Several friends of Long Wharf Theatre’s have sent in stories about growing up Italian American to go along with the lovely old photos. Shane Quinn, born in New Haven, shared a story about his grandfather Peter Dino.
I am a proud 3rd generation Italian-American. I am 25 years old, born in New Haven, CT, and love family and food, especially Pepe’s Pizza. My maternal grandfather, Peter Dino, was born on October 27, 1914 in New Haven, CT, although his mother and father soon thereafter returned with him to their home in Palermo, Sicily, where my grandfather spent the first 20 years of his life.
He worked with his hands, doing chorus throughout their humble home in between going to school. This would serve him well in later years when he would have to build a life for himself and his family in the United States from practically nothing. I remember a story he used to tell my brother and me all the time. For Christmas each year he would get a nickel, a tangerine, and a walnut. And that was a good year! Presents or not, he was grateful for what he had.
There are many more stories than just this one. As soon as my grandfather was old enough, he enlisted in the Italian Army, where he began to solidify his values of hard work and sacrifice. When his parents decided to move back to the United States in search of a better life, he took a variety of odd-jobs in order to learn the language, from delivering bread to working as an electrician. He eventually joined the United States Army and served as a private first class in World War II, primarily in the south pacific and Solomon Islands. When the war was over in 1945, he returned home with a bronze star and soon thereafter married my grandmother, Lucy Barbetto, on June 30, 1946 at St. Anthony’s Church in New Haven, CT.
My grandparents both worked for Yale University for many years, first serving as the respective maid and chauffeur for then-president Alfred Whitney Griswold. My grandfather then became head electrician for Yale until the 1980s, when he retired. My grandmother moved on to the dining halls where she worked until the 1990s. In their retirement, my grandparents (Nanny and Poppy as my brother and I called them), were totally devoted to their family. Whether picking us up from school, fixing a leaky faucet at our house, or bringing us doughnuts every Sunday, they were always there for us. To me, this is the foundation of what it means to be Italian.
My grandfather liked to have a small glass of red wine every night with dinner.
He would always say to my grandmother, “It’s good for my heart!” He liked his pasta al dente, never mushy, and was obsessed with nuts and figs. He even tried to grow a fig tree in his backyard. Living in the ever-changeable climate of Connecticut, however, this proved a difficult task. Still, he took care of that tree like it was his child. A few seasons went by without any fruit on it, after which my grandmother would always tell him to dig it up and throw it away. But, true to his nature, my grandfather was patient and nurturing to the fragile tree, which eventually yielded one fig. I’m sure it was the sweetest fig he ever tasted. This is exactly how he treated his family, with kindness patience, generosity, and self-sacrifice. And he did it all in a silent, but strong manner.
My grandfather also had a deep love for Italian music, especially opera. He would play his favorite records and CDs on his homemade stereo system, everything from Enrico Carusso, Placido Domingo, and Luciano Pavarotti, to Andre Bocelli and even local Italian singers like Nina Pane and Aaron Caruso. He played classical guitar and mandolin, and told stories of how he used to walk down the streets of Sicily serenading girls out on their balconies. He fondly recalled a particular night when one of the girls threw a flower pot down at him. I’m not sure if it was because she didn’t like his singing voice or because of something else, but my grandmother would jokingly tell my brother and me, whatever the reason, he deserved it! Kidding aside, it was his love of music that he passed down to my brother and me, both now professional musicians. After both graduating from Providence College with degrees in Music and Theatre, my brother went on to Manhattan School of Music and myself to New York University.
I still think of him before every performance and each time I’m on stage. I know he’s with me.
My grandfather also loved to travel the world and take photos and slides, which he would later display using his home-projector and screen which he kept in the basement. While my grandparents frequently went back to Italy to visit with family and friends in the “old country,” as they called it, they also traveled to Spain, Mexico, France, Canada, and England. My grandfather thought traveling was part of the “American Dream,” and soaked up culture from other parts of the world like a sponge. He was tolerant and open to people, no matter who they were or where they came from. He was also a religious man, although you would never know it. He was more concerned with honesty and integrity, both within himself and others. He felt if you had those virtues, God would smile upon you.
My grandmother is 98 years old and living in Hamden, CT in same house she has lived in for over 50 years. Over the past few years she has developed dementia and is in need of some in-home care, however she is still very much herself, from hosting guests to letting everyone know what’s on her mind. We affectionately joke she could have her own reality TV show: “Life with Lucy!” My grandfather passed away, somewhat fittingly, on September 11, 2006. Five years after thousands of heroic Americans gave their lives for their country, it was time for him to give his. I miss him everyday, but his memory, and most importantly, what he taught me not just about what it means to be Italian, but rather about how to live a decent life, lives on in me.















