CRUSHED IT: LESSONS FROM A GRAPE STOMP
I didn’t expect to win. I didn’t even expect to participate. But motherhood, like grape
stomping, has a way of throwing you in barefoot.
I am not used to contests of sport. But stepping into the seasoned oak half cask, the
sensation of cold soft grapes on my bare feet and their attendant tickly stems poking up
between my toes must have activated my Southern Italian DNA because I was instantly
ready to rumble. My 2nd grade daughter didn’t want to stomp. She was nervous
enough just to be in front of the crowd but when we showed her what her role would be,
that of a spigot plunger, she took to the task with focus and zeal. She never listens to me
at home. But teamed up, competing, in front of tens of shouting, cheering spectators, all
of whom were telling her what to do? She focused on my directives and didn’t deviate
once.
“Clear it Lucia!” I’d shout when grape detritus started plugging up the release tube. She
can’t seem to hear me telling her to brush her teeth in the quiet of our home but here,
under the tent with the bigger-than-life size picture of Lucille Ball, over the Italian fight
club music and men’s voices shouting in dialects from regions stretching from Puglia to
Palermo, my daughter heard and executed. And of course yelled back at me to stomp
faster.
Somewhere mid-stomp, I got the sense we were the crowd favorite. My 7 year old is
petite, with a baby face and the kind of cheeks that make even the most hardened
Nonno, close in for a non-consensual pinch. She took the cuteness award. I,
meanwhile, looked like I’d walked out of central casting for the role of Southern Italian
Zia: dark hair, dark eyes, not too tall, not too thin, boobs, butt and an animated attitude.
I reminded everyone of their sister, aunt, cousin or wife when she was a little younger.
Or so I was repeatedly told. Plus, we were really giving it our all. We were in it to win it,
and we did!
I was so excited by the victory, I didn’t realize we had only won a heat. I was celebrating
like I brought home the World Cup. But I quickly learned there would be another round
of 4 teams competing and then there would be a final stomp off with double the amount
of grapes in the barrel. While I rinsed my feet off with the fireman’s hose they had so
kindly set up, for post-stomp clean up, my mind wondered “Do I have another one in
me?” “Does Lucia?” Usually with her sensory issues and heightened emotionality, well,
let’s just say we leave a lot of events early. But there was no backing out now. We were
already being met with shouts of congratulations and well wishes for the next round.
“Auguri e buona fortuna!” roared the baker as he rewarded my daughter with a fresh
hand made cannoli. “In bocca al lupo! In the mouth of the wolf!” whooped my Calabrese
paisan, closed fist pumping in the air.
Truth be told, before I participated in the first stomp, I had to duck into the ladies room
and do a little gut check to see if I was ok to participate at all. I get agida from certain
situations; crowds, new things, being anywhere I don’t know well with my highly curious,
active and spirited child. So when someone hands you a liability waiver to sign in order
to participate in something, well, cue the inner tumult.
My brain: “Why would they do this? Is this actually dangerous? Remember that
youtube video of the lady who slipped and fell out of the bucket? She probably
broke her collarbone. Just yesterday I hurt my back and I still have that torn
meniscus… maybe I shouldn’t do it. Dear God, is it ok for me to participate in this
thing!?”
I let go of my fears and waited to receive some inner direction. “YES” said my intuition.
And then it was followed up with “And You might even consider having FUN.” Obviously my intuitive sense is also of Italian heritage as she likes to tease me and bust my balls a little bit. After the mini prayer and meditation session in the can, I trusted my heart, took off my socks and made memories with my daughter to last a lifetime. We crushed the grapes. We crushed the competition. But more than anything, we crushed a little fear—and made room for joy, Italian-style.
Bio:
Julianna Forlano is a writer, professor at Montclair State University, and transformational coach
and facilitator. Her work excavates the spaces where personal narrative, ancestral memory, and
collective struggle converges. A longtime host on WBAI 99.5 FM in New York City, she just
recently launched Olive on the Apple Tree, a podcast and Substack which features essays that
blend humor, resistance, and revelation. With roots in satire and a pulse on cultural change, she
brings radical insight to every space and word.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 