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aries1988 : factory   6

In the Tonnara
In these buildings, every scrap of the tuna was used, even the blood and the fat, just as my people butchered their hogs in West Virginia and Pennsylvania. The choice cuts are obvious, and the dried roe (bottarga) is especially prized, but in the tonnara, the fish’s entrails and offal also were salted or preserved in oil for various uses, and difficult portions such as the joints and buzzonaglia were accorded care. Even the lattume, the male Bluefin’s sac of seminal fluid, was kept for the table.

I was drawn again and again to the tonnare. Only now do I realize I was fatigued by the endless palazzi and cathedrals of the rich that one is pointed to in Italy. It was refreshing to encounter a place where typical people—workers—lived and made a living.

For all we romanticize the notion of “work” in America, and as much as the politicians shill for it, the daily life of a laborer is the first thing to slip the collective memory. Instead, our children are taken to visit the mansion, the cathedral, or the art museum where the dirty money was poured. The factories corrode. The roof falls in. The weather comes. I remember bored teenage friends throwing rocks at the high windows of Dalzell-Viking Glass—their people had surely worked there blowing glass, but no one had a sense that it was of any importance. I didn’t either, not at the time. I probably would have thrown a rock had I any athletic ability.
sicily  italia  factory  renovation  city  village  gentrification  local  life  region  essay  love  fish  sea 
october 2017 by aries1988

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