For Columbus Day: One of my favorite posts from my blog "The Soil Remembers: The Saga of the Sieli Family":
About Columbus Day
A Day for Columbus
The news reached the Sielis through the San Francisco Chronicle:“President Benjamin Harrison Declares National Holiday to Honor Columbus.”
It was 1892, and America was still young enough to crave its heroes—and frightened enough to look for scapegoats.
The year before, in New Orleans, eleven Italian immigrants had been dragged from their jail cells by an angry mob and lynched in broad daylight. Newspapers called them “dagos” and “assassins.” Few protested. The men had been accused—without proof—of murdering the city’s police chief, and when the jury acquitted them, the crowd decided to deliver its own justice.
Giuseppe Sieli set down the newspaper, his jaw tightening. “Eleven men,” he said quietly. “They worked hard, prayed hard. And for what?”
Antonio nodded, his eyes dark. “They say the mayor was there. Even the police helped.”
The vineyard lay still that afternoon. The wind carried the scent of grapes and dust, but something else hung heavier—a fear that the hatred which had once chased them from Liguria might never truly die, only change its flag.
A few months later, President Benjamin Harrison proclaimed a new national holiday: Columbus Day, to mark the 400th anniversary of the explorer’s voyage. Officially, it was to celebrate courage, discovery, and faith. But for Italians across America, it was more than that—it was a peace offering, a gesture meant to heal the wound left by the lynching.
“Columbus,” Antonio said one evening, pouring a glass of their coarse red wine. “They say he was from Genoa, like us.”
Giuseppe smiled faintly. “Then maybe, for once, they’ll celebrate an Italian instead of hanging him.”
That October, the Fresno parish held a special Mass. The pews were full—men with soil under their nails, women in lace mantillas, children waving small flags of both nations. Father Bianchi spoke in English and Italian:
“Today we remember a man who crossed an ocean by faith, not knowing what waited beyond. May his courage remind our adopted country that Italians, too, are part of its story.”
Outside, after the Amen, the congregation formed a procession through the dusty streets.Children carried banners of Our Lady and Christopher Columbus; the brass band played a shaky Star-Spangled Banner, followed by Funiculì, Funiculà.
On the sidewalk, a few Anglos watched—some smiling, others muttering. One man crossed his arms and said to another, “So now we’ve got a holiday for foreigners, do we?”
Giuseppe overheard but said nothing. “Let them talk,” he murmured to Antonio. “If we keep planting, one day our roots will outgrow their hate.”
That night, under the sycamores, the family lit candles for the murdered Italians in New Orleans. Lucia whispered a prayer for their souls; Maria added softly, “May this new day bring peace.”
Giuseppe nodded, watching the candlelight flicker. “Maybe it will,” he said. “But light always casts a shadow. Someday, they may curse this man we celebrate now—forgetting what he meant to those who needed him most.”
Antonio frowned. “You think they’ll ever turn against Columbus?”
Giuseppe shrugged. “If the world can turn against its own saints, it can turn against sailors too. History doesn’t stay still—it changes like the wind.”
The brothers fell silent, the flame between them bending but never breaking, like the vines rooted in the soil of two worlds.
Historical Note: The Origins of Columbus Day
In March 1891, the lynching of eleven Italian immigrants in New Orleans became one of the darkest episodes in U.S. history—and one of the largest mass lynchings ever recorded on American soil. The victims had been accused of killing Police Chief David Hennessy but were acquitted at trial. A mob of thousands stormed the jail and murdered them while local officials looked on.
International outrage followed. Italy broke off diplomatic relations with the United States, and only after the U.S. paid an indemnity to the victims’ families did tensions ease.
To help repair relations with Italian Americans and to celebrate the 400th anniversary of Columbus’s voyage, President Benjamin Harrison declared October 12, 1892, a national day of observance—Columbus Day. It was meant to honor both the spirit of exploration and the contributions of Italian immigrants to the United States.
Over a century later, that same symbol—once meant to heal—would become the center of new debates over identity, history, and the meaning of discovery itself.
A related post: The Sieli Chronicles: 2020-2025
As the argument over Confederate statues began to cool, another fire lit up the news feeds—and this one struck closer to the Sieli heart.
The camera on the local news showed it first: a crane lifting a bronze Columbus from the center of Fresno’s Italian Heritage Plaza, workers in reflective vests guiding the ropes. The mayor said it was for “public safety.” Protesters had threatened to topple it. The city said it would be stored “temporarily.” Everyone knew what that meant.
Michael stood in front of the television, jaw tight. “They’re taking him down,” he muttered. “Columbus. The man who started it all. The first Italian to cross an ocean. What’s next—San Francisco? Los Angeles? They’ll rename the whole map before they’re done.”
Dominic crossed his arms. “He’s a symbol, Mike. Not just for Italians—hell, for all of Western civilization. A man who risked everything for discovery. And now they call him a murderer, a colonizer. They’re spitting on their own history.”
Sofia leaned against the counter, arms folded, calm but firm. “He was a colonizer. And his men did murder people. You can honor your roots without pretending history was perfect.”
Michael turned, eyes narrowing. “You’re missing the point, Sof. Nobody’s saying the man was a saint. But if not for Columbus, none of this—” he gestured toward the vineyard, the old oak table, the flags by the door—“none of it would exist. The country itself wouldn’t exist. He’s part of our story, whether people like it or not.”
“He’s part of a story,” Sofia corrected, “but not all of it. Columbus didn’t discover America. He landed in the Caribbean, enslaved the people who lived there, and helped start a system that wiped out entire cultures. That’s not something you put on a pedestal. That’s something you study.”
Dominic scoffed. “You talk like a professor. The man’s been dead five hundred years. Judging him by today’s standards is cheap and easy.”
“Then at least be honest about who he was,” Sofia said. “He wasn’t even ‘Italian’ the way people think. Italy didn’t exist yet. He lived part of his life in Genoa, sure, but he called himself Cristóbal Colón, worked for Spain, married a Portuguese woman, gave his sons Spanish names. He spoke Spanish. He was more Iberian than Italian.”
Michael slammed his palm lightly against the table. “That’s not what matters. He’s ours now. He became a hero for Italians in America—for immigrants who were beaten in the streets and called dagos and wops. Columbus Day wasn’t about him—it was about us. About saying we belong here. About pride.”
Sofia’s voice softened. “I know that, Uncle. But pride isn’t the same as truth. You can’t build identity on half a story. If we want to honor our people, let’s honor the ones who came here and worked the land, who built vineyards and railroads and cities—not the man who opened the door to centuries of suffering.”
Dominic turned toward Michael, eyes glinting. “Maybe we can save him. The city doesn’t want the statue? We’ll take it. Put it here, at the vineyard. He belongs with us.”
Sofia’s head snapped up. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not?” Michael said. “It’s history. We’ll put up a plaque—say it’s part of Italian heritage. It’s private property; no one can touch it. Let them protest in town if they want. Out here, we’ll keep what’s ours.”
Sofia stared, disbelieving. “What’s ours? A bronze man with a sword and a map? You’d bring that here—to a vineyard built by immigrants who believed in freedom? You’d turn this place into a museum for denial?”
“Into a place for context,” Michael countered. “They want to erase him from the world—we’ll keep him where he can be seen and remembered.”
Sofia shook her head. “You can’t save the past by dragging it into the present. You just chain yourself to it.”
The kitchen went quiet except for the hum of the old refrigerator. Outside, the vines swayed in the evening wind, rows of green against the golden haze. On the muted TV, another statue came down in another city. A protestor raised a sign: History belongs to everyone.
Michael turned off the screen and leaned back. “Maybe. But if everyone owns it, nobody protects it.”
Sofia looked out the window toward the vineyard—the same soil that had outlasted drought, fire, and division. “Maybe that’s the point,” she said. “Maybe history isn’t something to protect. Maybe it’s something to finally understand.”
Dominic sighed, rubbing his temples. “We’re all just trying to hold on to something, Sof.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “But maybe it’s time to hold on to each other instead.”
The old men said nothing. Outside, the vines rustled softly—witnesses, as always, to the arguments of the living. More: The Sieli Chronicles
