Sister Henrietta, my third-grade teacher at Immaculate Conception elementary school in the Bronx had trouble pronouncing my name every morning when she called attendance– so she changed it. One morning she announced in class that my name would be Grace, not Graziella. 

My dad yelled some expletive after hearing the news, but mamma, said that if that’s what Sister Henrietta wants, I have to obey.

Most days the good sister would scream my name and I wouldn’t answer, because it wasn’t me.

Could you imagine what would happen today if a teacher changed a student’s name?

Back in the ’70s the nuns apparently had the right to take your identity.

So from elementary school through high school and even college, my name was Grace or Gracie. In college, when I presented my resume to my advisor with my name, Graziella DiNuzzo in bold on the top of the page, he said I would never get an interview, let alone a job. I reluctantly changed it. I did have some very good jobs during the 80’s – was it Grace?

Like most immigrant children, I wanted to assimilate to American culture. I didn’t like being so ethnic. I wanted peanut butter and fluffer nutta on white bread for lunch. Instead, each morning mamma would freshly cook for our entire family. The aroma of the frittata on Italian bread, packed with so much love in a big brown bag, would waft through the air as it sat in the cubby hole under my desk in elementary school.  Mamma would write my name Graziella across the length of the bag in her beautiful cursive Italian script. By lunchtime, my name would be smeared in olive oil. My classmates made fun of me and most days I wouldn’t eat lunch. My friends had cool metal lunchboxes filled with simple ham and cheese sandwiches and a bag of Fritos. Mamma sometimes packed a Nutella sandwich, a delicious hazelnut chocolate spread – ironically very popular today.

The first time I heard my name read out loud in a formal public setting was in church on my wedding day – at the age of 25. The church office said they had to use my birth certificate name, (also the name on my marriage license), during the ceremony. The priest didn’t seem to have a problem with saying Graziella.

In many cultures, your name defines your place among your ancestors. In Sicilian culture, the third child, if its a girl, is named after the maternal grandmother.  I’m honored to be named after my nonna Graziella.

I was in my thirties when I decided to fully reclaim my birth name. Graziella may not roll as easily on the tongue for some, and many have said, “I just can’t say it,” as they look at me to relieve their pain.  “Godzilla?” someone once asked.

Today I am told that my name is artsy and exotic. My childhood friends have asked if I changed my name to Graziella to be cool, you know, fit in.   No, Sister Henrietta, that’s my name.

The West Oak Lane Jazz and Arts Festival will always remain close to my heart. Those of you who have experienced its magic will understand why I consider that festival one of the most important projects of my career with LifeLine Music Coalition (LMC). As the music producers, LMC was responsible for programming the music for four outdoor stages and other special events – over 56 bands each year for eight years (2004-2011). Three days of non-stop music – for FREE! Each year thousands of people gathered on Ogontz Avenue, in the middle of a neighborhood in Northwest Philadelphia to see music legends which included: Chaka Khan, Teena Marie, WAR, Roy Ayers, Benny Golson, Esperanza Spalding, Dirty Dozen Brass Band, The O’Jays, Ashford & Simpson, The Ohio Players, Dave Sanborn, George Duke…so, so many. But more importantly, we were able hire hundreds of renowned Philadelphia area musicians and vocalists who were seen on the  big stage – where they belong. Hope you enjoy the article, I did. Thank you Shaun Brady.

City Paper 2005 festival article

Do you know her? Steve Harvey recently announced her as the winner of something. Oh no, that was someone else. But everyone knows who she is. She may be in the form of a text, email, phone message, or even snail mail and in the end she’s the same thing – wrong! Once she hits send, the killing begins. No relationship is safe. She has destroyed business deals, personal relationships and caused world wars!

She’s a deadly chick and always the first excuse.

“It was Miss Communication,” we’ve heard the business person nervously saying as he/she tries to re-build the watered down brand. “What we really meant to say is…”   Spin doctors are usually called in to dig through the carnage but by that time the damage is done. Miss Communication could be the nail in your marketing coffin depending on how long she was allowed to wreak havoc.

No organization can afford Miss Communication. She is the femme fatale of public relations and is often the result of just not taking the time to craft a clear, concise and strategic message. Your message needs to be on point. But hey, it happens to all of us. I’ve spent a minute with Miss Communication and she was no fun. So, if she ends up in your email one day, don’t keep her alive. You’ll know its her immediately because she’s usually with her best friend – Miss Take.

Harley Bikers in China?

When you think of Harley bikers, Peter Fonda in “Easy Rider” may come to mind. Chinese tourists on a Harley? Not so much. Yet Jeff Ji, owner of World Trade Center of Greater Philadelphia member company Knight Hawk Tours, is changing that perception – anyone can and should be able to ride a Harley Davidson, especially in China. Want to ride a Harley to see the Great Wall or Confucius sites in China? Sign up for one of Knight Hawk’s tours. And, for Chinese tourists who want to take a 2,600 mile Harley ride through scenic Pennsylvania, Knight Hawk and Jeff Ji will make that happen.

Jeff Ji arrived in the United States in 1986 and received a graduate degree from American University and University of Pennsylvania. In 1993, Jeff started U-Combination Technology which offers diverse tech set-ups to area businesses, schools and non-profits. U-Combination has worked with the Philadelphia Convention and Visitors Bureau (PCVB) to design and host its website in China. Jeff is also on the board of PHL Diversity, a division of PCVB. Jeff is passionate about blending Chinese and American cultures. In April 2016, Jeff will be working to bring the Asian Food show to the Philadelphia Convention Center.

With the ever-growing middle class in China, more Chinese residents are able to afford Harley Davidson motorcycles.

“We are helping to sell more Harley Davidson motorcycles manufactured in Pennsylvania. Since 2008, Harley dealers in China have increased from 3 to 16. While U.S. sales of Harley decreased by 3%, China sales have increased by more than 10%. ”

To date, three Shandong tours from Pennsylvania to China have taken place, including a AAA Chinese New Year spectacular in 2014. And from Shandong to Pennsylvania, five tours have been organized. An average of 20 bikers participate on each tour.

Fred Harris is Director of the Ancient City Harley Owners Group with 300 members in St. Augustine Florida. In 2012, Fred and his wife Lynn led the Knight Hawk Harley Davidson Rally Experience Tour.

Valley Forge and Bucks County Harley Davidson dealership have been instrumental in supporting Jeff Ji’s mission to help sell American made products into China. In 2008, the Harley dealerships donated 30 bikes to get the ride rolling.

What would Confucius say?

Wearing Dresses in the Snow 

(published in Girlfriendz Magazine October 30, 2012)

By Graziella DiNuzzo

It didn’t take long for snow to get inside my boots, but it took forever to melt. I remember the piercing feeling when it would land on my bare skinny legs and work its way down the oversized clumsy rain boots I shared with my sisters. The chunks of snow and ice would lodge somewhere around my ankles adding discomfort to my already soaked Catholic school socks that had long since drooped inside. But I loved playing in the freshly fallen snow, regardless of the fact that I would return inside almost frost-bitten.

As soon as I would get outside, it would take about five minutes before the snow would begin to taunt me, forcing me to choose between the absolute joy of creating my snow art or the comfort of a warm radiator. I chose to frolic as long as possible or until Mom would scream for us to come inside. As a little girl, my “wardrobe” consisted of my ill-fitting Catholic school uniform which I would wear all day until I changed into my nightgown, and a few dresses, one with a weird Gypsy-looking pattern. I didn’t notice that I didn’t own a pair of pants. I was raised a Sicilian girl, in the moment and poor.

As I write, this I’m listening to jazz music and avoiding the constant media drone that has been interrupting the airwaves to talk ad nauseum of Hurricane Sandy. I am one of the lucky ones. I have electricity and my home was unscathed. In fact, I have an orchid plant that didn’t move an inch on my patio table. I had nothing to do with my good fortune.

In the days before Sandy, I watched a reporter stand next to a skinny tree blowing in the wind, warning of winds picking up, and today, the day after Sandy, I see photos of the boardwalk blown out to sea in Atlantic City; my old subway stop in Times Square completely under water, and 50 houses burning to the ground in Queens, New York. Days before Sandy, most stores had sold out of bread, milk, bottled water and batteries. None of those things would have stopped the fires, water or winds.

I read one post on Facebook where a friend said she and her kids ate through most of their food provisions the day before Sandy hit. We will never be fully prepared for life’s disasters, no matter how big or small.

My mom and dad survived WWII and the German occupation of their small town of Ali Terme, Sicilia on the Mediterranean. They lived through starvation and bombings. When they arrived in America in 1956, they appreciated everything America had to offer: supermarkets, consistent electricity, running water and indoor plumbing. To this day, my parents don’t take anything for granted. They have chosen to live simply, making their children and grandchildren their priority along with fresh food daily. Growing up, we were never prepared for anything. By the time my dad would find the flashlight, the batteries inside would not only be dead but leaking. When the blackout hit New York City in the 70s, we lived for days watching the looting and insanity of greed from our front porch. Mom figured out how to cook whatever was perishing in the fridge. It was summertime and the tap water was brown because the kids in the building would keep the Johnny pump (fire hydrant) running all day and night. We survived.

Every once in a while, Mother Nature reminds us who’s boss. Hurricanes like Sandy are dangerous and deadly. But the fact still remains that we are a nation of spoiled people who demand instant gratification and more calories than we need. We insulate ourselves from reality and feel entitled to decimate our resources so we can live our drive-thru lives—always on the constant go—with our Styrofoam containers. It’s a frenetic lifestyle that we demand because of the demands put on us. We waste water and kill trees.  Young children go to birthday parties at man-made, overly chlorinated indoor water parks (inside hotels!) where they eat a “happy” chemically laden meal and then return home to the electronic mind control of violent video games. I’m sad that my young adult children will never know what life was like without an iPhone.

We have no choice but to accept what comes our way, and appreciate and respect what we have. Sometimes we have to wear dresses in the snow.