Heritage

“I’m sorry but we don’t carry that part anymore.” The salesman looked at me like I was the crazy one. I sighed, with disappointment enveloping me. I could tell the salesman was anxiously waiting for me to leave, but my feet didn’t want to move. If I stared at him long enough maybe he could magically make the part appear. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Impatience in his tone. 

“No thank you,” I replied as I turned around, my feet finally making their way to the automatic glass doors. The computer was ancient anyway, all bulky and covered in dust from sitting in the attic for years. Nothing of importance could still be on such an outdated piece of junk. 

And yet my curiosity burned fiercely, eager to unearth some hidden secret, akin to the thrilling adventures in my beloved novels. Yet as I stood in this place, I couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't just a story anymore - I was no longer a mere character, but a living, breathing person, caught up in a real-life mystery. 

I trucked on home, walking along the sidewalk about half a mile until I reached my Nonna’s cottage home. There was so much to be done. Maybe if I cleaned the attic more I might find the part I need. I had so many questions, the first being how I was supposed to haul the computer out from the attic. It's old, I’ll just toss it. I thought to myself. What matters if it breaks anyway? The door clicked as I turned the key and entered her home. 

The attic opening was shrouded in shadows, a small gap in the ceiling that seemed to lead to another world. I dragged the old, worn mattress from the bedroom and placed it beneath the opening, its stained floral pattern barely visible in the dim light of the attic.

The air in the attic was thick with dust, causing every breath to feel dry and gritty against the tongue. With each step up the creaky, unstable stairs, the taste of musty old wood lingered in my mouth. As I approached the computer, my nose tickled from the particles floating through the air, triggering a flurry of sneezes that tasted of bitter mucus and stagnant air.

Why did it have so many parts? I picked up one piece at a time, and tossed it onto the mattress below, my eyes too swollen to see if anything broke as I tossed it down. Just as I was about to climb back down the stairs, I noticed a small box in the back of the attic. How I noticed it was a miracle, it was covered in dust and my allergies were determined to make me blind. 

The box was rough to the touch, covered in a thick layer of dust. As I shifted it slightly, the sides creaked and the contents inside rustled, giving off the sensation of tangled wires and cords rubbing against each other. I could feel the tautness of the cords as they pulled against each other, creating a jumble of colors and textures that my fingers couldn't make out. I began coughing as dust filled the air when I dragged the box to the attic opening and tossed it onto the mattress with the rest of the computer parts. 

The guy at the tech store said they don’t make the part I needed for this computer anymore. The guy also talked to me like I was dumb as if I wasn’t a woman in IT. I ignored that tidbit, thinking about the fact I make one hundred thousand a year and he is still working part-time selling computer parts. Don’t be a jerk, I thought to myself. I had gathered all the dusty parts and brought them into the living room, where I got to work piecing the parts together.

By the time I finished, the sky was dark, the last shades of orange and pink fading away as the stars slowly emerged. The lampposts on the street had flickered on, casting a soft yellow glow over the quiet neighborhood. 

Good thing I found the box, maybe just a good thing Nonna didn’t like to throw anything away. “Everything has its purpose” she used to always say in that croaky voice of hers. The corner of my lip pulled upward. It’s like she was still in the room with me, her voice loud and clear inside my head.

 “Time to see what’s on this piece of junk,” I said aloud to the nobody else that was in the room. I plugged in the computer and then attached the computer to the screen. Butterflies flew from my stomach to my throat as I hit the power button and the screen turned blue. 

I didn’t think this would actually work! My heart was beating fast, secrets of my Nonna were about to be discovered! Until please enter password appears on the screen. I sent curses at myself, the world, and anyone who would listen. 

I didn’t come this far for nothing. Nonna used to keep a booklet with passwords and addresses in it. Think like Nonna. Where would my Nonna put a booklet of private information? I began searching the interiors of the house. I opened all the drawers—lots of papers, but nothing with a password. 

Maybe it was in the kitchen? I started going through the kitchen drawers but it was filled with her antique spoons and cooking utensils. I paused a moment when I held the plate I used to love eating from as a little girl.

With the cabinet open, I looked up. There it was, right in front of me the whole time. It wasn’t a booklet at all. I took out all the cookbooks and began opening them one by one, until suddenly…

An old envelope letter fell to the ground. I picked it up, and sure enough, there were scribbles on the envelope. I really hope this works. I walked back into the living room and sat down on the chair in front of the computer I rebuilt. Typing in the scribbles with the clickity-clack of the keyboard…

It’s done. I’m in. Truth be told, I didn’t think I would get this far. I wasn’t sure what to do next. So many questions ran through my head. What was her email? Did she have a foolish email like me when I got my first email at thirteen? Were there any photos I could salvage and treasure? I began browsing, seeing what I could find on the hard drive. 

Nonna did indeed have a treasure cove of photos saved onto her computer. She must have scanned them in at some point. Some photos were of her as a young girl. It was like looking in a mirror. I would need to save that picture of her and do a side-by-side with a picture of myself as a little girl. I could frame it in my room. 

Surely there were more than just photos on the computer. I kept looking through the files, my hands pulling on the cord of the mouse. I took a moment to straighten out the cord, and thank the scientists for Bluetooth. I took the arrow to a file I did not recognize. It was titled Documentazione di viaggio. Context clues tell me it is a document of some sort, but I only know two languages, English and Coding. 

I pull out my phone and type the words into my translating app, it translates into “travel documents”. It’s in Italian. That was strange. My Nonna never traveled. I opened the file to see what documents were in it. The papers clearly scanned in, but you could see the tattered and discoloration of it in the scanned document. 

I squinted my eyes to see the top of the document, which said “Petition for naturalization”. I clicked on the next document, which was a bit clearer. It looked like an old license but the top read Inspection Card. I sat back, putting together the pieces of the puzzle in my head. As far as I ever knew my Nonna was born and raised here in New York. These documents suggest otherwise. 

I looked at another document in the file and found a list of all immigrants from Ellis Island, dated February 13, 1933. I scanned the page until I came across my Nonna’s name. I held my breath, this was not possible, surely she would have said something. What was today's date? February 13th, 2013. How odd, this document was from exactly eighty years ago. My Nonna was… is… ninety-seven. If this document were legitimate, that would put her at seventeen when she arrived in the United States. 

Unknown to me, my Nonna had immigrated to the U.S. from Italy! Her life was a mystery that I could not have even fathomed. I had many questions, and I would spend the next few days in her cottage home searching her computer for more information, I wanted to learn everything I could about her. All while beating myself for never asking my Nonna questions about her heritage. 

After days of research, I was worn thin. I wasn’t sure I could handle any more information. I finally left the cottage home, looked at my car parked in the driveway, and once again decided walking was better. I walked half a mile to the shopping center, passing by the tech store. I walked into the flower shop, picked out a bouquet of white lilies, my Nonna’s favorite, and walked another half mile to the graveyard. 

I stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes, nervous to tell my Nonna what I discovered. I don’t know why I was nervous. I suppose a part of me wanted to know why. Why she never told us. Why did she never bring up her heritage? Why did she never speak Italian in our home? Why the secrecy? I may never know why, but I would talk to my Nonna anyway. 

As I stood in front of my Nonna’s grave, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of guilt wash over me. Guilt for not asking her about her life, for not trying to learn more about her heritage, for not appreciating her and all she had been through. I placed the flowers beside the stone and took a deep breath before speaking.

“Nonna, I have something to tell you,” I began, my voice shaking slightly. “I found some documents in your cottage home that tell me you were an immigrant from Italy. Why didn’t you ever tell us? Why keep it a secret?”

I paused, waiting for an answer that would never come. Tears started to form in my eyes as I continued to speak.

“I’m sorry Nonna, I should have asked more questions, taken more interest in your life. But now it’s too late.” My voice broke as I spoke those words. “I wish you were here so I could ask you why you chose to keep this part of your life hidden.”

I wiped away the tears with the back of my hand and took a moment to compose myself before speaking again.

“I may never know the answers, but I will always cherish the memories we shared together,” I said softly. “And know that even though you’re no longer with us physically, your legacy will live on through me and our family.”

I stayed at her grave for a little while longer, talking to her as if she could hear me. My back against the gravestone. It was a cathartic experience, finally being able to express all the emotions that had been building up inside me since discovering the truth about my Nonna’s past.