Pink Pasta

By Andrew Vivere

Embark on a journey of courage, resilience, and self-discovery with Andrew Vivere's Pink Pasta

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Vivere
• Release date: May 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781763559301

Book preview

About the Author

Andrew Vivere, although born in Adelaide, South Australia and raised in a traditional Italian household, embarked on a diverse life journey living in Sydney, Thailand, Myanmar, and Malaysia. In 2011, he commenced crafting his memoir, marking his debut in the literary world. Beyond writing, Andrew is a Reiki Master and Reflexologist, and deeply connected to holistic healing. Currently, he resides back in Adelaide, South Australia, where his life's tapestry continues to unfold.

Acknowledgements

Writing this memoir has been an amazing journey. I am immensely grateful for the love, support, and inspiration from countless individuals who have touched my life in profound ways. As I reflect on the chapters of this book and the chapters of my life, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for each person who has walked alongside me on this path of self-discovery.

My deepest gratitude to my siblings. Your love, encouragement and support is a true blessing in my life. It is impossible to imagine growing up without the protection, support and love from all of you. To my parents, thank you for brining me into this world, for all the good things and loving me the best you could. Our relationship has given me the opportunity to help as many people as I can with my story.

To my beloved partner, your patience, understanding and support have been my guiding light. Thank you for believing in me even when I doubted myself.

To my friends, old and new, I offer my heartfelt appreciation. Your friendship has been a beacon of light in the darkest of times, a source of laughter in moments of despair and a reminder that I am never alone. From late-night conversations to spontaneous adventures, each moment shared with you has been a treasure. To my friends from distant shores, your perspectives and experiences have broadened my horizons and enriched my life in countless ways. And to my friends who have passed, your memories live on in the pages of this memoir, a testament to the enduring power of friendship and love.

To my acupuncturist, Dr. Caterina Jovanovic from Attune Acupuncture, for her skilful care and healing hands. You truly are an angel on earth. To my chiropractor, Dr. Kurt Gerecke from Atlas Chiropractic, thank you for your support and unwavering commitment to my wellbeing for the last 20 years.

I am also indebted to the strangers who have crossed my path and offered kindness and support when I needed it most. Your random acts of kindness have restored my faith in humanity and left an indelible mark on my heart. Whether it was a smile from a passerby, a kind word from a stranger, or a helping hand in a time of need, your generosity has reminded me of the inherent goodness that exists within us all.

A heartfelt thank you to my dear friend Stefan, whose meticulous proofreading and insightful edits have elevated this memoir to new heights. Your attention to detail and dedication to helping me refine my work have not gone unnoticed. Thank you for your invaluable contribution.

A special thanks to my nieces for their unwavering support and brainstorming sessions for book cover ideas. I love you very much.

I am grateful for the guidance and support of my editors, whose keen eyes and insightful feedback have helped shape this memoir into its final form. To the talented illustrator behind the captivating front cover, your artistry has brought my words to life in ways I never imagined.

Learning alternative therapies has been instrumental in my journey, helping me better understand myself and providing me with the tools to heal and help others. To all who have played a part in bringing this memoir to fruition, I am eternally grateful. Thank you for being a part of my journey.

With love and gratitude,

Andrew Vivere

CHAPTER 1

In the Beginning

Where do you start when you are trying to tell the story of a part your life that is so personal? I have been asking myself this question over the last few decades and I still don’t have a definitive answer. What I do know though, is that I want to share my personal experiences, life situations and more importantly my thoughts and feelings during enormous life changing events. I really do believe that everyone has a life story they can tell, and as my Italian mother would say, Everyone has a cross to bear. I wish I had a book like this to read when I was young, to let me know that I was not alone, that there was help out there and other people felt the same way as I did.

This book (among many other things) is about dealing with family and domestic violence, being born different and struggling with culture, religion and sexuality. If you are reading this, I want you to know that you are not alone. You may have or are going through a tough time, be it because of your family, your culture, your religion, your sexuality or anything really. I’m here to tell you that you CAN overcome this period in your life. There are people (like me) who have gone through what you are going through and knowing this simple fact should be a huge relief.

Maybe you know someone, a family member or your child is going through something like this. This may offer you an insight to what an individual is experiencing, and you may be that person who can help.

Most importantly you are not alone! I have gone through some horrific things in my life and have survived. You can survive too!

This is my Story

I remember my mother and father telling me stories of their childhood and how difficult life was for them and their parents (my grandparents) to survive in Southern Italy, especially during the Second World War and living through the Great Depression. Living life back then was a day-by-day experience of poverty, hunger and grief.

During the Second World War, mum would tell us her parents would hide her and her sister in small cavities under the floors at home or in neighbours’ cellars to protect them. My grandmother would tell her children that when the German and American soldiers came into town, young girls would either disappear, be raped and/or killed.

Dad would tell us that when he was a child (around 6 years of age), he would sneak on to neighbouring farms in the town in an attempt to steal something to eat. He told me that onions were the easiest thing to pull from the ground and make a quick getaway. Land owners would give chase, firing guns directly at him. When dad managed to steal a couple of onions, he would quickly eat one raw and take the rest home. He said the hunger was unbearable.

Times sounded tough, but for us as children you really don’t grasp the severity, or have the awareness or understanding. It just made us scared, and I remember thinking I hope we would never have to experience war. I guess we can never really know what it is like to live like that or the long-term effects it can have on you. My parents never really went to school and just about as soon as they could walk, they were helping with chores and starting to work, doing anything they could do to earn money.

During the 1960s in Italy, life was not easy – especially in Southern Italy. My parents already had five children and with little work and food, there were many Europeans looking for a better life in another country. Dad spent most of his 20s in the Italian military, then in the Italian navy and spent many years working on vessels, which were worlds away from home. His visits back to our hometown in Apulia, would be for only a few weeks every year.

Each visit pretty much coincided with a new baby being conceived or born. There was no contraception back in those days nor were there any discussions about sexual reproduction or education. Any talk about sex was as close as you got to a mortal sin and going straight to hell. My maternal grandparents did most of the parenting, along with my mum. Mum needed to work as much as she could and from around 10 years of age. She became known as the local seamstress, fixing and repairing any tears in clothes, broken buttons or zippers. No one had the money to buy new clothes, you used the same ones over and over. You mended everything until your clothes pretty much just fell apart.

Shortly after my parents sixth child, whilst the family was struggling with work, hunger, and the ability to just survive, my dad decided to leave Italy. With the help of his sister (my aunty), who had already migrated to Australia, dad left Italy for Australia in 1958, to a little city called Adelaide in the state of South Australia. Dad left my mother behind, alone with six children. They could only afford one ticket to Australia. Dad would be here for three years on his own before he saved enough money to pay for the voyage for mum and my six eldest siblings. In 1961 it took my mother over 40 days to travel by ship from Italy to Perth, Melbourne and finally Sydney. Not knowing anyone else on the vessels and without a word of English, she somehow managed to care for six children under the age of ten, all on her own.

As with many migrants, dad couldn’t speak or write a word of English when he first landed on Australian shores. Finding work was almost impossible, except for hard manual labour. I give my father that, he worked hard and would always have three to four jobs, working day and night to provide for us. I would have to say that my father was a good-looking man, charming, loved women and was very generous when it came to others (outside of the immediate family, that is!).

I was not even a thought back then, there would be another five children born in Australia before I finally came along. If you are adding this up in your head, you are correct. My parents would eventually have 12 children in total, six girls and six boys. I was the last born, the youngest and forever known as the baby of the family!

When recalling my first memories as a child (before five years of age), these are the only things I actually remember: Falling on a cactus behind a rainwater tank, being attacked by a sleepy lizard, having a pet goat, and most of all I felt DIFFERENT. I didn’t know why but I just knew I was.

As a young child in the early 70s, the world was exploding in so many ways - the first Test Tube baby was born, floppy disks, Atari, cell phones, VCR tapes, ABBA and Hot Chocolate were rising to fame, flared jeans, everyone had body hair, Elvis died and Australia’s monthly women’s ‘Cleo’ magazine made its debut with male nude centerfolds - controversial and ground breaking. My sisters (in their teens by then) would buy the Cleo magazine. Of course, if you asked them it would have been for all the interesting articles – not! It was more about the male nude centerfolds.

I remember around the age of six to eight looking through the magazines around the house, being amazed and rather interested in the naked male centerfold with all that body hair, but never being able to imagine that I would ever be like that. To me, the men looked like giants and really hairy, and I wondered if I would ever be like that?

I had a pretty ‘normal’ upbringing in terms of a strict Italian, Catholic family with the typical subservient mother and the over dominating, protective and abusive father. Well, to me it was normal. Just about every other relative and family friend had similar upbringings to us. When our families got together, the kids would be sent off to play. That’s when we would share stories about the last time we were hit by our father’s belt, watched our mum being beaten or blasted by dad. My father was definitely that little bit more extreme, but every child from each of the other family’s had similar stories of abuse to tell. I think there must have been a bad batch in human creation – maybe God forgot a few ingredients when she or he made them.

My childhood did have some wonderful moments though, with lots of laughter and fun. We made everything and anything you can imagine a large Italian family would produce.

Making homemade pasta sauce was one of my favourite things to do. I liked it because it was messy and when no one was