Finalist for the 2014 Lambda Literary Award in the Lesbian Memoir/Biography Category presented by the Lambda Literary Foundation
This vivid memoir speaks the intense truth of a Bronx tomboy whose 1960s girlhood was marked by her father's lullabies laced with his dissociative memories of combat in World War II. At four years old, Annie Rachele Lanzillotto bounced her Spaldeen on the stoop and watched the boys play stickball in the street; inside, she hid silver teaspoons behind the heat pipes to tap calls for help while her father beat her mother. At eighteen, on the edge of ambitious freedom, her studies at Brown University were halted by the growth of a massive tumor inside her chest. Thus began a wild, truth-seeking journey for survival, fueled by the lessons of lasagna vows, and Spaldeen ascensions. From the stoops of the Bronx to cross-dressing on the streets of Egypt, from the cancer ward at Memorial Sloan-Kettering to New York City's gay club scene of the '80s, this poignant and authentic story takes us from underneath the dining room table to the stoop, the sidewalk, the street, and, ultimately, out into the wide world of immigration, gay subculture, cancer treatment, mental illness, gender dynamics, drug addiction, domestic violence, and a vast array of Italian American characters. With a quintessential New Yorker as narrator and guide, this journey crescendos in a reluctant return home to the timeless wisdom of a peasant, immigrant grandmother, Rosa Marsico Petruzzelli, who shows us the sweetest essence of soul. Prologue: The Blue Suitcase
Part One: Bronx Tomboy
Eat with Guys You Trust Breakfast Is to Coat the Stomach The X Stoop The Return of the Rust A Good Eater The Tin Ceiling Sidewalk Licking Batteries Teaspoons and Heatpipes Kitchen Bird Kindergarten, Boot Camp: 1968 Sister Rosaria Quicksand Lasagna Vows Ravioli, Homing Pigeons, and Teletype Machines Grandpop, the Hook, and the Eyebrow Made of Rubber Sister Giuseppina Sister Ercolina Playing War Lead Pipe, Montezuma, Icicle Hand to Hand The Return of the Lasagna Street How to Catch a Flyball in Oncoming Traffic The Names of Horses Rook to Queen Four Burning Rubber and Penmanship Trestles and Love Silence, Violence The Blue Angel Bronx County Family Courthouse Parkchester Poseidon Adventure The Lady in Black Fast Break
Part Two: Educationa Girl
The Temporary Apartment Permanent Wave Useless Expertise Hunger Beat Agida Sistermazione Walk Softly but Carry a Big Pockabook Lunch Is to Clean the Blood Slow, Loud, and Clear Asthma, Green Money, and the Feast Brakeman Outfield Greens My Mother, the Plaintoff Aunt Patty’s Bullfight You’re Just Like Your Father Junkie Pride Mary Perry College Entrance Strike One Fontanelle Aurelius The Miracle Worker of 233rd Street
Part Three: Kimosabe
The Best Place to Have Cancer Room 621 Shake ‘n Bake The Fastigium Dope and Demerol The Pipeline Truckstop Paranoia Chemistry Amara Brazil Upside Down Belly Up Overheating Triple Boiling Point Eat ‘Til You Sweat The Tumor Board The Radioactive Man Says, “Don’t Give Up the Ship!” Thoracotomy One Mis-sip-pi Magnetic Lace Lesbianism, Suicide, or the Nunnery How to Wake Up a Marine in a Foxhole Red Death Interventions Falling and Flying Civilian Life Sucks Deep Bell
Part Four: How to Cook a Heart
Wallid Walla Bint Equator Crossings Bronx Italian Butch Freedom Never Come Out in a Lincoln Continental A Nightclub Named Devotion “Roma o Morte!” Vrrooooom! “Cosa Mangia Oggi!” My Mother’s Aorta a’Schapett Shave My Head Enter Audrey Lauren Kindred Rachele’s Pocketbook Fritatta How to Poke a Guy’s Eyes Out How to Cook a Heart
Part Five: Annie’s Parts
Mr. Fixit Six Places to Buy Milk My Father, Marconi, and Me Sciamannin’ Horizontal People Radioactive Feast Limoncello and the Black Bra Garlic, the Ave Maria, and the Blue Leg Cittadinanza Assassination Focaccia Spearmint Gum Cure One Day My Horse Will Come In Madeleine and the Magic Biscotti How GrammaRose Became a Peach Tree Fruttificare The Lasagna Stands Alone Three Days from Eternity Don’t Make ‘Em Burn Pipe Dreams The Little Fish and the Big Ocean Three Hundred Cream Puffs and the Illusion Veil Lingua Madre Sì o No? A Couple of Teaspoons of Coffee and a Couple of Drops of Milk Becoming GrammaRose Peach Tree
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Extrait
PRAISE FORL IS FOR LION
“Annie Lanzillotto, the bard of Bronx Italian butch , is an American original, a performance artist and cultural anthropologist whos e work is unique in theme, sound, affect, and effect. This memoir reveals her to be s omething more: an astonishing writer possessed of an utterly inimitable voice, a voice a t once as richly soulful as her mother's lasagna and as bracingly unsentimental as her father's Marine masculinity. Lanzillotto's stories bounce and stretch with the e lasticity of her trusted Spaldeen, keeping us just a step ahead of the flying emotiona l shrapnel of an intensely lived life as we move from the mean streets of 1970s Bronx to the Ivy League, the Memorial Sloan-Kettering cancer ward, the banks of the Nile, and the Italian mezzogiorno. A landmark of ethnic expressivity,L Is for Lionportrays the iconic Italian indelibly American spaces of kitchen, stoop, sidewalk, and st reet; the body as a site of humor and tragedy; and, above all, the family war zone as an uncanny intermingle of poignancy and brutality.”
—John Gennari, author ofBlowin' Hot and Cool: Jazz and Its Critics
“L Is for Lionrown but never leavesis a book about a girl named ‘Daddy’ who goes to B the Bronx. This long-awaited memoir by lesbian stor yteller and performance artist Annie Lanzillotto traverses the distance from Arthu r Avenue to Cairo to Sloan-Kettering and back again in an ethnography of the self and of an era. It's a book made of dismantled padlocks, and of doors, opened and close d; of spoons clanking against radiators in an attempt to speak or scream; of Ivy League classism and World War II racism; of language ‘spoken and broken.’ Equal part s humor, guts, and grief, it's a disarming story of all that a person—body, mind, an d soul—can undergo without going under, in which ‘Bronxite’ is a new kind of rock.”
—Mary Cappello, author ofAwkward: A DetourandCalled Back
SUNY SERIES IN ITALIAN/AMERICAN CULTURE
FRED L. GARDAPHE, EDITOR
Me at the town limits of Acquaviva delle Fonti, Bar i, Italia. I was jogging with my cousin Tonino out into the fields. Photo: Antonio Lepenne, 1986.
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Excelsior Editions is an imprint of State University of New York Press
For information, contact State University of New York Press, Albany, NY
www.sunypress.edu
Production and book design, Laurie Searl
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Lanzillotto, Annie Rachele. L is for lion : an Italian Bronx butch freedom memoir / Annie Rachele Lanzillotto. p. cm. — (SUNY series in Italian/American culture) “Excelsior Editions.” ISBN 978-1-4384-4525-0 (hbk. : alk. paper) 1. Lanzillotto, Annie Rachele. 2. Italian American lesbians—New York (State)—New York—Biography. 3. Italian Americans—New York (State)—New York—Biography. 4. Bronx (New York, N.Y.)—Biography. I. Title.
HQ75.4.L36A3 2013 306.76'63092—dc23 [B]
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
2012009553
for my Mother, my best friend
No matter where you go, you have to suffer aggravation, and you have to suffer joy. —Granma Rosa Marsico Petruzzelli
You are a little soul carrying around a corpse. —Epictetus
All things fade into the storied past. —Marcus Aurelius
prologue
The Blue Suitcase
S eptember 16, 1962, domestic violence cases in New Y ork State were transferred from Criminal Court to the newly established New Yo rk State Family Court. Assault of a stranger outside your front door was punishable to the full extent of criminal law, while assault of a family member inside the front door wa s not. Marriage became a license for abuse. Two weeks later, I was conceived. I said , “I better go down and protect that woman, the courts ain't gonna do shit.”
What better way to heal this family than a beautifu l baby girl?
Family Court had no muscle. Victims were referred t o civilian agencies for help. My mother's case was referred to the Salvation Army an d then switched to Catholic Charities. Family Court did not have the power of t he State of New York behind the plaintiff. This is the stage on which I was born, o n Saint Raymonds Avenue in the Bronx.
Our street was named after Saint Raymond Nonnatus, or, the not-born; Raymond was taken from his mother's uterus postmortem. As an ad ult, he bartered for the freedom of slaves by trading himself into captivity, where he exuberantly preached. To stop his inspirational speaking, his lips were pierced and l ocked with a padlock. As an offering for Saint Raymond's intercession, supplicants leave padlocks on altars. My father, perhaps knowingly, did one better. The last decade of his life, while in a residential mental home, he dismantled padlocks that he found w hen he scavenged the neighborhood trash. It's not an easy task. Padlocks are built of two dozen intricately cut steel plates fashioned together by pins and a yoke. After my father was done with them, the last thing these wildly cut steel plates and pins resembled was a padlock.
My parents were married in 1947, after my father re turned home from World War II. Anticipating the trips they would take, my mother b ought a royal blue leather suitcase at Gimbels. It had hard walls and thick brass hinges t hat popped open with a catch. The blue suitcase stayed under her bed for fifty years, twenty-five with my father, and twenty-five after she escaped the brutal reality th at had becomela vita quotidiana, their daily life. With the blue suitcase, she ran for her life. She slid it under her bed, full of her keepsakes; my name bracelet from birth, all her chi ldren's oversize kindergarten diplomas, newspapers from the first lunar landing a nd of Joe DiMaggio's career milestones, old coins. Every few years she would op en the suitcase to find a birth certificate or to look among her keepsakes, and hav e a coughing fit from the aged newspapers. This is close to the process of writing this memoir, for me.
My mother, who read me books every night, taught me , “Books open and close and the things inside them stay inside them.” At two years old, I had no idea what she was talking about. I scratched and grabbed at the pages of my storybooks, convinced that I could pull the characters off and make them real. I was confused and upset when they didn't jump off the pages to play with me. Half a c entury later, I still grab at characters, only now, from inside my brain, and I transfer them onto blank white spaces where they
can be real again and find you, beautiful Reader.
This book, for me, is one gorgeous rearrangement of all that otherwise would be locked. This memoir, like any other, is about how w hat we refuse to remember carves us into who we are. I place this book, unlocked and open, spoken and broken, into your hands.
Some names have been changed to protect the living.