family – Valerie Dimino

Penny in Paris, Grandpa in Grotte

Up until this past December, I had never traveled out of the country other than to various areas of Canada — which, as a Western New Yorker, is nearby enough to hardly feel like a change of territory.

I’m blessed that my fiancé, Rich, values traveling and that we have the means to do so. Regardless of your travel inclinations or abilities, I hope you can gain some inspiration from what I share here, whether it’s about taking the trip of a lifetime, exploring your own neighborhood through a new lens, or honoring your family roots in a creative way.

In December, Rich and I went to London and Paris, and we recently returned from a trip to Italy. I have so much to say about both trips, and I hope to write more soon with a broader overview, but first I have to process my thoughts on what were easily some of the most impactful moments of these trips, both involving symbolic gestures to honor family. Emotions will ensue.

Hat-tip to my Aunt Jeneane, my dad’s sister, for the inspiration behind this project. After learning that I’d be traveling to Paris, she wrote to tell me that my great-aunt Penny (paternal aunt to my dad and his sisters) had always dreamed of going to Paris, describing the fabulous things she would see and do there. Aunt Penny was fabulous, through and through, from her brightly colored clothes to her extravagant accessories to the piano music and vocal melodies she could fill a room with at the drop of a hat. Thinking of her thinking of Paris made me smile. She would be such a natural there.

Aunt Penny passed away in 2020 before ever getting to make the trip. Aunt Jeneane asked if I might consider taking along with me something that reminded me of Aunt Penny and leaving it in Paris, so we could feel like she finally got to make that trip.

I was immediately on board and quickly knew exactly what I would take with me. Aunt Penny had quite a collection of Christmas jewelry, a large assortment of which came to me after she died. I love wearing her necklaces of tiny lights and her mini-ornament earrings during the holiday season. Given that we were traveling to Paris in December and it would be decked out in Christmas glory, I knew this was the perfect fit.

I chose four pieces from the collection, wrapped them carefully in tissue paper, and stowed them in a bag in my purse. As Rich and I strolled around Paris, taking in the twinkling lights, the smells of hot chocolate and mulled wine, and the decadent department store displays, we had such fun picking out precisely the right spots to leave an Aunt Penny trinket. I imagined her there beside me, her eyes gleaming as she took in the sights and sounds, exclaiming, “Oh, isn’t it wonderful?!”

I didn’t feel quite right about leaving these sentimental objects by their lonesomes, so I wrote a little note to set with each one:

My great-aunt Penny always dreamed of traveling to Paris from New York. She was vibrant and funny and fabulous. She died in Nov. 2020. I’m leaving some of her Christmas trinkets around the city on my first trip here, so she can see it with me.

We placed a Christmas tree pin on the roof of the Galeries Lafayette department store, with a panoramic view of the city; another on a bench on the Champs-Élysées, lit up with row upon row of sparkling trees; an angel pin by a walking path along the Seine; and a jingle-bell bracelet in a park housing a Christmas market, with a view of Notre-Dame.

I included the hashtag #PennyinParis on the notes, and my Instagram and Twitter handle on the back, in the hopes of creating a sort of tracking to find out where the mementos ended up. I knew there were risks that the notes would be discarded, would never be seen, or would be difficult for a non-English-speaker to translate. (Only recently, upon the Italy trip, did I learn the wonders of Google Translate — what a gift!)

Ultimately, it didn’t matter if I never heard from anyone — the point was that now it felt like Aunt Penny got to Paris.

And then, about a week later, I heard from Tomi.

He had found the card by the Seine, without its trinket, and messaged me on Instagram to let me know. He said he lives in a small village in northern France, that he’d found the card on a trip with his school class and was going to keep it on his bookcase. In our brief exchange, I could quickly tell that he understood the importance of Aunt Penny and this effort to honor her. “I really hope that she rests in peace,” he wrote. “I hope a part of her is in the card.”

This compassion was more than I had hoped for. I replied, “I believe there is a part of her in it and therefore now in your life.”

He agreed to give me his mailing address, and I sent him a couple other trinkets from the collection, a pin with Christmas beads dangling from it and a delicate string of mini imitation Christmas lights. On New Year’s Eve, I got a message that he’d received them and put them on his shelf with the card.

And so Aunt Penny continues to enjoy her Paris residency.

The guitar in the background of Tomi’s photo added a layer of emotional impact. I mentioned earlier Aunt Penny singing and playing the piano — my memories of her are wrapped warmly in music. There is a rich history of music on that side of the family. I’ve long heard stories of my great-grandmother’s house being filled regularly with family jam sessions, including my grandfather — my father’s father, Aunt Penny’s brother, Al — singing and playing the upright bass or guitar.

Which brings me to the next chapter of this adventure.

A couple months ago, as my Italy trip neared, my dad asked if I might consider doing something similar to “Penny in Paris” on this trip, in honor of my grandpa. My dad is quiet-natured, cradling his emotions close to his chest but quick to sniffle when talking about his dad, who died of pancreatic cancer at the age of 38. My dad was 13 years old; his sisters were 15 and 6. Of course, I agreed immediately, feeling like I was being entrusted on a crucial quest. He gave me a tie clip and a set of cuff links that had belonged to my grandpa.

Since first starting to plan our trip, Rich and I knew that the focus would be on Sicily and that we had to include a day trip to Grotte, the small town in Agrigento where both of my paternal great-grandparents were born, from which they immigrated to the US as children. We would be traveling with Rich’s sister, Allison; her wife, Maria; their youngest child, Marcie; and Maria’s brother, Tony, all of whom I adore. I was so grateful that they understood the importance of this trip and the added weight and excitement of it in connecting with my homeland.

Before leaving, I talked with my great-aunt Marian (sister to Grandpa Al and Aunt Penny) and my dad’s cousin Mary Kay, both of whom had traveled to Grotte years before. I wondered if there were specific street names I should look for or any known relatives still in the area. They both were so excited about my trip and encouraging about my plans to see Grotte, although neither could offer many specifics. Aunt Marian described the area as quiet, simple, and folksy, with people sitting around outside, the women talking and the men playing cards. She told me it was very hilly and that street signs might not easily be found. Mary Kay regaled me of her adventure there pre-cell phones, pre-Internet, making her way by phone book in pursuit of remaining relatives.

I was not at all discouraged by their descriptions. I felt I now had a sense of what to expect, a vision building of this quiet, slow-paced town. And it didn’t matter to me whether I found any relatives currently living there — I just wanted to set foot on the soil, walk the streets my ancestors walked, and know that this is where we come from.

Our arrival in Grotte provided all of that and more. Thanks to the wise recommendation of a friend, we first visited the local cemetery, which I expected to be a tiny corner lot with centuries-old headstones in various states of disrepair. What we found instead was a seemingly endless sprawl of elaborate monuments, mausoleums, and engraved walls, many overflowing with fresh flowers. We could have spent a couple hours there and not seen everything.

Upon first walking in, we crossed paths with a few men working, whom I asked for permission to walk around. Using the aforementioned gift of Google Translate, I explained that my father’s family was from Grotte. They nodded and gestured, of course, come in, and asked about my family name. I mentioned not only Dimino but Valenti, my great-grandmother’s line, and one of the men smiled and pointed to a massive headstone just inside the entrance that bared the Valenti name.

We quickly found many more Valentis and Diminos as well as other names Rich had dutifully noted from his Ancestry DNA research on my behalf. We have a lot of research ahead of us to figure out which threads connect and where! It was such a thrill to walk around with that list of names, everyone taking pictures as they found matches and calling out to come see this or that.

I was overwhelmed, in such wonderful ways.

The caretaker of the cemetery, an elegant and kind woman, spoke to me enthusiastically in Italian (thanks again, Google Translate!), trying to help ensure we could find what we were looking for. She seemed so deeply happy that we were there and trying to trace my roots, like I was being welcomed home by a stranger to a place I’d never been. She sent me off with a hug and a kiss.

I left the tie clip outside a Dimino family mausoleum, not sure (yet) if those Diminos are related but feeling like it appropriately honored the name’s presence in the area and the commemoration of those who have left us.

Again, I wrote a note to accompany these trinkets:

My grandfather – my father’s father – Alphonse Dimino, was a child of two American immigrants from Grotte, Francesco and Carmella (Valenti) Dimino. Al was a powerful presence, handsome and charming, a talented musician, and a loving family man, who died far too young.

On this first trip of mine to Sicily, I am honored to leave a little piece of him here in our homeland.

#GrandpaInGrotte

We ventured on into the town, sipping cappuccinos at a corner café, watching the old men sitting around chatting and the women bustling around with canvas bags on their shoulders. The man who had pointed us to that first Valenti headstone in the cemetery drove by and waved. Again, I felt so welcomed, so understood.

I wasn’t sure yet where I wanted to leave my grandpa’s cuff links. I felt a bit of pressure building as I wondered how I’d know what spot in this little area would be the right one.

We strolled just a bit further, instinctively seeking some shade from a row of trees along a park-like stretch of sidewalk, lined with benches. And that’s when it felt precisely right.

Much like my visions of Aunt Penny enjoying the views from the benches of Paris, I imagined Grandpa Al sitting there on one of those Grotte benches, enjoying the shade and the breeze rustling through the trees. I looked out at the view he’d be seeing, of an inlaid stone street and buildings that had been there for centuries, and thought, This is the place.

Maria helped me roll the note up tightly so that we could slide it through the cuff links, hoping to ensure they wouldn’t get separated before someone found them. As I laid them down onto the bench, church bells rang out across the square. I was flooded with emotion, especially gratitude, in what felt like a cosmic moment between my grandfather and me.

My grandfather died when both he and his family rightfully assumed they had a lot of time left together. Aunt Penny died during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, when so many gatherings were postponed with the thought that we’d make up for the lost time soon.

Tomorrow isn’t promised. Book the flight. Take the trip. And then, even when your feet are tired or the weather doesn’t cooperate or you’re hangry, savor every moment of it.

I’ll be forever grateful that I did.

A Letter to My Nieces and Nephews, Growing Up in the COVID Era

Dear D, L, C, and E,

Sometimes I feel sad or angry that these past 19 months (and counting) of your childhood have been so heavily shaped by the COVID-19 pandemic. I do very often feel both sad and angry about all the time I’m missing out on with you and restless to get to the end of this difficult stretch so that I can be with you much, much more.

I recently found myself thinking of this strange time we’re in as “the lost years”: we’re missing out on so much, with plans continually cancelled, postponed, or dialed back. Again and again, we say “hopefully soon” or “maybe next year,” even though we’ve been taught to live in the present and not take a day for granted. So many things are on hold and uncertain, and it’s easy to feel frustrated, tired, and scared.

But then I get to see you or talk to you and am reminded that these years, these days, are not lost. You are continuing to grow, learn, laugh, and find joy throughout it all. You continue to give and inspire love so powerful, so unconditional, that I’m humbled to be a part of it. And you remind me that that’s what we should all be aiming for, always.

There is so much changing around you all the time, and yet you continue to roll with it and accept it. You understood when birthday parties had to be held by Zoom and dance classes had to be (still have to be) held with 6-foot squares taped out on the floor. You adapted to remote learning, and now you’re navigating being in school in person with so many added safety precautions and restrictions. You wear your masks without question and try hard to remember to keep safe social distances. You are much better about these things than many adults. You understand the big differences that little actions can make.

You run around playfully with your masks on. You give masked hugs or air hugs and say “I love you” on video calls. You ask me what kind of hand sanitizer we just used because “it’s a good one.” You make a game of changing your facial expressions, with exaggerated eyes, and seeing if I can guess whether you’re smiling behind your mask.

You tell me about the video game you’re playing, or the clubs and activities you’re starting, or the friends you’re making, or the boy in your class you think is cute, and the world feels normal again. You remind me of all the good there is in every day, and you remind me that I don’t want to lose sight of any of it.

You have more wisdom and clarity in your 9, 7, and 4 years than many of us have managed to acquire in decades. Given all that you’ve accomplished during these restrictive times, I can only begin to imagine all that you’ll achieve and inspire in others as the world continues to open its boundless self back up to you. Thank you for helping me to remember what matters and what’s good.

I love you more than words can ever say.

Love,
Vovo

We Need to Talk About Mental Health.

I have anxiety and depression.

People are sometimes surprised to hear this about me, because, I’ve been told, I come across as a generally upbeat, optimistic person. I try to see the good in everyone and everything. That is partially genuine and partially an effort to help myself focus on the good. Because I have anxiety and depression.

Sometimes I’m fine. Sometimes I’m pretending.

In our modern era of oversharing — inundated by social media feeds and phone notifications and email lists we keep meaning to unsubscribe from — somehow we still have trouble being open about the topic of mental health. Our own family members, close friends, and daily coworkers often hide the battles pressing against their chests. (I’ve done so in all of those interactions, and I’ve often learned of others’ battles only after knowing them closely for many years.) This is a critical failure. Those relationships could be lifelines — often literally — if given just a glimpse of the truths we refrain from speaking.

There’s a cruel cycle at play here: for many of us, a key reason we don’t tell others about what we’re dealing with is the negative self-talk that is so inherent in these conditions (and thus only makes them more urgent): People will think I’m weak, pitiful, not good enough, not up for X, Y, Z. This is especially true when there’s a power issue involved (eg, My boss won’t trust me with that project / won’t think I deserve that promotion) but can be true of even our closest relationships with people who think the world of us. Our rational selves know that those people would not judge us. But our self-image is often vastly different from what others perceive of us.

And, of course, the longer we suppress those feelings, the worse they can get; the longer we avoid those conversations, the harder they are to have.

The COVID-19 pandemic has undoubtedly amplified these struggles for countless people and brought on new issues for still more. It can be hard to find the light amidst this long stretch of dark days, during which we’re battling loneliness, fear, and the disappointment of postponed or cancelled plans. I suspect these days we’re all some level of anxious, depressed, or both.

So, I want to share a bit about my experiences, in the hope that it might help others, whether you’re struggling, too, or could be in a position to help people around you who are.

My anxiety makes me feel restless, my thoughts obsessive, my brain unable to quiet down. My depression makes me not want to move, or to feel unable to move. These can be in play simultaneously. It most often happens at night, my mind lit up and spinning like a carnival ride at the same time that my body feels weighed down by a concrete blanket. My body aches for sleep, but my mind won’t let it happen, sometimes for hours.

Writing, exercising, cleaning, or some other burst of productivity will sometimes help lift me out of a depressed stretch or quell my anxiety, as will social time with family or friends. Sometimes, those things don’t help, or they make things worse, or I can’t bring myself to try.

Unfortunately, these feelings typically can’t be explained; it’s not as simple as asking “What’s wrong?” and applying X solution. Yes, sometimes there may be a catalyst that brings on an episode or spurs it into overdrive, but ultimately I’m feeling those things simply because I have anxiety and depression. They are chemical processes that flare up and, thankfully, recede. The lack of an explanation can be confusing for those around me — and for me, too! I ask myself, Why do I feel this way? and think, I shouldn’t feel this way, as my mind rattles off the countless great things in my life.

And then I feel even worse: ungrateful, guilty, and like something must really be wrong with me, if I’m unable to snap out of it when I should have no excuse for feeling down.

Thankfully, this all happens far less often for me in recent years than it did for many years before. There is no question that this is because I’ve put in 8 years of work through counseling (more on that below) and continue to use the tools I gained there. Personally, I’ve chosen not to take medications, as I wanted to focus instead on understanding my processes and triggers and learning how to work through them. But I know many people for whom medications have made all the difference, and choosing to forgo them wasn’t a decision I made lightly. The choice to medicate, and which one(s) to use, is highly individualized and can be a long process.

Some things that have helped me:

COUNSELING! Sooo much counseling. Talking to a professional proved to be absolutely essential for me, even on days when I thought I wasn’t up for it; even on days when I thought I had nothing to say. With time, building that trust and opening up in those sessions helped me to offload tension, gain perspective, communicate better, and listen to myself. Just knowing I had that outlet available — that my next appointment was coming up soon, that I could ask that question or share that progress — came to be such a comfort.

Learning that self-care is time well invested. It may be some of the best time invested, the most important. “Mental health days” can be hard to give ourselves permission to take — we worry they’ll be a sign of weakness or laziness or will invite suspicion: Is she really sick? But if our mental and emotional health aren’t cared for, our physical health, our work quality, and our relationships all suffer.

As I’ve written about before, gratitude has played a huge role in my wellbeing and is something I continue to put into practice. I love Gretchen Rubin’s Happiness Project one-sentence journal for its simple focus on daily small moments of joy. It has helped me find light during darker days and to remember that things always get better. It’s the only journal I’ve stuck with consistently for any significant length of time. I recently completed a full 5-year journal and started my next one!

Some things you can do to help:

Be willing to talk about it. And be willing to listen. Make sure your loved ones know that you’re available for these conversations.

Understand that trying to “fix” the situation may not be the best approach. Even when meant as reassurance, saying, “Why don’t you just do this?”or minimizing the person’s concerns as “no big deal” can feel dismissive. Just letting them get some words out (much like in a counseling session) can be so helpful. Maybe ask if they’d like advice, or ask how you can be helpful. And just make sure they know they are heard and valued.

Equally important is a willingness to respect their space and their process. For me, anxiety and depression sometimes mean I’m not up for talking or being social or that I have trouble following through on plans, despite my best intentions. It’s nothing personal (even though I worry obsessively that others will see it that way). With a little time, I’ll work through it, and all will be well.

Of course, the perspective I share here is just mine, and others’ will differ in many ways. We each walk a unique journey. But I hope we can work on developing a shared understanding that we need each other, can learn from each other, and can all grow from being willing to talk about the things we too often keep hidden.