I'm a first generation on my father's side and second on my mother's. I use to live in an all Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn, NY where anytime I stepped outside the front door I would encounter family.
Time passes and things change.
I moved out to the suburbs and besides my immediate family speaking Italian or when I go to Italy, I never hear the language anymore. Anyway, this story brought back some memories for me, and I hope it does for you too. And if the author should ever see this post - Thanks for the reminiscence. Of course, I had been born in America and had lived here all of my life, but, somehow it never occurred to me that just being a citizen of the United States meant I was an American. Americans were people who eat peanut butter and jelly and mushy white bread that came out of a plastic package.