Remember those who are gone this day -- and everyday

Frontiersman Editorial Board

Rocco arrived in the United States when he was 16 years old. He was a young boy on his own in New York City in 1912. He'd left his small village in the boot heel of Italy looking for something in America. Like many who came here during those years, and millions who have followed since, he was looking for a better life. But Rocco, despite his youth, had fixed his mind upon something else, as well. He'd made up his mind that he didn't want to simply benefit from the opportunity in the U.S., but he wanted to become a part of it. He wanted to be an American.

When the U.S. entered World War I, Rocco got the call. He hadn't gained U.S. citizenship yet, but he was given the option of either fighting with U.S. troops or with Italian troops. His English still wasn't very good, so he thought it would be a better bet to put on the Italian uniform -- he always said he was fighting for America, though.

He didn't talk much about the details of the war, but he once did describe a battle in which his battalion and a German battalion were dug in on opposite sides of a small draw. They were in trenches, but they were close enough to make out the facial features of the men across the draw. Every day for several weeks the two groups would take turns rushing across the draw in desperate attempts to overrun the enemy position. Each time they were cut down, adding to an expanding landscape of bodies -- a karst topography of gore.

In his old age, Rocco was wont to reminisce about his life. He told countless stories, many of them over and over -- he only discussed that battle once, and only with one person. Still, he never lost his pride over having "fought for America."

After returning to America, Rocco made a good life for himself and his family. He did it the old-fashioned way … the American way. He worked delivering heating coal to homes during the Depression, and he later became a baker. He was active in the Baker's Union, and he was the man who fought for, and won, a pension plan for retired bakers. Until last year when she passed away, his wife received those pension checks, and so have many others.

In a time when it became popular for people to be hyphenated, Rocco never was. He was proud of his Italian heritage, but he never called himself an Italian-American. He was an American. It's all he wanted to be. Someone once gave him a bottle of imported Italian wine to thank him for some work he'd done, and Rocco said, "Thank you, but I usually only drink California wine. It's the best." He wasn't being rude, he was just being an American.

Tomorrow is Memorial Day. It's a day many of us will be out enjoying the beauty of this, best, state. Hopefully we'll at least take a moment to remember all the Roccos who came before us. People who fought for and lived a promise we all-too-often take for granted. Thank you, Rocco, and thanks to every veteran who ever served to preserve not a dream, but a promise that we're obligated to keep.