The Importance of Tradition in the Age of Modernity
In this essay I explore my thoughts on tradition in a cultural sense, and my recent experience with the rebirth of tradition as a second-generation Italian-Australian
Sometimes ‘traditions’ are forgotten for good reason.
Maybe they are outdated, or perhaps they tie one to the past and hold them back from the future. Sometimes they are put aside or disregarded for convenience, or repurposed in ways that better suit 21st century lifestyles.
And yet for some, traditions are crucial, sacred even, and to be upheld without fail or delay. Unbreakable and of significant cultural importance.
I recently took to thinking about ‘tradition’, despite having had very little in my life to do with conventional customs or observations — not religiously, and neither culturally nor socially. Tradition has never meant a lot to me. But after a recent experience with a forgotten ritual once practiced by my family, I’ve had to adjust my conclusions about the importance of tradition in an ever-changing world.
It’s pretty obvious I’m not a ‘traditionalist’ — there is very little about me that constitutes ‘traditional’, and I do pride myself in this. I have never been able to place myself in any one defining box, because nothing about that sounds appealing in the slightest to me. For instance, as a writer I like breaking literary conventions (knowing the rules first, of course!) The Dada movement springs to mind, as well as the art of spontaneity in prose and the representation of the mundane, the mad, the urban, and the disturbing.
One of my major dispositions is my desire to break traditions, to shatter expectations and do things the way I want to do them. My writing journey, I think, reflects this. I even chose to independently publish my poetry-novel instead of going through a traditional publisher. I also vehemently speak out against gatekeepers and censors, when it is expected of me to give in to the whims of critics in order to receive publication. Tradition is almost totally antithetical to my ethics and way of conducting myself.
And yet there is a part of me that appreciates tradition. I don’t know where it comes from. I suppose it comes from the Italian in me, the European blood in my veins. Vivaldi and Rossini. Dante and Boccaccio. Garlic. Oregano. Campari. Chianti.
Perhaps it stems from a yearning to experience certain aspects of the past, a mood, an energy that hangs by a thread in this country so far from our place of origins in Abruzzo — a place I have never been to. I am especially drawn to community-based customs that have been long forgotten in the bustle and progression of the 21st century. Such as seeing family for Christmas, or when writers gather in cafes to discuss their art and collaborate. Social traditions.
So on the one hand, I’m this guy who wants to break rules and stray away from what I’m supposed to do in favour of what I want to do as an artist; on the other hand, I want to cling to the practices of my people.
The reason I talk about tradition is because I recently experienced my first Tomato Day. If you’re unfamiliar with this, Tomato Day is a tradition (especially in Australia) in which Italians gather their friends and family to preserve tomatoes at the end of their peak season by making passata — together. This is usually a whole-day process requiring numerous hands. Bonding and laughter are a must.
I grew up semi-removed from many of the traditions of my family, as a second-generation Italian in Melbourne. While I learned a lot about cooking from my Italian-raised mother, I can barely string together two sentences in coherent Italian. I spent a lot of time as a child in my grandparents’ bakery, Abruzzo Quality Hot Bread, so I learned a thing or two about being Italian. But as far as traditions are concerned … I hadn’t even heard of Tomato Day until I was fifteen, when I first read Melina Marchetta’s Looking for Alibrandi for a tenth year English assignment. That was ten years ago now.
In the novel, the main character Josie reflects on her identity as both Australian and Italian, and she feels a strong connection to her family roots when she and her family gather to make sauce. Josie does not yet realise the importance of tradition in this moment — that tradition serves as a thread stitching the fabric of society, weaving together generations in a changing world. Josie is challenged by her family to embrace her Italian culture, but ultimately, this moment is an indisputable milestone in her journey grappling with belonging and self-discovery.
This was a milestone for me as well. I, like Josie, am still learning to juggle with a multi-identity. I never quite felt Australian — after all, what is Australia, if not the unceded land stolen from its traditional owners and caretakers, the land my grandparents migrated to for ‘opportunity’? And yet I never quite identified as Italian, since I am also Maltese from my father’s side, and I speak neither language.
After finishing Looking for Alibrandi, I asked my mother about Tomato Day. ‘Why doesn’t our family do it?’ And she told me that we used to. ‘We’ meaning my mother and her siblings, my uncles and aunties. They used to make sauce with my grandparents back when they were children. ‘What happened?’ I asked, and she said everyone just got too busy and the tradition faded out.
For the first time in my life, I realised how far removed my family had become from its roots. We were Italians living in a city known for its elegant clash of different migrant communities. Their foods. Their celebrations. Their languages. Here we are met with so many other cultures, not to mention the fact we live in late-stage capitalism and lead ultra-busy-hustle-lives. And so our traditions have began to disappear as the older generations die. We have allowed our rituals to be buried, in exchange for a life of convenience and distance from the confines of lore and heritage.
When my grandfather passed away of cancer less than two months ago, my family gathered in celebration of his life, all of us wearing black, for an evening of food, drink, and memories. I sat at a table with my mother, where she told me the family was considering restarting the Tomato Day tradition as a way of bringing the family closer together, in grief and love. I was fiercely thrilled.
“… a tradition that we’ll never let go. A tradition that I probably will never let go of either, simply because like religion, culture is nailed into you so deep you can’t escape it. No matter how far you run.”
— Melina Marchetta, Looking for Alibrandi
I could think of no better way of reconnecting us to our Italian traditions than TOMATOES. I knew Tomato Day would be a nice way to process our grief and bond as a family dealing with change. Offering us a sense of comfort and predictability in uncertain times. Tomato Day offers a tangible expression of familial bonds and cultural heritage. As families gather to preserve tomatoes through the time-honoured process of making sauce, they not only engage in practical labor but also cultivate a shared narrative of their roots and values.
So we had our Tomato Day last week. I arrived at my mother’s house early(ish) on Sunday and got straight into it, eager to partake in the traditions of my blood that had almost died for good. There were eleven polystyrene crates of juicy red Roma tomatoes for us to cut and sort into tubs. My uncles John and Renato were in charge of ‘the machine’ — a menacing name for a rather loud electric tomato strainer that separates the pulpy, seedy skins from the juicy parts.
Our neighbour of almost thirty years, who had lost his own de facto partner to cancer recently, even joined in to help us bottle and cook our passata. My partner Maddie was there too, slicing tomatoes beside me and laughing with my aunties and uncles, and nothing could have made me happier (or more in love with her) than seeing her welcoming and enjoying the traditions of my culture.
The look on my Nonna’s face was the cherry on top. Her youthful eyes twinkled at the scene of us together, working hard in the sun. I like to think she was remembering the good old days when my mother and her siblings were children, when her husband was still alive. I just wanted to wrap my arms around her all day and kiss her cheeks and tell her how much I loved her. Te amo, te amo, te amo. She smiled and laughed so much.
Look how pleased my Nonna looks.
At one point she leaned over while we were bottling sauce and told me, ‘Now one day you will do this with your children’ — and I froze on the spot. She was right. The deeper purposes of tradition had completely slipped my mind. It all made sense: I was supposed to be involved in Tomato Day, to learn the traditions of my mother, so that I, as a some-day father, can then teach the traditions to my children. So the tradition stays alive. So that fifty years from now, future generations can go on knowing how to preserve tomatoes. It’s not a stereotype that we Italians are wildly food-passionate. We are.
The world is changing so quickly, and it feels like I am running out of time to learn the stories of my great-grandparents and the language of my people. But like recipes passed down from generation to generation, traditions such as Tomato Day are an opportune way to engage with the past while stepping into the future.
Someone from work approached me the day after Tomato Day. She had seen the stories I’d posted of me and me family making passata. ‘I didn’t know you were Italian,’ she said — and I felt it again. That multi-identity thing. Something pulsed in my chest. Maybe a heartstring twanged. A feeling of acknowledgement, of feeling seen for who I am. It matters to me that people see me for who I am, the many fragments that make me whole. There was no way for her to have known about my heritage without my telling her, of course, although people often say I look Italian. But I felt like I had earned the right to say — Yes! I am Italian!
So maybe traditions are important in an ever-changing world after all. They provide us with a sense of stability, a bridge to our past, our origins. They anchor us in the strange duality of the past amidst the flux of modernity.
I am making it my mission to embrace more of the customs of my people, to carry their recipes and legacies into my future. As for traditions in the literary world … I’m sure I still have a few rules to break.
