Abstract
The devotion of saints in many Italian American households is as natural as breathing. One need not be particularly “religious” in the strict sense of the word. There is a mystical quality, especially among the women that I know and have known. In the following poems, I use poetic inquiry to show a vividness of experience that has an ineffable quality that would be more difficult to render in narrative and to “. . . use poetic representation as a means to evoke emotional response in readers and listeners in an effort to produce some shared experience between researcher, audience and participant.”
It wasn’t science, it was devotion.
During the day, the corner bedroom benefits from a ribbon of butter yellow sun. Over the small bed hangs a large crucifix, the head of Jesus hanging like a flower snapped from its stem. The white chenille bedspread is taut, the pillows invitingly fluffed. A pair of felt slippers sit on a soft rag rug over the dark, buckled wooden floor. On a small bureau, a Plaster of Paris statue of a nun stands tall, the head leaning forward in humble reverence. Small white chips are spread over the black (and historically incorrect) habit of the Italian nun.
*
In that bedroom, St. Rita was a bulwark, a trusted guide, a compassionate sister and confidante against the sorrow that seemed to be the mainstay of my maternal grandmother’s life. My grandmother Addorolata—“Dora”, the youngest of 13 children, down to earth and practical, was a very devout woman who sought the counsel of the 15th century nun every day in the form of devotionals, novenas, and breathless and distraught exhortations. Her middle name was, in fact, Rita, so her devotion or devozione, was as, devotion in any form tends to be, very personal. As much as we’d like them to be, prayers are not wishes and my grandmother’s seemed destined to go unanswered. Still, her devotion, like many who pray, never wavered.
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In 1381, Margherita Lotti was born to Antonio and Amata Ferri Lotti in the small town of Raccoporena, in the region of Umbria in Italy. By all accounts, Rita, as she was commonly known, led a life of almost continuous sorrow. Married to a drunk and a womanizer, she suffered in all of the imagined ways. Her husband was murdered by rivals, and after a public pardon of the men involved, Rita’s sons fueled by revenge, sought to avenge their father’s death, as was the custom of the day. Rita, knowing that murder would prevent her sons from entering the gates of heaven, prayed instead for their deaths, after of course, desperately trying to convince them that what they sought to do was wrong. Her desperate and fervent prayers were answered, and the young men died natural, though untimely, deaths. Shortly afterward she believed her life was meant to be spent in the convent and sought entry to Saint Mary Magdalene Monastery in Cascia, but was rebuffed due to the unsavory nature of her late husband and the events that lead to his death. She was relentless and eventually prevailed (Sicardo, 2012).
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The devotion of saints in many Italian American households is as natural as breathing especially among the older generation. One need not be particularly “religious” in the strict sense of the word. There is a mystical quality among the women that I know and have known. Votive lights are often lit, small statues grace mantles, windowsills and bedroom bureaus and medallions are worn; devotion—devozione—is utterly natural, expressed openly, often wedged in between “earthy” and frank language, side by side with imperfect lives. Saints, especially St. Rita, are exalted and revered, in the Italian American household. To those who follow and pray to them, the saints have a job to do.
In the following poems, I use poetic inquiry to show a vividness of experience that has an ineffable quality that would be more difficult to render in narrative and to “. . . use poetic representation as a means to evoke emotional response in readers and listeners in an effort to produce some shared experience between researcher, audience and participant (Faulkner, 2016, p. 44). Glenn, too, asserts “the pursuit of the hypostatic—and underlying substance or reality—is an important pursuit; however, the pursuit of the ineffable is equally necessary” (Glenn p. 139).
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Addorolata (How it Often Was)
The thorn that pressed into the soft, thin flesh of the 15th century nun made its way to the woman who sat in the chair, by the window with a third class relic and a prayer book. When he stumbles through the door, paper bag with a quart bottle of beer cradled in his good arm, she rises with difficulty, to prepare the meal. Rita, Rita, Rita, she whispers, like a prayer, you know how I feel.
See me through.
Jean
We were at a party with my husband-to-be’s parents and a friend who was a jeweler. My intended disappeared for about an hour and I was kind of upset that he left. When he returned, I asked him where he’d been. I was annoyed (as usual). He wanted to go outside and talk about it. We walked a bit and then sat on the steps of St. Rita’s. It was there that he presented an engagement ring to me. I loved St. Rita because she was Italian and all that was associated with her. It was not the most romantic setting but because it happened at St. Rita’s it meant so much to me. It still does. * Before she passed my daughter’s condition became so bad she could no longer speak. A young man knocked on our door and told us he’d read about our daughter through a benefit we’d had for her. He felt that we should take her to the shrine of St. Peter at 5th and Girard. We took her the next day. She desperately wanted to have her confession heard, but the priest had left and we three were the only people there. We went to the gift shop area and we saw a priest with his head down, perhaps praying. I walked over and explained to him why we were there and asked him to hear my daughter’s confession. Since she could not speak, he spoke for her and she nodded. I thanked him and remarked that it was like he came out of nowhere. He told us he belonged to St. Rita’s and had just stopped by to pray at the shrine. That year, St. Rita’s was designated as a shrine. There are no coincidences just miracles. * My faith is what gets me through life, though it doesn’t take the pain away. My daughter taught me how to see and speak when she was ill. For ten years her life was in question; unpredictable. She never gave up hope. She was also was devoted to my little St. Therese, also.
Thanks so much for listening to me.
*
Theresa
She understands me. How grief and sadness can hollow you out. I used to pray every day at St. Rita’s grotto. I needed her guidance when my husband left me. Then he came back! With tears and a joyful heart I thanked her over and over again. I believed in her miracles. But he left again. This time he won’t be coming back. I still talk to St. Rita in my head and in my heart. She hears me. It wasn’t meant to be, I know that now. So in an important way, she answered my prayers. *
Addorolata (How it Ended)
In the chair by the window she sits to say the rosary. The coffee in the glass pot has perked and the heat turned off. After Mass her granddaughters and Son-in-law will come and have some breakfast. She will make their coffee mostly hot mile and two teaspoons of sugar. The dog lay at her feet as she prays. Her husband sleeps upstairs, unaware that what she has prayed to St. Rita for for the entirety of her life is about to take place. When her family goes to collect her for 7am Mass, the dog who barks at the slightest provocation will be silent. As they peer through the window, they think, but cannot be sure they see the familiar shape in the chair. Silent, still. Take me in my sleep, she used to pray to St. Rita: intervene on my behalf. Let me go before my husband. When her husband is woken, he asks for his wife. Says she said goodbye to him before she left.
Bye Tony. Take care. We will be together soon.
Footnotes
Declaration of Conflicting Interests
The author(s) declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author(s) received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.