Where We Come From, What We Want

     Family myth has it that Great Grampa Nick, Dominic Salvatore Scalfaro, was the illegitimate son of a wealthy land-owner back in Italy. According the story we were told as kids, Grampa Nick’s rich daddy had a number of children outside of the bonds of holy matrimony, not an uncommon occurrence in the 19^th century. Rich Daddy was probably considered enlightened, generous, and smart by his peers since he paid for his illegitimate progeny (presumably only the males, of course) to attend a trade school and he then bought them a one way ticket to America. Problem solved.

      The story goes that young Nick arrived at Ellis Island at the tender age of 16 with less than $20 in his pockets, took one look at the New York City of nineteen-oh-something, and got the hell out of town. The story gets a little muddled here. According to ships’ manifests, he came back to New York City again from Italy two years later. Most of his story died when he did at the age of 104 up in Silver Creek, New York attended to by his young bride (she was 65 and he was 98 when they wed without saying anything to the family. Surprise!).

      Who knows if the story is true? It sure sounds good, though, right? Most of human history is the endless, convulsive story of movement, emigration, refugees, adventurers, and new arrivals and the resistance that usually greets them. The very word “immigration” has become a flash point in today’s larger conversation with images of desperate brown people fleeing from every direction of the globe to several perceived havens. And here we are, living in the big daddy of perceived havens, The United States of America.

      I began my current rent career last summer, drafting and revising letters of recommendation for Aliens of Extraordinary Ability seeking to work in the United States for three years on an O-1 visa. Now I write the actual cover letter, or legal argument, pulling together all the evidence of extraordinary abilities (press is always good; lots and lots of clippings) into a compelling narrative argument that will sway some poor, worn out Immigration Agent sitting in Vermont and get this deserving young film director, sculptor, photographer, editor, actor, dancer, musician, comedian, magician, stylist or graphic designer the highly prized visa. I marvel at the hoops these hungry young people are willing to jump through (and the scads of money they’re ready to pay) in order to have their shot at the Big Time. And I just happened to be born here; easy peasy.

      We’re all hungry to hit the Big Time; we just have different ideas of what that looks like and how to get there. I grew up with visions of taking the New York City art scene by storm although by the time I was painting murals of the Cleveland skyline (three, count ‘em, three skyscrapers!) on a series of barroom walls, my ambitions were deflating. And, thinking about it, I have jumped through some pretty tight and even pricey hoops myself to get where I am today. Just ask Sallie Mae.

      Today I consider myself successful, even wildly successful. I write for a living and look forward to my work. I have fantastic friends and am no slouch myself in that department. My partner and I share life and art and sex and adventures and creativity and good food and afternoon naps and great films and long walks. And I get to use my talent to possibly open doors for other people who just want successful lives………..lives and definitions of success that are probably very different from my own. What is success to you?

"The Veil of The Manna-hata Immigrant" 

a "portrait" of T. Remington by AleXander Hirka
click on image to enlarge