The Other America

<p class=MsoNormal style=��text-align:justify��><span style=��font-size:11.0pt;font-family:AGaramond��>The Other America is an epic drama of an extraordinaryfamily: of Rosa and Giovanni Manzino who flee </span><span style=��font-size: 11.0pt;font-family:AGaramond��>Sicily</span><span style=��font-size:11.0pt;font-family:AGaramond��> for </span><span style=��font-size:11.0pt;font-family: AGaramond��>New York</span><span style=��font-size:11.0pt;font-family:AGaramond��>at the turn of the century and their eldest son Gino who carries a secretlegacy and builds an empire in the </span><span style=��font-size:11.0pt;font-family: AGaramond��>New World</span><span style=��font-size:11.0pt;font-family:AGaramond��>.Through five generations in the fields of Sicily the streets of New York andthe mansions of Connecticut Santorelli gives us a world of passionateintensity - a world where men carve out new space for themselves and women holdnew sway - a world both murderous and merciful born of violence andsacrifice deceit and love.</span></p><p class=MsoNormal align=center style=��text-align:center��><spanstyle=��font-family:AGaramond��> </span></p><p class=MsoNormal align=center style=��text-align:center��><spanstyle=��font-family:AGaramond��> </span></p><p class=MsoNormal align=center style=��text-align:center��><spanstyle=��font-family:AGaramond��>Letter to the Reader</span></p><p class=MsoNormal style=��text-align:justify��><span style=��font-size:11.0pt;font-family:AGaramond��> </span></p><p class=MsoNormal style=��text-align:justify��><span style=��font-size:11.0pt;font-family:AGaramond��> I have always been a person who hasquestioned and it has gotten me into trouble many a time with my elders andwith those who profess to know. There were times when I felt I was a wildhorse and others were trying to break me. Thank God I had the sense to keepfighting.</span></p><p class=MsoNormal style=��text-align:justify��><span style=��font-size:11.0pt;font-family:AGaramond��> It was not expected in my family that Iwould write. My parents were born at the turn of the century and life in ourneighborhood in Italian Harlem was limited. Few received even a high schooleducation. Our social circle was strictly limited to a small circle of friendsand family who lived within a few square blocks. Strangers were treated withdistrust and girls - especially unmarried ones - were watched over by unclesaunts friends and neighbors.</span></p><p class=MsoNormal style=��text-align:justify��><span style=��font-size:11.0pt;font-family:AGaramond��> Although my mother Anna DeGeorge neverimagined more for me than marriage and family she was a true storyteller whoset my soul aflame with tales of her early childhood and passionateadventures. I was a young girl when I left my mother's house for my husband's- and I had only a mile to walk to get there. Looking up I saw a sky filledwith shadows from clouds barely moving as if the world was still. A voiceinside whispered to me that no matter what others said or expected my journeywould take me far beyond these short blocks. For years I had tried to be likethe other girls. But on that moonlit night windless and calm my own powerbegan to rise up in me. I began a life-long marriage of another kind one withmy own destiny and my own choices.</span></p><p class=MsoNormal style=��text-align:justify��><span style=��font-size:11.0pt;font-family:AGaramond��> I now have a wonderful marriage sixchildren and three grandchildren. I have had a rich fulfilling life filledwith travel and dreams coming true. Yet sometimes over the years I have foundmyself longing for something more - missing something I could not name. I feltsuch guilt for this. What kind of person am I who has such an extraordinarylife not to be always grateful for it? I asked myself. My husband would says