HONK IF YOU DON'T EXIST

HONK IF YOU DON’T EXIST

By Mimi Mazzarella

The traffic light turns from green to amber. I’m in a hurry to get to my mom’s. If the white Kia Soul in front of me speeds up a bit, both of us will be able to make it through in more than enough time.

“Come on! Move it!” I yell inside my Chevy Sonic – not that anyone can hear.

 But way before the light turns red, the driver slows to a stop. I want blare my horn at him in disgust – and even roll down my window to holler a few choice nouns – but in deference to my great-grandma who just passed away, I inhale deeply and look upwards and say: “I’m holding my tongue, just for you, Nonna.” 

I imagine her wrinkled smile and practically hear her say, “You good-ah girl, Rosa.”

As I wait for the “longest-red-light-in-creation” to turn green, I stare at the back of the Kia. It’s then that I notice its bumper sticker: HONK IF YOU DON’T EXIST. 

“Honk if you DON’T exist?” I say aloud. What does that mean? I consider the words for a moment. Could it be a joke to get people not to beep? Or maybe it’s supposed to be confusing: How can a person honk if they don’t exist? 

 What kind of morons would have such a stupid bumper sticker? I wonder, then decide to find out. 

When the light turns green, I peel out of the right lane, cut off the red Camaro on my left, and narrowly miss his front fender. He blasts his horn. I shake off the punishing loudness, then, seize the chance to catch up to the chug-a-lugging Kia Soul. 

The four occupants are Asian. They’re all faced forward and wear gentle smiles. Why would they have a “Honk if you don’t exist” bumper sticker? Could it be they just like quiet? Tired of the whole mystery, I decide to stop obsessing, after all I gotta get moving. So I speed past them.

#

When I arrive at my mother’s, she gives me a hug and kiss, then hands me a cardboard box labeled “Maria Ionatti Vitale: 1919 - 2021.” 

“Here are the photos of Nonna,” she says.

“I can’t believe she’s gone, Mom.”

“I know, Rosa, me too. But she lived a good long life, thank God.” My mother sighs then says, “And now you have to honor her final request. I don’t know how you’re going to find the right photo.”

“Me either,” I say, then walk to the living room. I place the box on the carpet and sit next to it.

#

My great-grandma and I always had a special bond – maybe it was because we shared the same birthday: July 6. Or perhaps it was because we both loved pasta fagioli and Tony Bennett. And even though I was often rushing here or there, she’d ask me to sit for a few minutes “para charlar” (to chat) with her. Most of the time, I’d tell her about school, my friends, or the boys I liked. She always listened with patient ears and never lectured. But then I’d be off, rushing to who knows where.

How I wish now that I had stayed longer and asked her questions about her life. Where had I been racing to anyway?

#

A few months before she died, she asked me if I could do a favor for her.

“Por favor, Rosa, you put una mia foto sulla mia bara dopo la morte?”

My voice came out hoarsely. “You want me...to put photograph of you...on your coffin ...after you die?” 

She nodded, then placed her trembling hand on mine. “Si. You do?”

I shook my head and said, “No, Nonna, ‘cause you’re gonna get better.”

“Promettimi,” she replied. “You do.”

“I can’t promise, Nonna, ‘cause I don’t want you to die.”

“Promettimi, Rosa!”

“Que fotografia?” I sighed. “Which one?”

She gave a small smile and whispered, “You decisione.”

“Si, Nonna,” I said and prayed it would be something I’d do far, far in the future. 

#

So now, just a year later, I have to find a picture of my great-grandma that best shows who she was. I open the box and see at least a hundred photos. Seeing that I have a lot of pictures to sift through, I grab a rubber band from the pocket of my jeans and use it to make a ponytail for my dark brown hair. Then I turn over the container and begin my search.

I’m happy to see that on the flip side of most photos is a date and even a quick scribble or two. The first picture I choose has “1937 – Maria,18 - Rockaway Beach” scrawled on it. 

It shows Great-grandma in a two-piece floral bathing suit, with a halter top and skirt-like shorts. A bit of her midriff is peeking through. She’s standing on the shore with the ocean behind her. I can’t take my eyes off teenage Nonna. Her hands are on her hips and her face displays a wide “Julia Roberts smile.” The wind is tossing her curly brown locks. She looks so vibrant and alive, and so pretty. 

How much of this 18-year-old Nonna was still inside my great grandmother eight decades later? Probably a lot more than I can imagine.

I decide to use this photo, but then realize that no one at the funeral will recognize who this young girl is, at least at first. So, I call my mother hoping she’ll help.

“Mom,” I holler into the kitchen. “I found a picture.”

“Well, that was quick,” she replies as she enters the living room wiping her hands on a frayed dish towel.

I hand her the photo as she lowers herself onto the couch. Staring at it with wide eyes, she whispers, “I can’t believe this is Nonna.”

“She was hot stuff, Mom,” I grin.

“Well, she was something…and so young.”

I think for a moment, then say, “I want to use this one, but I might not, ‘cause I don’t think people will know that it’s her.”

“But it is her,” replies my mom.

Pausing to consider her words, I say, “That's true. In fact, when I die, I might want a cool, sexy photo of me on my casket.”

“That’s because you’re only 19,” smiles my mom, “but when you get to be a ripe old age, you might find that you’d prefer a photo that shows you a little older.” 

I look at the picture again. It makes me wish I had known Nonna when she was my age. How did she act? What did she think about? What were her friends like? Did she have a boyfriend and go to parties? Would we have been close friends?  So many questions… but no answers.

I put the photo aside and take another one, then another. Some are faded; some are wrinkled. Nevertheless, as I shuffle through them, there are a few strong standouts.

 “Oh,” I cry out to my mother who’s still on the couch, “you have to see this one.”

I hand her a picture of Nonna, at 26, with her three children. The photo was dated 1945. Jotted next it were the names: Carmela (1), Christina (3), Josephina (4). Nonna’s holding the baby in her left arm, while Christina sits by her side with her hand wrapped around her mom’s right leg. Josephina, in the back, stands with her head leaning on her mom’s shoulder. Nonna has an enigmatic glow to her as mysterious as the smile on the Mona Lisa.

 “This one’s breathtaking,” I say to my mom. “Look how her kids are holding onto her. Maybe this one should go on the casket.”

“It is a wonderful photo, but you'll have to decide. Your great-grandmother left you in charge of picking the one that best shows who she was,” says my mom as she bustles back into the kitchen.

The one that best shows who she was. But which? They were all her, weren’t they?

I look at dozens of snapshots. Each adds a new dimension to my great grandma. There’s one of her at five years old, dressed in a gingham school uniform. Her left knee-sock is standing tall on her leg, while the right one is slouched around her ankle. The crooked smile on her face reveals a certain hesitation and disquiet. The back of the photograph read: First day of school, Our Lady of Lourdes, 1924.

Another picture is a wide shot of Nonna with her grandchildren: my mother and my three aunts. The little girls stand together, arms around each other, looking through a fence at a giraffe. Nonni’s crouched behind the foursome, her arms encircling them. Even without seeing her face, her body language speaks volumes. The back of the picture reads: "Bronx Zoo, 1978."

I then pick up a wedding photo labeled “Maria and Giuseppe, September 26, 1940.” The newlyweds are looking straight ahead. Nonna has on a white lace gown with a high neckline and long sleeves. Her face is radiant; her eyes smile with warmth. Her husband stands beside her looking jaunty and joyful, a man who’s marrying the girl of his dreams. The two of them show a joie de vivre that transcends the decades. Maybe this is the one I should choose. I put it to the side with the others, but continue my search.

The next picture that catches my attention is my grandmother in a garment factory, a sweatshop. She is hunched over a sewing machine amidst a long line of other women who are doing back-breaking work for 12 or more hours each day. On the reverse side it says: "Flexes Factory, Garment District, 1941." I can’t help but reflect on the strength of character that she and other women needed during those difficult war years. 

The last photo is a fairly recent one, 2018. It’s of Nonna and me. It was dated July 6th, my 17^th birthday, and her 96^th. We’re sitting together at the dining room table in the back of a big birthday cake with candles. There’s a red floral scarf wrapped around her head. She looks small and frail, but happy. My father, who’d taken the picture, captured Nonna and me as we’re getting ready to blow out the candles, but instead of looking at the cake, we’re smiling at each other. The photo both breaks my heart and comforts it. 

I stop there. I can’t bear to look at any more pictures. I have to choose. But which? It seems that none of the photographs completely portrays who my great-grandma was. They’re all a part of Nonna, and yet none of them shows the whole Maria Ionatti Vitale.

Then it hits me: If none of the pictures totally portrays who my great-grandmother was and each was a photo of her at that moment in time, then aren’t they all – in a sense – Nonna and not Nonna? 

This leads me to consider that there is no one existing person, but rather an infinite number? Suddenly, I recall the bumper sticker that I saw earlier on the Kia Soul: HONK IF YOU DON’T EXIST. Such a coincidence! Or was it? 

I smile because I realize that my choice of photo to represent my great-grandma doesn’t matter, because they are all Nonna. But I have to pick one, so I choose the one of us by our birthday cake, because it was a moment in time when we stepped into each other’s shadow. It's a memory a cherish. I'm certain that my beautiful great-grandmother is pleased with the picture I chose…and what she taught me. 

 I glance upwards. Thanks for the chat, Nonna. 

Later, in my car and on my way home, I honk ‘cause I don’t exist, and that's fine with me.

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