This is the story of a great city.
And of two men who came here from Italy, early in the last century.
Undergoing tremendous hardships, to seek a new life.
Those two men were my grandfathers: Giuseppe Pisaturo and Vincent Falzarano.
And this blog will be the story of my family in Boston.
That story continues.
But first, a word about what this blog is not.
I will steadfastly avoid the idiocy of contemporary culture, the monomania of the media that transmits it like the virus that it is (how many million lunkheads know Sam Adams only through beer ads?), and the politics that oozes from that culture – with all the charm of a suppurating sore.
Focusing on the past will also have another, more important virtue: To see where my family has been, in order to help me to see who I really am.
And, ultimately, to know who I might yet become, by looking at how I got to be here in Boston, at this wonderful moment.
And, finally, to understand why this city is called the Athens of America. As I sit in the Athenaeum at its historic heart. Right above the Granary Burying Ground. Where America’s great revolutionaries take their rest.
Chief among them is Samuel Adams, “the greatest incendiary in the Empire”, without whom the idea of America would never have been possible.
I hereby dedicate this blog to my two grandfathers.
Without whom these words would not exist.
When I walk the Freedom Trail, as I hope to do very often.
I will think of the sacrifices they made for me.
And I will be very grateful.