Though he remained an invalid for the rest of his life, [Emanuel] Carnevali continued writing in English, taking backward glances at his American experience. One of his poems, written as he approached his native land, bespeaks his ambivalent feelings and those of many another immigrant toward both Italy and America. “In America,” he wrote,
. . . everything
Is bigger, but less majestic. . .
Italy is a little family:
America is an orphan
Independent and arrogant,
Crazy and sublime,
Without tradition to guide her,
Rushing headlong in a mad run which she calls
American cities, he continues, are mechanical; “in their hurry, people forget to love and be kind. Immigrants are hungry not only for bread but for people, but America you gather the hungry people/And give them new hungers for the old ones.”
Jerry Mangione and Ben Morreale, La Storia: Five Centures of the Italian American Experience, 361-362.
Although the Irish were more advanced economically and socially than any of the other new immigrants, many were still unskilled laborers who found themselves competing with Italian laborers willing to work for substandard wages. The two people seem to be irreconcilable, especially in the great disparity in their concept and practice of Catholicism. While both groups considered themselves Roman Catholic, the Irish adhered strictly to the Church’s official liturgy and doctrine and revered their clergy, whereas the southern Italians showed little respect for the clergy and practiced a folk religion that had changed little since the birth of Christ.
The southern Italian religion was based on awe, fear, and reverence for the supernatural, ‘a fusion of Christian and pre-Christian elements of animism, polytheism and sorcery along with the sacraments prescribed by the Church.” These Italians believed in the power of the evil eye and in spells cast by witches that could kill a person or destroy a crop. To protect themselves against malevolent forces, a peasant family might employ an exorcist when prayers to the local patron saint, the central figure in any southern village, went unheeded.
Jerry Mangione and Ben Morreale, La Storia: Five Centures of the Italian American Experience, 326-327.
The wide gulf between the Old World and the New went beyond custom and moral values. At the center was a basic difference in philosophy. Ingrained in the Southern Italian’s peasant soul by centuries of poverty and oppression were strong elements of fatalism, which some of them referred to as Destinu. This fatalism contradicted the philosophy that their children brought home from school, where repeatedly their teachers talked of freedom, free enterprise, and free well, constantly stressing the individual capacity’s to change and improve his or her situation. For the second generation that grew up in the 1920s and 1930s, the message of freedom was further accentuated by images of flappers, Rudolph Valentino, the gospel of free love, and the sermons of Emma Goldman and Margaret Sanger–images that conflicted with the old ways of their parents. Inevitably, these sons and daughters became aware of the basic differences between their parents and other Americans, which heightened their dissatisfaction at being obliged to lead a double life, a state of mind that often generated serious identity problems as they approached adulthood. An erosion of self-esteem was not uncommon for those who ventured into the American mainstream.
Jerre Mangione and Ben Morreale, La Storia: Five Centures of the Italian American Experience, 218.
…Others, however, were invigorated by New York. Arriving in the city at the age of fifteen, Pascal D’Angelo was startled, then entranced, by the spectacle of an elevated train dashing around a curve. “To my surprise not even on car fell. Nor did the people walking beneath scurry away as it approached.'” Minutes late, while riding a trolley, he was distracted by the sight of a father and son moving their mouths in continuous motion ‘like cows chewing on cud.’ Never having known of chewing gum, he assumed, ‘with compassion, that father and son were both afflicted with some nervous disease.’ Later, just before he and his immigrant companions reached their destination, he was surprised to note signs at street with “Ave., Ave., Ave.’ printed on them. “How religious a place this must be that expressed its devotion at every crossing,” he mused, though he could not understand why the word was not followed by “Maria.”
Gerre Mangione and Ben Morreale, La Storia: Five Centures of the Italian American Experience, 125.
Several decades before the exodus began, while the southern Italians, as subjects of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, were still firmly in the grip of Bourbon rule, the dream of America was thriving as a quasi-religious vision of a paradise on earth–a comfort for the miseria (misery) of their lot. First inspired by the travels of Columbus, the dream grew into a myth fueled by other travelers: the occasional returning immigrant who gave it substance and shape through stories that became increasingly elaborate and vivid with each retelling. As more Italians returned from the United States, the myth became so Americanized as to incorporate the Statue of Liberty as the Madonna of Liberation, and the American dollar bill as a sacred object to be pinned to the garments of their most cherished religious statues. Adding to the weight of the myth were the legendary deeds of Garibaldi, the apotheosis of Italian heroes, who himself had been an immigrants both in South America and the United States.
Jerry Mangione and Ben Morreale, La Storia: Five Centures of the Italian American Experience, 45.
The first thing that must be said , and which can never be said powerfully and triumphantly enough , is that human fear has been completely and definitively conquered by the Cross. Anxiety is one of the authorities, powers, and dominions over which the Lord triumphed on the Cross and which he carried off captive and placed in chains, to make use of as he wills. In the Old Covenant , too, there was a powerful command to “Fear not!” But this command was challenged in various ways within the process of revelation: by the finiteness of the region illuminated by grace, by the fact that the grace that had been granted was characterized by hope for what had not yet arrived , by the incomprehensible threat of darkness breaking into the region of light despite the guarantees, and finally by man’s relapse again and again into sin. Christ removed both the finitude of grace and its modality of hope when he tore down the dividing wall between heaven and earth (by his Incarnation), between earth and the netherworld (by his salvific suffering and his descent into hell) , and between the chosen people and the unchosen Gentiles (by his founding of the Church) and when the Father established him as the light of the whole world and the king of all three realms (Phil. 2:11). Thereby every reason the redeemed might have for fear has been invalidated….Insofar as he possesses the life of faith, the Christian can no longer fear. His bad conscience, which make him tremble, has been overtaken and girded up by the “peace of God which passes all understanding.”
Hans Ur von Balthasar, The Christian and Anxiety.
HT: Anton Sorkin
First, as to putting the clock back. Would you think I was joking if I said that you can put a clock back, and that if the clock is wrong it is often a very sensible thing to do? But I would rather get away from the whole idea of clocks. We all want progress. But progress means getting nearer to the place where you want to be. And if you have taken a wrong turning, then to go forward does not get you any nearer. If you are on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; and in that case the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive man….And I think if you look at the present state of the world, it is pretty plain that humanity has been making some big mistakes. We are on the wrong road. And if that is so, we must go back. Going back is the quickest way on.
C.S. Lewis quoted in Alan Jacobs, The Year of Our Lord, 1943, 34-35.
In fact, [Robert Maynard] Hutchins continues, by splitting the human lifeworld in the way they do, positivism and pragmatism leave us with “a colossal confusion of means and ends. Wealth and power become the ends of life,” because the realm of value is the realm of opinion, in which I seek nothing more than easy justification for my desires. “Men become merely means. Justice is the interest of the stronger.” This corrupted and simplistic approach to decision-making, in which we have no higher ends than the satisfaction of our immediate desires, happens when “moral and intellectual and artistic and spiritual development…receive the fag ends of our attention and our superluous funds. We no longer attempt to justify education by its contribution to moral, intellectual, artistic, and spiritual growth.”
Alan Jacobs, The Year of Our Lord, 1943, 16.
…while I am aware that there is no Truth, no objective truth, no single truth, no truth simple or unsimple, either; no verity, eternal or otherwise, no Truth about anything, there are Facts, objective facts, discernible and verifiable. And the more facts you accumulate, the closer you come to whatever truth there is. And finding facts–through reading documents or through interviewing and re-interviewing–can’t be rushed; it takes time. Truth takes time.
Robert Caro, Working, 112.
…human beings enjoy a dignity and value that no other creatures possess. Too often we have arrogantly distorted this uniqueness into an unbridled license to trample and destroy the rest of creation. Actually, the biblical text explicitly commands people to “work it and take care of” the rest of creation (Gen. 2:15 NIV). But the truth remains–and it is fundamental to the whole project of civilization–that human beings possess a unique dignity and worth.
But what exactly does it mean to be created in the image of God? There have been two major ways that Christians through the ages have understood the imago Dei: a substantial and a relational understanding. Those in the substantial tradition (e.g. Thomas Aquinas) identify some essential capacity or faculty (e.g., our reason that makes rational thought possible or our will that enables us to choose freely) that distinguishes persons sharply from the rest of creation. People in this tradition tend to put less emphasis on the way that the fall has damaged the imago Dei in sinful persons.
Those in the relational tradition (e.g. Luther, Calvin, Karl Barth) understand the imago Dei by analogy with a mirror that reflects some object. The imago Dei, then, is not something inherent in persons, but rather the imago Dei is the relationship with God, which exists when one obeys God. Through one’s right relationship with God, one truly reflects God’s will and thus bears God’s image. In this view, sin largely or completely destroys the imago Dei in fallen people.
Ronald Sider, The Scandal of Evangelical Politics, 52-53
Evangelical pronouncements on the role of government are often contradictory. Sometimes when attacking government measures they dislike, evangelical voices use libertarian arguments that forbid almost all government programs to help the poor. (“Helping the poor is a task for individuals and churches, not the government. Government should provide a legal framework, fair courts, and police protection but then leave almost everything else to the free choice of individuals.”) But when the issue changes from the poor to the family, the definition of marriage, abortion, or pornography, the same people quickly abandon libertarian arguments that maximize individual freedom. Instead they push vigorously for legislation that involves substantial government restriction of individual choices. It is possible that there are valid intellectual arguments for adopting libertarian arguments in the first case and nonlibertarian arguments in the second. But a careful argument would have to be made. Without such argument, flipping from libertarian to nonlibertarian arguments looks confused and superficial.
Ronald J. Sider, The Scandal of Evangelical Politics, 20.
The idea of secularism has been in play for centuries–some might say millennia. At the assorted genius bars of Western Civilization, it has long been one of the regulars, and as such it has been defined in a lot of plausible ways….Yet the following definition seems powerful, precise, and the most conducive to its survival: Secularism is a political philosophy, which, at its core, is preoccupied with, and often deeply suspicious of, any and all relations between government and religion. It translates that preoccupation into various strategies of governance, all of which seek to balance two necessities: (1) the individual citizen’s need for freedom of, or freedom from, religion, and (2) a state’s need to maintain order.
Jacques Berlinerblau, How to Be Secular: A Call to Arms for Religious Freedom, xv-xvi.
…presidential musicals have only rarely shaped presidential politics. Sometimes a musical’s political impact is unexpected, as when a catchy musical number in the 1950s Ethel Merman vehicle Call Me Madam (“They Like Ike”) introduced a turn of phrase that would become one of the most effective political slogans of the twentieth century. As the historian David Haven Blake has noted, “Long before Dwight Eisenhower had joined a political party, let alone agreed to run for office, Call Me Madam was advocating for an Eisenhower presidency. Sometimes presidents have tried to shape musicals. Richard Nixon sought the excision of certain musical numbers such as “Cool, Cool Considerate Men” (which depicted Revolutionary War era conservatives as financially motivated warmongers) from a special White House presentation of Sherman Edwards and Peter Stone’s 1776, the meticulous restaging of the writing and signing of the Declaration of Independence that opened on Broadway in 1969 and played to great critical and commercial success before being adapted to film in 1972. The 1776 cast balked at Nixon’s edits, and the command performance proceeded without the requested changes. However, when the film of 1776 was released several years later, studio head Jack Warner (an avid Nixon supporter) had “Cool, Cool Considerate Men” deleted from the film’s final cut. It remains unclear whether Warner ordered the negative destroyed as a favor to Nixon or a result of his own antipathy to the son; a copy of the number was surreptitiously preserved, however, permitting a restored version of the film to be released in 2001.
Brian Eugenio Herrera, “Looking at Hamilton From Inside the Broadway Bubble,” in Renee Romano and Claire Potter, Historians on Hamilton, 227.
Hamilton‘s brief forays into the place of women in the Early Republic suggests that Americans do not fully understand, or have not come to terms with, the idea that our founding happened with an instrument of gender domination like coverture in place. Marriage under coverture was such an oppressive system that it can be hard for contemporary Americans to appreciate its scope and depth. While many of us are familiar with the phrase “second-class citizenship” to describe women’s place in the polity, the contrast in liberties for men and those for women was so great, and eighteenth-century make control over female bodies so absolute, that women’s legal status did, in fact, more closely resemble that of slaves than free citizens.
Of course, white women enjoyed some rights not available to enslaved people, women or men. While enslaved people could never legally own property, some single women and widows of means could enjoy the protection of their property by law. Wives had legal rights in extremis–a wife could divorce her husband or swear out a warrant against him if he committed a crime against her. Slaves could not “divorce” their masters and the law provided no refuge for them against excessive physical force. But when it came to their rights as specifically women and as wives, legally the only difference between a slave and a married woman was that a husband could not sell his wife nor could he prostitute her out, and even these distinctions were sometimes shaky.
Catherine Allgor, “‘Remember…I’m Your Man’: Masculinity, Marriage, and Gender in Hamilton,” in Renee Romano and Claire Potter, Historians on Hamilton, 106.
But claiming Hamilton’s migration to North America as the ultimate immigrant story obscures two elements of the nature of migration in Hamilton’s era. One is that that Hamilton is traveling within the British Empire as a British citizen, and this is not an immigrant from the Caribbean in the ways that we would imagine his status today….Hamilton is actually part of a small and elite group of migrants with significant cultural and financial capital. Secondly, Miranda has also reinscribed the invisibility of one group of migrants in the story of American progress: enslaved Africans. Few accounts of our immigrant past include the forced migration of African laborers, who were the majority of immigrants (migrants, in) to the Americas in Hamilton’s era. Histories of twentieth-century U.S. immigration have only recently begun to include African-descended peoples’ migration to the United States from Africa, Latin America, and the Caribbean as part of the history of African forced migrations into the generally celebratory tone of traditional immigrant histories that are characterized by the desire for freedom: the vast majority of people of African descent arrived in the Americas between the sixteenth and late nineteenth centuries chained in the holds of stinking slave ships.
Leslie M. Harris, “The Greatest City in the World?: Slavery in New York in the Age of Hamilton,” Renee Romano and Claire Potter, Historians on Hamilton, 71-72.
Clearly, neither Jefferson nor Hamilton was only modern or premodern, right or wrong. As tempting as it is to take sides in their battle–which frames most of Hamilton’s second act–they represented two sides of a broader conversation about American nationhood and national character that went far beyond these two men, and indeed, far beyond a handful of national politicians. There was no single right answer to the period’s political problems, no one path to national power and prosperity. Indeed, there was no guarantee that America’s political experiment would survive at all. The American founding wasn’t the start of a straight path to the present. It was a tense, trying, unstable, hopeful, fearful time of high ambitions, big risks, and even bigger stakes. People of all kinds–not only elite leaders–were aware of the potential crises at hand, and were finding their way, one step at a time.
Joanne Freeman, “‘Can We Get Back to Politics Please?’: Hamilton’s Missing Politics in Hamilton” in Renee Romano and Claire Potter, Historians on Hamilton, 52.
In the nineteenth-century, the goal of the U.S. Postal Service was to make “knowledge and truth” available to more and more people. By the end of World War I, this goal has been altered; the greatest user of the mails was now American business. By 1920, government postal workers were carrying hundreds of millions of packages yearly to American doorsteps, as well as considerable amount of commercial advertising and correspondence. If the express companies suffered at first, as did rural merchants and wholesalers, the mail-order houses–Sears, Roebuck and Montgomery Ward, along with the mail-order divisions of some department stores–reaped colossal dividends. Obstacles to their growth were virtually removed overnight, and their profits swelled from $40 million in 1908 to $250 million in 1920. Over the next decade, Sears, Roebuck in particular, would owe its great profits and its “golden age” as a mail-order house to the federal government, or to what one historian has called “the greatest distributing system on earth.”
William Leach, Land of Desire, 185.
Unique to Western business practices, fashion merchandising was a theatrical strategy par excellence that embodied the quest for the new. Like window display and the toy store, it democratized desire; it carried exciting meanings and introduced the mass of consumers to everything from the aristocratic glamour of Paris to the exotic allure of orientalism. “Fashion,” a 1908 retailer said, “imparts to merchandise a value over and above it intrinsic worth” and “imbues with special desirability good which otherwise excite only languid interest.” Its intent was to make women (and to a lesser degree men) feel special, to give them opportunities for playacting, and to lift them into a world of luxury or pseudo-luxury, beyond work, drudgery, bills, and the humdrum everyday. Its effect was often to stir up restleness and anxiety, especially in a society where class lines were blurred or denied, where men and women fought for the same status and wealth, and where people feared being left out or scorned because they could not keep up with others and could not afford the same things other people had.
William Leach, Land of Desire, 91-92.
Glass was a symbol of the merchant’s unilateral power in a capitalist society to refuse goods to anyone in need, to close off access without being condemned as cruel and immoral (as he might have been condemned in a precapitalist feudal society when it was expected that powerful personages even as they extracted payments from peasants, had an obligation to give something in return). At the same time, the pictures behind the glass enticed the viewer. The result was a mingling of refusal and desire that must have greatly intensified desire, adding another level of cruelty. Perhaps more than any other medium, glass democratized desire even as it dedemocratized access to goods. There it is, you see it as big as life–you see it amplified everywhere, you see everything revealed–but you cannot reach it. Unless you shatter the window or go in an pay for it. you cannot have it. In such a context, the breaking of glass could have easily become a class act.
William Leach, Land of Desire, 63.
In the decades following the Civil War, American capitalism began to produce a distinct culture, unconnected to traditional family or community values, to religion in any conventional sense, or to a political democracy. It was a secular business and market-oriented culture, with the exchange and circulation of money and goods at the foundation of its aesthetic life and of its moral stability…The cardinal features of this culture were acquisition and consumption as the means of achieving happiness, the cult of the new, the democratization of desire; and money value as the predominant measure of all value in society.
William Leach, Land of Desire: Merchants, Power, and the Ruse of a New American Culture, 3.