My ancestors saw this and decided to move to Brooklyn

When I arrived in Sicily a couple of weeks ago for a short vacation with my parents, I almost immediately snapped a picture to post on Instagram. I wanted to riff on a rather-stale meme: Over a photo of the stunning Sicilian landscape, I wrote, “My ancestors literally saw this and decided to move to Brooklyn.”

I was true, but incomplete. They did not leave their homeland because the beauty of it was insufficient. They left because they had little other choice. The economy of southern Italy had long struggled, and moving across the ocean was one way to secure a better life. My grandfather and his siblings scattered across the U.S., Canada and Argentina.

We, their descendants, have realized their wildest dreams, as the phrase so often goes. We have levels of wellbeing and wealth that would have seemed impossible in mid-century Sicily. Our educations, spanning many bachelor’s and master’s degrees, are a world above their own.

But all of that came with immense sacrifice and, I assume, no small amount of grief. Indeed, leaving behind your community in a picturesque Italian port city with endless sunshine, for a gritty slice of New York where you knew almost nobody and didn’t speak the language, probably felt like a huge loss.

For my whole life, though, it just felt like the natural way of things: The classic immigration story. Sure, maybe it was bittersweet, but we could always fly back to the ancestral hometown to visit my great aunts, who’d gone back to Sicily in their retirement. We always had a way to reconnect to that piece of our history.

Not so anymore. After my Zia Anna died at the age of 98, and her sister returned to New York to live under the care of a niece, our family’s presence in the town fizzled out. The last time I visited, in November, I sorted through my late aunt’s belongings, and reckoned with the deep sadness of this loss.

When I went back to Sicily a couple weeks ago with my parents, it was our first time there as mere tourists, with no familial obligations to attend to.

And yet, we still found ourselves drawn to the echoes of the past.

One night, we walked by the home where my grandfather and his many siblings grew up. One of my great-aunts lived in it for a while, but the family is now selling it. We bumped into a neighbor was helping to clean it out and tackle some deferred maintenance. He waved us over and let us inside.

The space that once contained a small kitchen-living area was now empty, the cabinets and appliances torn out. All that remained were a stained couch and a pile of dishes on the floor.

Up a windy and steep set of marble stairs, the bedrooms were still furnished. Antique wooden bedroom pieces sat atop gorgeous ceramic tile floors. The bathrooms left much to be desired, and a roof leak was leaving gaping stains down the walls of the top floor.

Still, as I walked through the house, I saw nothing but potential. It needed lots of work, but nothing extraordinary. Cosmetic issues, I figured. Back in upstate New York, I had owned not one but two century-old homes; I could handle it.

By the time we left, my mind was swirling with ideas. My parents, meanwhile, had a totally different take: The home was completely unsalvageable. The floor plan, impossible. The rooms, too small. I thought to myself, It’s more than enough space for one person, for me. I mean hell, a family of ten used to live here. 

My mom mentioned the appraisal for the place was around $30,000, owing to its poor condition, and that fact the third floor was not up to code, and would need to be demolished. But at that price, I thought, you could do anything. The sky is the limit. 

To be clear, I am not inheriting this house. Nor would I easily be able to purchase it.

But it reminded me of something a friend suggested a couple years ago, when moving to Italy finally started to feel like a real possibility. He floated a bold proposal: What if I moved back to one of my ancestral hometowns?(While my mom’s side is from Sicily, my dad’s family hails from a rural outpost on the Italian mainland).

I wrote off my friend’s idea as nothing more than a zany scheme contrived to make for an interesting memoir some day. When the time came to move to Italy, I chose Milan: A big city aligned with basically all of my desires. It was walkable, with great transit (important for this car-hater); it had the best gay scene in the country; and it was super close to endless hikes in the Alps. I’m quite satisfied with my choice to live here.

But as I stood in my grandpa’s old family home a couple weeks ago, my friend’s idea didn’t seem so crazy anymore. I thought to myself, Maybe I’m meant to return, to close the circle.

After our tour of the house, my parents and I returned to our hotel and sipped spritzes by the pool. I watched as the sunset painted the distant peninsula with a gentle pink hue.

I mentioned the idea to my parents again: Wouldn’t it be cool if I renovated the house?

“But would you really wanna live here, even for a couple months?” they responded. “Wouldn’t you get bored?”

Maybe. Probably. Gay culture would be nonexistent. It would be near-impossible to live without a car. I’d likely struggle to make friends my age.

But also, with a big renovation project on my hands … maybe that would be fine. I could launch a YouTube channel, following in the footsteps of many creators before me, posting videos of my progress each week. The work would be all-consuming—also, probably, endlessly frustrating and excruciatingly slow.

That didn’t stop my mind from wandering. As our family’s connection to this place fades into history, I felt some kind of pull. To come back again and again only as a tourist—as the city’s population dwindles and the Airbnbs multiply—almost felt wrong.

And yet, totally mundane. The fact that I moved back to Italy at all, even if to a different city, is more than most second-generation Italian-Americans have done. I probably won’t ever live full-time in my Sicilian hometown. But being there got me thinking about what I owe my ancestors, and how I can honor their legacy.

This week, I leave you with another film photo that captues the splendor of Sicily.