomorrow. I.Am.Graduating.From.College.Tomorrow. How incredibly strange is that? Very strange, at least for me. For the last 17 years of my life, I have been in school. I knew that in August/September I would be back in the classroom through until May/June. Summer’s were a time of fun and when I got older a summer of work. This past summer was a summer of fun. The next summer is going to be a summer of work, and the summer after that and after that. I am about to enter the adult world. Am I ready? I sure as hell hope so. As of the moment, I am waiting to hear back from an amazing company about possibly one of the greatest entry level positions created for PR graduates. I want it so bad. I love the company and even though it’s in an area (tech) that I’m not too familiar with, I always welcome a new challenge.
The last few years at SJSU have been amazing. I have grown so much, met so many amazing people and have been a part of things that I could have only been a part of here. That’s the beauty in going somewhere new. You get a chance to experience something that might never happen again. I came here not knowing a soul and I finish my college career with countless friends and memories. My involvement with school and our PR department has definitely shaped who I am now and who I will become professionally. The friendships I’ve created, the conversations we’ve had and the things we’ve worked on will remain with me forever.
I remember my first day here like it was yesterday. I didn’t know any of my roommates in the on-campus apartment and I had never lived with roommates before. Needless to say, I was pretty nervous. Mom, Dad and I drove up in two cars (because I have more things than I should...and since then I’ve accumulated more). We stayed at the hotel the first night and then headed to campus. My first impression of my new living space was whoa this is tiny. And still pretty cool. My one roommate was really nice and had thankfully traded numbers with me ahead of time. My first night was a little rough. I admit I cried. I was scared, in a new place and knew no one. Well, one person but she hadn’t moved in and we had only met once. After that first night, I was fine. I met up with Anna and we explored our new home. And then classes began, and I fell into my routine. I loved it.
Since then, I’ve lived in two other places with a bunch of people. Two others in the apartment, 20 others in a sorority house that offered amazingly low rent for the summer even if you weren’t a member (which I am not) and now in a house that i have lived in with 4 other people. Oh and I can’t forget this summer with my two roommates in Italy. Oh what a life I’ve led the last few years.
Ok I am rambling, but mainly because I sat down to write this with no plan whatsoever. I just wanted to get feeling out. In a conversation the other day with my friend Nick about our upcoming graduation, I warned him I might...no definitely will cry. And he said “Good. I wouldn’t want you to hold back anything.” I am SO thankful for my friends here (and yes, I am aware that I’ve said this several times over) but really I couldn’t have made it without them. And now we’re on to the next chapter in our lives. Full speed ahead.