Not a Kansas City Italian

By David Fugazzotto

A while back at our monthly UNICO meeting I found myself chatting with another member who was talking about Buffalo, New York. That caught my attention, since I was born there, though I only lived in Buffalo until the ripe old age of six weeks. As we got to know each other, I asked if he’d ever heard of a Dr. Thomas Bumbalo, my grandfather.

“Dr. Bumbalo?” he said. “Yeah… he was my doctor growing up!”

Small world indeed.

Later at another meeting, I sat next to someone I hadn’t met before. During supper, he glanced at my nametag and asked, “Fugazzotto… you’re not a Kansas City Italian, are you?” His tone wasn’t accusatory—just curious. My name is one of only a few single-name entries on the long list of UNICO members. I laughed and said, “Guilty! But I like to think I am one now.”

My Italian-American Roots

Like many Italian-Americans, mia famiglia traces its roots to rural Sicily. Both of my paternal great-grandfathers came to the United States around 1900, entering through Ellis Island in search of a better life than the hardscrabble poverty they knew back home. My grandfathers were born in New York State and, despite modest beginnings, each earned doctoral degrees, one in medicine, the other in microbiology. My father also became a physician, and my maternal grandfather, the aforementioned Dr. Bumbalo, happened to be one of his professors. And yes, despite marrying the professor’s daughter, my father’s grades were exceptional and earned through his own sweat and toil.

So if I’m not a Kansas City Italian, what am I?

Truthfully, I did spend part of my childhood in Kansas City in the 1970s while my father completed his pediatrics residency at Children’s Mercy Hospital. But we lived in Prairie Village, not the North End, and my dad was so busy that I’m not sure we even knew an Italian community existed. Other than vague memories of Italian Gardens, my time here passed without any connection to the vibrant community I would later come to know.

Most of my growing up happened in Birmingham, Alabama. While there were other Italian families—the De Marcos, Brunos, Carnaggios, Ippolitos—there was no “Little Italy,” no concentrated neighborhood where Italian culture was woven into daily life. So in many ways, I didn’t have the stereotypical Italian-American upbringing.

Where we did hold onto tradition was food. My mother made spaghetti every week, and as a good Italian son, her sauce remains the standard by which all others are judged. She often made manicotti or lasagna, and for my birthdays she baked a limoncello cake. At Christmas, she always made cuccidati (fig cookies). And after age eleven or so, we were allowed small glasses of wine diluted with water at dinner in the formal dining room. We felt very grown-up and sophisticated.

Extended family also remained important, even from a distance. We loved visiting grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins in Buffalo or out west. Most summers were spent roaming around western New York—riding bikes, playing games, learning new songs on the guitar, and getting into the usual cousin mischief. As we got older, my cousins started a painting business and kept me on an extended “vacation” to help paint a local gas station. Those summers bonded us for life. But not having extended family in Alabama meant my experience differed from many of my UNICO brothers who grew up surrounded by theirs. Not better or worse, just different.

The Kansas City Italian Experience

Years later, married with a family of my own, we moved to Kansas City. We had been living overseas, and my wife was in charge of finding us a home. The house she chose happened to be in the Northland, near St. Andrew the Apostle Parish and School (SATAPS). I flew in from Germany to sign the closing papers, and a month later we moved in.

It wasn’t until we enrolled our daughter at SATAPS that I realized we had landed in what felt like the heart of the Kansas City Italian community.

While waiting at “meet the teachers” night, I overheard someone say, “I think that’s Vito’s kid…”

“Vito?” I thought. “I’ve never heard of anyone named Vito outside of a movie.”

A few minutes later, I heard a dad yell to his child, “Hey! You gotta watch out for your sister, capish!?”

Startled, I wondered, “Where exactly did we move? Kansas City or New Jersey?” I had never heard “capisce” used in the wild.

When we got home, I opened the church directory. Outside of a phone book I once flipped through in Buenos Aires that was also full of Italian surnames, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a concentration of Italian names. Living here, I should never again be mistaken for Japanese, as happened more often than you’d expect. (Except when we actually lived in Japan—no one there was confused about our ethnicity, though we could phonetically syllabify our name into kanji, which was pretty cool.)

It didn’t take long for us to fall in love with Kansas City. When I retired from the military, we decided this would be where we put down roots.

I soon discovered UNICO at this very Festa Italiana. We had come simply to enjoy the food, music, and atmosphere. But when I wandered past the information booth, I decided to stop and find out what this whole UNICO thing was. Joe Nastasi introduced himself, struck up a conversation, told me about the organization and its mission, and invited me to the next meeting. Given that the meeting was at Cascone’s, and other meetings rotated through other fantastic Italian restaurants every month, joining was a no-brainer.

What It Means to Be Italian-American

Being part of UNICO has inspired me to learn more about my family’s history and reflect on what it means to be a Kansas City Italian, or a New York Italian, or an anywhere-else Italian. Ultimately, it’s more than geography. It’s the shared heritage and traditions, however each family observes them. It’s the sense of community you feel when you meet other Italians, no matter where you are. It’s the rich history of art, literature, and cinema. It’s the vast landscape of food and drink that goes far beyond Tascio’s pizza, Garozzo’s spiedini, Scimeca’s sausages, and a nice chianti (no fava beans for me, thanks).

It’s the contributions of Italians and Italian-Americans in sports, entertainment, culture, and politics. And it’s also personal. It’s my story, my family, my roots.

Being Italian-American means being connected to an infinite web that stretches from the ancient past, to the present, and on into the future. It’s a living story, connected by shared roots, shared traditions, and shared tables. It’s a connection and heritage that shapes who I am and is something I’m proud to pass on.

Alla famiglia, e alla nosta storia.