Epigraph: San Francisco Chronicle (May 7, 1882) — “PRESIDENT ARTHUR SIGNS CHINESE EXCLUSION ACT”
A Reputation Grows
By the mid-1880s, the Sieli vineyard was no longer a curiosity. Taverns in Sacramento listed “Sieli’s Red” on chalkboards, and merchants in San Francisco carried their barrels alongside imported Chianti.
When Giuseppe’s eldest son, Marco, walked into town, men greeted him with a nod instead of a sneer. The family’s name, once spit like an insult, had begun to carry weight.
But with weight came envy. Neighbors who had laughed at “dago peasants” now muttered that the Sielis undercut prices, hired too many hands, or flaunted their Catholic feasts.
At Whitcomb’s, Seamus fiddled through the gossip, shaking his head. “You can grow the best grapes in California, lads, but you can’t turn vinegar tongues into wine.”
The Law Turns
News from the city fell heavy as spring frost. The Chronicle headline carried north on the rail: CHINESE EXCLUSION ACT PASSED.
Antonio slammed the paper on the kitchen table. “Now it is law—hatred written on paper!”
Rosa bit her lip, thinking of Li Ming’s nephews. “What will they do?”
“They will stay,” Giuseppe said firmly. “The vines remember who waters them. Our land owes them more than any law.”
But the threats sharpened. A shop in town posted: NO CHINESE, NO PAPISTS, NO PROBLEM. Crowe, older now but still venomous, declared at a rally: “The Sielis defy the will of Americans. They will pay.”
The Festival of the Grape
That autumn, the county fair announced its first grape and wine competition. Marco begged his father to enter. “Papa, it is our chance! If we win, no one can deny us.”
Giuseppe hesitated. “We do not grow for medals. We grow for survival.”
But Antonio clapped Marco on the back. “Sometimes survival means standing in the sun where everyone must see.”
They sent three barrels—one from the lean ’73 vintage, one from the sweeter ’78, and one fresh and bold from the current harvest.
The festival bustled with brass bands, horse races, and pie contests. When the judges lifted cups of Sieli wine, the crowd hushed. One leaned close to another. “Balanced. Honest.”
A ribbon was pinned to their cask. First Prize: Red Table Wine.
Rosa wept quietly, hand pressed to her mouth. Seamus struck up O Sole Mio on his fiddle, the tune strange and foreign but catching the crowd anyway.
Shadows in Triumph
But triumph carried its shadow. That night, as lanterns dimmed and families packed their wagons, Marco found graffiti scrawled on their barrel: GO BACK TO ITALY.
Antonio cursed. Giuseppe ran his hand over the words, then poured water from a jug to wash them away. “Hatred is chalk,” he said. “Wine is stain. Which lasts longer?”
The Choice of Legacy
As the 1890s loomed, a new question pressed. Should the Sielis join the cooperative forming among Fresno grape growers—an alliance promising stable prices and shared protection? Or remain independent, guarding their name above all?
At the kitchen table, debate burned hotter than the lamps.
Antonio: “We need strength. Alone, we are targets. Together, we cannot be ignored.”
Giuseppe: “Together, we may lose ourselves. A vine tied too tight cannot breathe.”
Rosa: “What matters is not whether we stand alone, but whether our children inherit something unbroken.”
Marco, silent until then, finally spoke. “Papa, Zio, if our name is to mean anything, it must be spoken beyond Fresno. The railroad carries more than barrels—it carries reputation. If we stay small, we will be forgotten. If we join, we risk being swallowed. But I will not live my life hiding. I would rather risk too much than leave too little.”
The room went still. Giuseppe studied his son’s face—the same determined jaw he had carried across the sea. Slowly, he nodded.
“Then we risk,” he said.
Epilogue of the Chapter
That year, the Sielis signed the cooperative ledger, their name inked alongside Irish, German, and even Anglo ranchers.
When Crowe sneered at them in the square, Marco met his gaze and did not flinch. “The Sieli vines are not leaving, Mr. Crowe. Perhaps it is you who should go.”
The old man muttered, but his voice had lost its thunder.
The vineyard, meanwhile, stretched row upon row, roots deep in hostile soil, leaves whispering in the wind. Pride and prejudice still circled like hawks, but for the first time, the Sielis felt the strength not only of survival but of legacy.
A Day for Columbus
The news reached the Sielis through the San Francisco Chronicle:
“President Benjamin Harrison Declares National Holiday to Honor Columbus.”
It was 1892, and America was still young enough to crave its heroes—and frightened enough to look for scapegoats.
The year before, in New Orleans, eleven Italian immigrants had been dragged from their jail cells by an angry mob and lynched in broad daylight. Newspapers called them “dagos” and “assassins.” Few protested. The men had been accused—without proof—of murdering the city’s police chief, and when the jury acquitted them, the crowd decided to deliver its own justice.
Giuseppe Sieli set down the newspaper, his jaw tightening. “Eleven men,” he said quietly. “They worked hard, prayed hard. And for what?”
Antonio nodded, his eyes dark. “They say the mayor was there. Even the police helped.”
The vineyard lay still that afternoon. The wind carried the scent of grapes and dust, but something else hung heavier—a fear that the hatred which had once chased them from Liguria might never truly die, only change its flag.
A few months later, President Benjamin Harrison proclaimed a new national holiday: Columbus Day, to mark the 400th anniversary of the explorer’s voyage. Officially, it was to celebrate courage, discovery, and faith. But for Italians across America, it was more than that—it was a peace offering, a gesture meant to heal the wound left by the lynching.
“Columbus,” Antonio said one evening, pouring a glass of their coarse red wine. “They say he was from Genoa, like us.”
Giuseppe smiled faintly. “Then maybe, for once, they’ll celebrate an Italian instead of hanging him.”
That October, the Fresno parish held a special Mass. The pews were full—men with soil under their nails, women in lace mantillas, children waving small flags of both nations. Father Bianchi spoke in English and Italian:
“Today we remember a man who crossed an ocean by faith, not knowing what waited beyond. May his courage remind our adopted country that Italians, too, are part of its story.”
Outside, after the Amen, the congregation formed a procession through the dusty streets.
Children carried banners of Our Lady and Christopher Columbus; the brass band played a shaky Star-Spangled Banner, followed by Funiculì, Funiculà.
On the sidewalk, a few Anglos watched—some smiling, others muttering. One man crossed his arms and said to another, “So now we’ve got a holiday for foreigners, do we?”
Giuseppe overheard but said nothing. “Let them talk,” he murmured to Antonio. “If we keep planting, one day our roots will outgrow their hate.”
That night, under the sycamores, the family lit candles for the murdered Italians in New Orleans. Lucia whispered a prayer for their souls; Maria added softly, “May this new day bring peace.”
Giuseppe nodded, watching the candlelight flicker. “Maybe it will,” he said. “But light always casts a shadow. Someday, they may curse this man we celebrate now—forgetting what he meant to those who needed him most.”
Antonio frowned. “You think they’ll ever turn against Columbus?”
Giuseppe shrugged. “If the world can turn against its own saints, it can turn against sailors too. History doesn’t stay still—it changes like the wind.”
The brothers fell silent, the flame between them bending but never breaking, like the vines rooted in the soil of two worlds.
Historical Note: The Origins of Columbus Day
In March 1891, the lynching of eleven Italian immigrants in New Orleans became one of the darkest episodes in U.S. history—and one of the largest mass lynchings ever recorded on American soil. The victims had been accused of killing Police Chief David Hennessy but were acquitted at trial. A mob of thousands stormed the jail and murdered them while local officials looked on.
International outrage followed. Italy broke off diplomatic relations with the United States, and only after the U.S. paid an indemnity to the victims’ families did tensions ease.
To help repair relations with Italian Americans and to celebrate the 400th anniversary of Columbus’s voyage, President Benjamin Harrison declared October 12, 1892, a national day of observance—Columbus Day. It was meant to honor both the spirit of exploration and the contributions of Italian immigrants to the United States.
Over a century later, that same symbol—once meant to heal—would become the center of new debates over identity, history, and the meaning of discovery itself.
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