Viola Perin Trigiani: A reflection during her birthday month
A hundred years ago my grandmother Viola Perin Trigiani was 17 years old. She was already working full-time as a forelady in a pants factory in Bangor, Pennsylvania. She was the eldest of six children and grew up on a farm in Delabole, Pennsylvania. Her father, my great grandfather whom I remember with affection, looked like Geppetto from the Pinocchio story. He spoke with a beautiful Italian accent. His wife Giuseppina died young at 42, and he raised their children alone. His youngest daughter Lavinia told me she never remembered another woman in his life, but that the loss of his beloved wife didn’t turn him bitter. Instead, he poured himself into his work. He rose before dawn, worked the farm, and then he went to work in the local slate quarries where he handled the explosives. It’s the most dangerous job in the quarry, therefore it paid the highest salary. Even after there was a terrible accident in the quarry and he lost fingers on his hand, he healed and went back to working the double shift on the farm and in the quarry.
I give you this background because it will help you understand the person my grandmother became because of her childhood. Her drive and work ethic was rooted in survival and excellence… or more simply, fear and ambition…
She told me how heartbroken she was when it was decided she wouldn’t be allowed to attend high school. She repeated the 8th grade because her school only went to the 8th grade, and her teacher did not want Viola to stop her studies. My grandmother was smart and quick; education was her highest dream. But the family needed her salary, and she sacrificed her own dreams for them. She took the trolley to work from Delabole to Bangor, and when she wanted to save the nickel, she walked. It was several miles, but she was a saver and a nickel in 1922 was worth something.
While she worked in the mills, she aspired. She made her own clothes out of the best quality fabric she could find. She took care of her things. The friends she made at her first job were her friends for life. It brought me great joy to see her with her friend Lucy. Later in life, they even went on a cruise with a bunch of their girlfriends and had a wonderful time.
The best stories I heard about Viola were from my dad’s friends. When he died, I received letters from his old pals who marveled at “Tony’s mother”. She drove them places- in the 1940s it wasn’t a common thing for women to have a driver’s license, but she did. She loved cars, and eventually owned a Packard (midnight blue and maroon), and later still, the American dream car, a Cadillac (with fins).
She was a woman of deep faith. It wasn’t a given in her family, her successful brother asked her to leave his hospital room when she knelt next to his bed and said the rosary when he was ill… “Viola, no voodoo.” He said. She believed the practice of her faith was the most important thing. Her faith was her guardrail, as she was, by her own admission, impatient and would not suffer fools. If she ever did, there’s no record of it. She was tough, by the end, she accepted her weaknesses and made peace with her regrets.
Today is her birthday. Her highest dream is that we kept the faith, so on her birthday, I attend mass in her honor. Even now, and she has been gone a long time, I know that going to mass in her memory would delight her. My favorite little church is on 14th Street, where most of the masses are in Spanish. I try to be mindful and present at mass, but I think of her when surrounded by hardworking immigrants celebrating their faith. We are them, and they are us, there are just a hundred years between us and two languages, Italian and Spanish.
One time, I was on a book tour and someone asked me where I got my drive- and of course, she appeared before me like the Shroud of Turin- an image of her nodding. In my family, you didn’t have to be the prettiest or the smartest or the most talented athlete, but you did have to be the hardest worker. You had to put the hours in, and in that process, reach for perfection and never give up. Her philosophy: if you work hard enough and long enough, you do get better at what you do and you learn things that help you grow. Her accomplishments were astonishing. Eventually, by the age of 36, she and my grandfather owned their own factory. It was a 50/50 proposition, but it was not lost on me that it was her name over the door. She was the brand before we even knew what brands were.
When I turned 18, she asked me what I wanted- and I asked her for the sign over the door of her factory in Martins Creek, Pennsylvania. There were new owners, and the building was no longer a factory, but the sign: Yolanda Manufacturing Company remained. She surprised me with the sign- it was wrapped in newspaper, and it remained that way until 8 years ago, when I hung it in my office in New York City. Every day, it is the first thing I see when I enter my office. The sign means everything to me because she and my grandfather are present with me- stitch by stitch, button by button, seam by seam. I don’t make fine blouses, I do a different sort of sewing that requires the same diligence. It’s all craft, regardless of process, tools and equipment. We’re attempting to make something beautiful, something that lasts, something that serves.
My thoroughly modern grandmother cut a path for those of us who followed.