There are some things I cannot give my daughter. I cannot give her the Calabria my father knew as a boy – the language echoing through the streets, the rhythm of daily life shaped by generations before him. I cannot give her the tight-knit Italian American enclave my mother grew up in, where everyone spoke the language, cooked the food, and lived inside a shared understanding of who they were.
What I can give her is a doorway. And for us, that doorway has been La Piazza di Giustina Italian Language Summer Camp. When I watch my daughter at camp – singing in Italian, learning songs and gestures, surrounded by other children doing the same – feel something ancient stir. It’s not just enrichment. It’s something closer to continuity. To remembrance. To love being passed forward.
