A girl from the hill : my mother's journey from Italian girl to American woman

My mother is the closest thing to God I know. Her God concept, whether she knows it or not, is that she cannot be fully known by just one name or one single entity. Not Dahlia, Zalia, Zat, Dale, Mrs. Testa, Gale, Ma, Grammy, Mimi but someone other. Someone who serves as many beings to many people, revealing herself to each of us in ways that we can best appreciate and understand. After decades of indifference, self-indulgence, rebelliousness, embarrassment, and plain old apathy, I can finally say I truly appreciate my mother and her many pseudonyms. But Ive never been able to understand her as well as a daughter should. She deserves understanding and to have her stories and memories chronicled. I hope I do them justice. My mother's words are simple.At times I have tried to improve them with more 'colorful' language, more complex descriptions. But I stopped myself more often than not; because reading her words over and over, trying to improve them, I found it difficult to better describe the transformation of this skinny little olive-skinned girl with the big dark eyes and the long chestnut hair- a little girl who adored her family and found solace and comfort in a sprawling Victorian home. A home decorated with carefully selected treasures that served as her source of stability, refuge and belonging. Over time her universe changed. She lost many of the people and things she adored, only to find her self thrown into a world where she was no longer the youngest, the delicate flower Dahlia. As she morphed from Dahlia to Zat, to Dale, Mommy and Grammy, shecame dangerously close to losing herself. That's when the delicate flower finally stood up and strengthened to become the tough old Crow I love. And that amazes me more each day. Dahlia still holds those memories of warm mahoganies and lace curtains, and the crevices where a little girl could hide, reading her books and making believe. I'm grateful she has shared them with me, andcan't help but grin watching her bask in that sweet glow of happiness. I have my memoriestoo, of a mother I could always cuddle with, a lap that never refused to gently rock me out of whatever drama I conjured. And as my daughter snuggles with me after a long day at school or an intense game of basketball, I hope I can provide heras much comfort as my mother did me, along with the ability to let melittle girl go an define her own definition of womanhood. Patricia Mitchell's lifelong love of writing and desire to capture the story of her mother's life prompted her to embark on her first professional writing project-A Girl from the Hill. She holds degrees in mass media and communication, English literature and creative writing. This work expresses her interest in Italian-American culture as well as the relationship between mothers and daughters. Patricia Mitchell lives in Smithfield, Rhode Island, with her husband and daughter