Through my life I waffled between being proud of my grandparents for fully embracing our new home, and feeling "we" had a debt to pay. And despising them for robbing me of my heritage.
Now my grandparent are long LONG gone .... and my parents are long gone ... and still no one of my generation (or the following generation for that matter) have learned Italian or stepped foot in Italy. Old habits are hard to break I guess.
Yup, I have the same mixed feelings about assimilation. On the one hand, what strong people they were to go through all of that in an effort to give future generations a better life... on the other, in the case of my family, their other option was quite literally to starve to death (not through lack of food, but because all cattle/corn/fish/fruit/greens went to England for taxes, leaving them the potatoes to subsist on, so when the blight happened....) so, not much of a choice.
It's the loss of the language that bothers me the most, particularly because in this day and age, it's not as simple as "go to Ireland and learn it"... Irish has only been legal to speak *in* Ireland for about 50 years (from 1801- ca. 1960, it was illegal to speak Irish *in Ireland*), so even there it's a language on life support. I wish it had survived assimilation *here* so that the language itself might be in a little less danger of extinction overall... but it didn't, so now it's down to the Gaelscoileanna (Irish immersion schools) that have popped up in the last 20 years or so over there to try to keep it from dying completely. Countless dialects have already been lost for all time... three survive. In another 50 years or so, three may well become one... and that would be a tragedy, because it really is a beautiful language.
There's a poem by John Montague that was my inspiration for learning Irish in the first place - It's long, so feel free to skip it, but it might speak to others who have no knowledge of their ancestral language, so I'll put it here.
A Grafted Tongue
(Dumb,
bloodied, the severed
head now chokes to
speak another tongue
As in
a long suppressed dream,
some stuttering garb-
led ordeal of my own)
An Irish
child weeps at school
repeating its English.
After each mistake
The master
gouges another mark
on the tally stick
hung about its neck
Like a bell
on a cow, a hobble
on a straying goat.
To slur and stumble
In shame
the altered syllables
of your own name:
to stray sadly home
And find
the turf-cured width
of your parents' hearth
growing slowly
alien:
In cabin
and field, they still
speak the old tongue.
You may greet no one.
To grow
a second tongue, as
harsh a humiliation
as twice to be born.
Decades later
that child's grandchild's
speech stumbles over lost
syllables of an old order.