My Nonna and Her Immigration Story

My nonna was born in 1929. To say the least she has been through a lot. Born and raised in Italy in a small town located in Calabria called Serra San Bruno, my grandmother, Grazia—translated to Grace in English—lived there with her 12 other siblings. My grandmother had 11 sisters and one brother who also happened to be the youngest—imagine that, having 11 additional mothers.  

My grandmother described her life in Italy as “good.” Keep in mind, the woman is now 88-years-old; bless her heart she can barely hear me as I ask her the questions over the phone.

“What Giulietta? Italy? It’s good. Why you ask stupid questions like this?” She yells at me over the phone in her thick accent.

This coming month my Grandmother will be turning 88 and well, she isn’t as sharp as she used to be. She has trouble hearing me usually and is too polite and/or embarrassed to ask me to repeat myself so she will usually just respond by nervously giggling.  

She raised me while my mom went back to work. Looking back on this now, I realize how fortunate my mother was to have the extra help. She would pick me up every day after school and walk me home, make me an after school snack and delicious home cooked Italian dinners—a.k.a pasta all day everyday.  

I often forget that she had a whole other life prior to moving to Canada and taking a full-time position as mine and my sister’s babysitter.

She talks to herself in a low murmur as she tries to recall the year she came to Canada. “1954.. 1955, something like that,” she tells me. That would make her 25 according to the math, but she argues with me that she was 22, so we know something is off here. Regardless of determining the exact age, I realize it is relatively close to the age I am at now. To think she travelled all the way to Canada by herself in her 20s is astounding. I can barely ask my Uber driver why he took a left instead of a right never mind travel 14 days by bus, boat and train alone.

For all immigrants, the promise of a better life in Canada is a major reason to leave their home country. For my grandmother, it was that with a dash of love mixed in. My grandfather and my grandmother met in their small town with a population of 6000. I asked her 100 times over how they met but she replied again and again that they just did. I gather from this they just knew each other and then he popped the question. Ah, the good old days—such a simpler time. He had asked her to come to Canada and marry him. So she did.

My grandmother described my grandfather as having a “nice heart”. She said he would take her out all the time to movies and dinners. Sounds like chivalry was his kind of thing.  

Considering it was years ago I thought for sure the travel to Canada may have been cheap, but she tells me in order to come to Canada she had to pay $2000!! My grandmother tells me in order to come to Canada she had to sell property her mother owned in Italy to get the $2000 (this property was then later reclaimed when she had made enough money in Canada to buy it back).

My grandmother boarded a bus in her town, rode it to Napoli, jumped on a boat that took her to Halifax over a 12 day period, and from there took a train to the Toronto station that took an additional two days. What did my grandmother have to say about this nightmare of a trek? Well, she said the boat ride was nice, good food, and she watched some shows to pass the time. It was the train that she remembers being the worst. Looks like things never change— damn you train.

She gives me a timeline as to what she accomplished in a few months’ time. In September she came to Canada and in October she was married. In the following year in August she had her first born child—my uncle. My grandfather didn’t want her to work (good ol gender roles), so instead stayed home with the kids. She picked up English by reading and watching TV.

In their 50’s, my grandfather passed away when my mother was only 13, and my grandmother raised my uncle and my mother by herself. She worked as a seamstress making bathing suits, jackets and even couches.  

This year my nonna is turning 88, which means she’s been living here in Canada for about 65 years. When I asked her if she liked it here or regretted coming, her response was, “No, it’s good.” A woman of not many words I tell you. She lives with us and I would say we spoil her with all the sushi and thousands of TV shows at her disposal. Besides she got to raise two amazing grandchildren.. So if I had to guess, I would say she’s genuinely happy.

I know I’m incredibly grateful to have my nonna here and of course thankful she came to Canada in order to give my mother and myself a life here in Canada. After all, we wouldn’t be the country we are without our immigrants! *cough cough hear that Trump*

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• grandmother
• immigrant
• italy