You are my peeps.

Like you, I come from a large, loud Italian family (I am a second-generation Italian-American). My grandfather Dino arrived in the U.S. by boat when he was just four years old. He went to acting school after World War II, was an accomplished painter, and made his trade as a beer distributor and an appliance repairman.

Like you, my family eats spaghetti and meatballs together nearly every Sunday night. I remember this ritual clearly growing up. My grandfather would make his sauce from imported San Marzano tomatoes or Romas freshly picked from his backyard garden. The sauce would simmer on the stove all day long, luring us kids with its smell and making us long for dinnertime. Fresh pasta would sit hanging in strips until it was time to eat. My grandfather never used onions or sugar in his sauce, as a true marinara contains only four ingredients—olive oil, garlic, basil, and tomatoes. Today I go about it in a similar way, minus the homemade pasta for which I sometimes substitute zucchini noodles (a fact that would make my Grandpa Dino turn in his grave).

I was in first grade when my parents moved our family from Pennsylvania to Connecticut. My father finished his masters in engineering and took a job in New York City. In Connecticut, I grew up with “the city” (fondly termed as if there were no other city on earth) as my backdrop, taking the Metro-North commuter train into Grand Central Station with my group of teenage friends. I was instructed to “walk with a purpose” through the Big Apple with my handbag slung crosswise over my body to thwart pickpocketers. This was back when the streets of Manhattan were full of all types of dwellers, making them a little rough around the edges.

I now live far away from the bright lights and big city in rural Idaho. Like my parents, my free-spirited itch took me out beyond my cookie-cutter New England existence. Each summer, I still return to my parent’s home in Connecticut and take the train line religiously into the city to rendezvous with college friends—one who lives in suburbia, and the other who lives in Brooklyn. Our reunion is like that of the city mouse and the country mouse in Aesop’s fable, with the inclusion of the suburban mouse (there was no such thing as suburbia in Aesop’s day). Someday, I’ll write a novel about it.

First, we gather at a bar. (My friend Chris who lives in Brooklyn usually comes straight from work wearing a pressed shirt and tie and carrying a leather briefcase.) Then, we segue to some trendy restaurant pre-selected by the group via email. We ogle over pictures of each other’s children and recount our everyday existence, each so different from the others. I brag about the wide-open spaces of Idaho, a strong contrast to the vibrant energy of the city. Leigh, my girlfriend who lives in Connecticut, explains her mission to find likeminded people in a world full of fancy SUVs, Lululemon yoga pants, and Italian leather loafers. Chris nonchalantly chuckles about his morning walk to his kid’s charter school and how he hustles them passed the drug dealers on the street corner across from his house. We talk until we’re about to turn into pumpkins, and then Leigh and I B-line it back to Grand Central to take the last train out, leaving behind the humming energy of New York to retreat to the rolling hills of Connecticut.

I’m telling you all this, Governor Cuomo, because New York has carved its way into the fabric of my life’s story. It’s unwavering energy trickles in the blood that feeds my veins. Every time the city suffers, a little part of me suffers alongside it. First, there was 911. (I can’t even make it through the memorial museum without falling to the floor in tears.) Now, it’s the coronavirus. But with you at the helm during this all too perfect storm, I feel just a little bit better knowing one of my peeps is leading the charge.

I’ve attached a photo of my son peering through the bars of an Arthur Avenue park in the Italian section of the Bronx. Just outside of the photo sits two old Italian men smoking cigars in white ribbed cotton tank tops. Little kids whoosh by them on scooters while the big boys engage in a pickup game of basketball. This shot gives me a glimpse into the wonder the city’s magic evokes in children.

We just got done visiting the open markets and sampling thinly-sliced prosciutto, of which my daughter consumed a whole pound to herself. These memories—the boisterous meat market vendors, the sweet and salty curbside nuts, and the gatherers sipping coffee all day long outside their favorite city cafe—compile the memories of my children’s’ upbringing, as well. For instance, when my daughter was four (she’s now 14), we landed in JFK for the one-millionth time and walked out to curbside pickup to meet my father. Olivia turns to me and says, in an overly dramatic tone, “Mommy, I just love the smell of New York City!” This simple sentiment—the fact that a mountain kid who breathes some of the best air on the planet equates the smell of garbage, exhaust, and humidity to the love of family—is one I will always hold dear to my heart.

This summer, our trip through JKF will be brief and I probably won’t rendezvous with my friends in the city. But I know that when the New Yorkers come outside, when Central Park is once again buzzing with tourists, when the city kids are splashing in the fountain of Washington Square Park, and when the Broadway stars take to the stage once more, we’ll look back at your Sunday briefings feeling a sense of security that can only be given to New Yorkers by a New Yorker.

So it’s to you, and all the immigrant families that have come before you, that I dedicate my meatballs to this Sunday. And while my next trip to the city probably won’t be void of a face mask, it’s my smiling eyes that will greet the passersby’s on the street. The lines on their face will show what they’ve been through, but I know their courage to rise above was cultivated by one guy—the man who’s righting the ship.

Warmly,

Christina Shepherd McGuire

P.S. You’re my write-in on the ballot this fall.