Richard Fossa, eighty-three,
Federal Hill and North Providence
AS TOLD TO JAMIE COELHO
M
y family came from Italy around 1910. My
mother came here with her father and her
sister. Her father went back to Italy after one
year and left his two kids here, and they were
just teens. My mother was eighteen or nineteen when she got
married. My parents met here, and they came from two separate
towns, Teano and Roccamonfina. My father was a tailor.
Neither of my parents spoke English.
I was born in 1936 at 62 Spruce Street, into a family of eight
children. Five boys. Three girls. I was the youngest of the eight.
When my mother was pregnant with me, and after having
seven kids, she knew when she was ready. She said, “call the
doctor” in Italian — “sono pronto,” which means “I’m ready”
— and he came over with a flashlight, because there were no
lights in the stairway. My mother’s name was Luisa. The doctor
said, “Luisa, you have two more weeks,” and he left. About an
hour later, my mother said to my aunt, “go across the street and
get the midwife.” A half-hour later, an eight-pound baby boy
popped out. The midwife delivered half the babies on the street,
and years later, when she would bump into me, because I wasn’t
the best behaved kid on the street, she would always say to me
in Italian, “You made me run.”
At that time, the day after babies were born, a visiting nurse
would come check on the mother. My cousin always tells the
story. The nurse says, “I’m looking for Luisa Fossa.” My cousin
says, “She’s right here,” as my mother’s on her knees washing
the floor. The nurse says, “You just had the baby!” And she’s trying
to pick her up off the floor, she’s trying to put her to bed. And my
mother’s like, “I can’t go to bed. I gotta cook,” in Italian.
We lived in a three-tenement house, no hot water. My mother
and her sister — my aunt — both had five boys and three girls.
They lived on the first floor, and we lived on the second. In those
days, a three-tenement house was occupied by all relatives.
We had four bedrooms. One was a parlor, so we were down
to three bedrooms. And one was my mother and father’s bedroom,
so now we’re down to two bedrooms for eight kids. Parlors:
you couldn’t go in unless you died or you got married. You heard
about the plastic on the couches? No one could go in that room.
If you wanted a shower once a month, you went to the bathhouse,
which was across from the Old Canteen. To bathe at
home, everyone had a big galvanized pan. There was always
hot water on the stove, because they had to boil pasta. You put
the hot water in the pan, and then you’d stand in there and
wash up the best you could. There was no bathtub in my house.
The families on Federal Hill were very close. My father and
mother couldn’t find the key to the door if they wanted to lock
it. People would say, “Oh, Federal Hill, be careful.” I mean the
neighborhood took care of the neighborhood. They could say
whatever they wanted about the organized crime. My father
was in business for years and no one ever bothered him. There
were no drugs on Federal Hill; they wouldn’t allow it.
Believe me, it was a rough place in the old days. People got
killed. But it was people who were connected, and they didn’t
kill working people. You were in a gang, or you lived by the
gang’s rules. It was rough, but my mother never worried about
walking down the street. They would say to me, “You see something,
run.” That was their last words to you. That and don’t
take a pregnant girl home.
Federal Hill was off limits to the sailors during World War
II. Whenever they were up there, they were chasing girls. The
sailors would come up the Hill and there would be trouble.
When they docked at Quonset Point, a sign was posted that
actually said, “Federal Hill Off Limits,” | | CONTINUED ON PAGE 131
74 RHODE ISLAND MONTHLY l MAY/JUNE 2020