The Dance of the Giglio (Lily) is an annual ceremony in which 110 men hoist a platform that holds a 3-ton, 70-foot tower topped by a statue of St. Paulinus — plus a nine-piece brass band, two singers, an emcee and a parish priest — and parade through the narrow streets.

Sunday's dance was the climax of the 117th Feast of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, a 12-day religious and cultural festival that binds generations together in the Catholic parish, to celebrate Their festival honors St. Paulinus, the bishop of Nola, near Naples, Italy.

According to tradition, invaders attacked the city in AD 409 and carried off some citizens to North Africa as slaves. Paulinus offered himself in exchange. After two years, Paulinus and his fellow Nolanese were released. When their boat reached home, they were greeted by their entire community waving candles. The boat and the candle flame, symbolized by the lily — giglio, in Italian — are prominent motifs in the dance.

DISPATCH FROM BROOKLYN, N.Y.
SCARS AND ALL, ITALIANS CARRY ON TRADITION

A festival brings a community together in honor of a saint --
and the old neighborhood.
Los Angeles Times
By Thomas S. Mulligan
Times Staff Writer
July 19, 2004

BROOKLYN, N.Y. — They call it the tumor of San Paolino or, less reverentially, the meatball.

It's an angry-looking knot of scar tissue that forms on the shoulder after years of devotional wear and tear. Here in the tightknit Italian American section of Williamsburg, it's a badge of honor, for the only way to earn it is in the Dance of the Giglio.

The dance is an annual ceremony in which 110 men hoist a platform that holds a 3-ton, 70-foot tower topped by a statue of St. Paulinus — plus a nine-piece brass band, two singers, an emcee and a parish priest — and parade through the narrow streets.

Sunday's dance was the climax of the 117th Feast of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, a 12-day religious and cultural festival that binds generations together in the Catholic parish.

"It means a lot. My father did it and my grandfather did it," said Rob Salerno, a broad-shouldered 18-year-old from the Bronx who has been a paranza, or lifter, for three years and hopes one day to be a capo in charge of a lifting crew.

In Williamsburg, East Harlem, Massapequa on Long Island and other Italian American enclaves where the giglio ceremony takes place, people know the names of the great capos as well as they know the lineup of the New York Yankees.

Their festival honors St. Paulinus, the bishop of Nola, near Naples, Italy. According to tradition, invaders attacked the city in AD 409 and carried off some citizens to North Africa as slaves. Moved by the entreaty of a widow whose only son was held captive, Paulinus offered himself in exchange.

After two years, Paulinus and his fellow Nolanese were released. When their boat reached home, they were greeted by their entire community waving candles. The boat and the candle flame, symbolized by the lily — giglio, in Italian — are prominent motifs in today's dance.

More than 100 men traditionally carry a soaring, ornately carved obelisk of wood or, in Williamsburg's case, an aluminum frame covered by a papier mache facade.

In the 19th century, immigrants brought the ritual to New York, where it has become a unifying force in an Italian American community frayed by time, intermarriage and modernity. The low-rise apartment buildings here have become a magnet for New York professionals who can't quite swing the $1-million average price for a Manhattan apartment.

"The Italian neighborhoods are getting bought up," said Tony De Nonno, 57, a Brooklyn filmmaker who "became obsessed" with the giglio more than 20 years ago. His 2001 documentary on the Williamsburg festival was called "Heaven Touches Brooklyn in July."

De Nonno, though not the beefiest of lifters, was there to put his shoulder to the task again Sunday.

Despite rain that threatened all afternoon to burst into a downpour, an estimated 15,000 people jammed the streets, sampling sausage-and-pepper sandwiches, fried calamari, calzones and other delicacies from booths along the procession route.

At 2 p.m., the Rev. Joseph G. Fonti, the 38-year-old pastor of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, clambered onto the platform at the foot of the tower, where he was joined by singers and band members, as the lifters gathered on the street and sidewalks below.

"Some dance to call down water upon earth," he said in his invocation. "We dance, even if water is coming down, to lift up spirits, to celebrate."

Phil Galasso, a capo who wore a black sports shirt and wrap-around sunglasses, cued the band to play "O Giglio e Paradiso," the theme song that, according to De Nonno, is "like 'Danny Boy' to the Irish." It's a point of pride in Williamsburg that the song, now played at giglio festivals internationally, was penned in the 1950s by three men from the neighborhood.

The lifters took their positions under the padded beams beneath the platform and, upon a barked command in Italian from Galasso, heaved the tower into the air. Their necks red, their faces clenched with effort, the lifters — hands clasped together — executed a series of coordinated steps to turn the tower in a stately circle and position it for the march down Havemeyer Street to the front of the church.

With a dozen or so people aboard, the platform can weigh 4 tons or more. This gives the lifters an individual burden of about 75 pounds — not an enormous burden, perhaps, but it isn't always shared equally as the procession navigates the sloping streets. And even through the padding, those beams can cut a lifter.

The pain is meant to be a form of religious penance, or "mortification of the flesh," said barrel-shaped Salvatore Primeggia, a veteran lifter who, in civilian life, is a sociology professor at Adelphi University.

The dance continues into the evening with many lifts, some lasting several minutes. During breaks in between, the men sip water, greet friends and congratulate one another on their fortitude.

"It's food and family and bonding," De Nonno said during a break. "When you're lifting, it feels like an Olympic event, only it's spiritual. It brings us back to our fathers and grandfathers."

Los Angeles Times: Scars and All, Italians Carry On Tradition
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