The Old Ways and the Holy Ways: Part 2

Finding My Roots Through Sicilian Folk Catholicism

A SEVEN-PART SERIES

PART 2

An Island Between Worlds

My connection to Folk Catholicism is deeply connected to my Sicilian heritage. To understand the traditions I am drawn to, I first have to understand the place from which my family came.

Sicily is an island shaped by migration, cultural exchange, and centuries of layered history. Long before Catholicism became central to Sicilian identity, the island was already a crossroads of civilizations. Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Normans, and Spaniards all influenced Sicily’s culture, leaving behind traditions that continue to shape the island today (Norwich, 1989).

Because of this history, Sicily has always existed between worlds. Located at the center of the Mediterranean, the island has been influenced by Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East. These connections can be seen in Sicilian architecture, language, food, music, art, and religious traditions. Sicily’s identity was not created from one single influence, but from many cultures meeting and transforming one another over time.

As Christianity became established throughout Sicily, older customs and local traditions were often incorporated into a Catholic framework. Rather than simply disappearing, many practices were adapted and given new meanings through devotion to Christ, the Virgin Mary, and the saints. Over centuries, these traditions developed through prayers, feast days, pilgrimages, blessings, household rituals, and practices of protection (Carroll, 1992; De Martino, 1972).

Scholars of Italian popular religion have examined the relationship between official Church teachings and the ways communities practiced faith in their own homes and villages. In many Italian communities, the sacred was encountered not only through formal worship, but through relationships with saints, sacred places, healing traditions, miracles, and rituals woven into daily life (Carroll, 1992).

Families blessed their homes with holy water, prayed for protection from the malocchio (evil eye), lit candles before images of Christ and the saints, and carried rosaries or medals as signs of faith and protection. These objects were not simply decorative. They served as reminders of a spiritual relationship that existed within everyday life (Dundes, 1981; Carroll, 1992).

Feast days, processions, home altars, healing prayers, and blessings for crops, fishermen, travelers, and loved ones became part of the rhythm of Sicilian communities. These customs were not separate from Catholicism. They were expressions of how Catholic faith was lived by ordinary people (Carroll, 1992; De Martino, 1972).

When I imagine my own ancestors walking through the streets of Cefalù, I picture them surrounded by this world of devotion and tradition: church bells echoing through narrow streets, saints carried through village celebrations, candles burning before sacred images, and family prayers spoken in the language of generations before them.

This is the Sicily I am searching for. Not only the Sicily recorded in history books, but the Sicily carried through memory, ritual, and family traditions. It is the Sicily that crossed the ocean with my ancestors and continues to influence the way I understand faith, belonging, and identity.

Protection, Healing, and the Malocchio

One of the most recognizable traditions within Italian and Sicilian folk practices is the belief in and protection against the malocchio, or evil eye.

The malocchio refers to the belief that envy, jealousy, or harmful intention can bring misfortune, illness, or other forms of harm. Across different communities, families developed prayers, rituals, and protective customs intended to identify or counteract the effects of the evil eye (Dundes, 1981).

Although the malocchio is associated today with Italian and Sicilian traditions, the belief in the evil eye is much older than Italy itself. Beliefs surrounding the harmful gaze appear across the ancient Mediterranean and Near East, including Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece, and Rome. Ancient communities developed prayers, amulets, images, and rituals intended to protect against this perceived source of harm (Dundes, 1981; Ogden, 1996; Pagliarulo, 2023).

One of the most striking surviving examples comes from Roman Antioch, in present-day Antakya, Turkey. A second-century CE mosaic from the so-called House of the Evil Eye depicts a large eye being attacked by weapons and animals, including a trident, sword, scorpion, snake, dog, centipede, and bird. A grotesque horned figure appears beside the eye, while the Greek inscription KAI SU can be translated as “you too.” The imagery is generally understood as apotropaic, meaning that it was intended to ward off or turn away harm (Levi, 1947; Ogden, 1996).

What strikes me about this mosaic is that protection is literally built into the image. The evil eye is not simply represented; it is being attacked. Weapons, animals, and grotesque figures become part of a visual defense. Thousands of years later, the basic idea feels surprisingly familiar: if something can cause harm, perhaps something else can be placed between it and the people we want to protect.

Over centuries, beliefs surrounding the evil eye traveled across cultures and were adapted to different religious and social traditions. By the time they became part of southern Italian folk practice, the evil eye existed within a much larger Mediterranean world of protective customs. The Sicilian malocchio was therefore not an isolated belief, but part of a long history of people trying to understand misfortune, envy, illness, and the mysterious possibility that another person’s gaze could somehow cause harm.

The meaning of the malocchio has varied between regions, villages, and families. For some, it has been understood primarily as a spiritual concern. For others, it can be understood as part of a larger cultural understanding of vulnerability, misfortune, and the possibility of harm caused by envy. Beliefs surrounding the evil eye existed within a much broader world of folk belief and protective practices in southern Italy (Dundes, 1981).

Protection could be especially important when it came to children, homes, and families. In some Sicilian and Italian American families, protective charms were even incorporated into significant religious occasions such as baptism.

A small cornicello, or horn-shaped charm associated with Italian folk traditions, might be discreetly pinned to the back of a baby’s christening gown, where it could remain hidden from view while symbolically protecting the child from the malocchio (Pagliarulo, 2023). The charm could accompany the child throughout the baptism, placing a folk tradition of protection alongside the Catholic sacrament. Such practices illustrate how folk customs and Catholic rituals could exist alongside one another, surrounding a child’s entrance into the Catholic community with prayer, blessing, and family protection.

In Italian folk traditions, certain hand gestures were believed to have protective power against the malocchio. One of the best known is the mano cornuta, or “horned hand,” made by extending the index finger and little finger while folding the other fingers into the palm. In a protective context, the gesture could be used to ward off the evil eye or other harmful influences. The gesture has also carried other meanings depending on context, which is a reminder that folk symbols are rarely as simple as they may first appear (de Jorio, 1832; Elworthy, 1895).

Sophia Petrillo from The Golden Girls making the mano cornuta, or “horned hand” gesture.

Another protective gesture was the mano in fica, or “fig hand.” This gesture is made by closing the hand into a fist and placing the thumb between the index and middle fingers. Historical accounts describe the mano in fica as an apotropaic gesture associated with protection from the evil eye. The gesture also had insulting and sexual meanings, so its meaning depended heavily on context. Within the tradition of protection, however, it could function as a charm intended to turn away harm (de Jorio, 1832; Elworthy, 1895).

The symbolism behind these gestures goes deeper than their outward forms might suggest. The mano in fica carries sexual and fertility symbolism, with the hand representing both feminine and masculine sexual imagery. Rather than representing female anatomy alone, the gesture can be understood as a symbol of sexual union, fertility, and generative power. The mano cornuta, by contrast, has stronger associations with the horn and the virility and sexual potency of mature male animals. The horn could represent strength, fertility, and masculine power (Magliocco, 2004).

Both gestures therefore connect protection with fertility and the power of generation. This reflects a broader folk understanding in which life-giving forces could also serve as defenses against harm. Fertility, strength, and the continuation of life were not simply separate concerns from protection; they could themselves be sources of protective power (Magliocco, 2004).

I find this especially fascinating because protection was not always something a person had to wear or carry. Sometimes the protection was made with the body itself. A hand could become a symbol. A gesture could become a shield. It also makes me think about how much Catholicism uses the body in prayer: striking your chest during the Confiteor, crossing your forehead, lips, and heart before the Gospel, making the Sign of the Cross, or raising a hand in blessing. The gesture becomes part of the prayer itself.

Another symbol deeply associated with Sicily is the pigna, or pine cone.

The Sicilian pine cone is especially recognizable in the ceramics of Caltagirone, where brightly colored ceramic pigne have become an important part of the island’s visual culture. But the pine cone carries meaning beyond decoration. Because a pine cone contains numerous seeds, it became associated with fertility, abundance, regeneration, prosperity, and the continuation of life. In Sicilian tradition, the pigna is also associated with good fortune and family well-being. It may be displayed in homes, at entrances, or on balconies, and it is often given as a gift for weddings, new homes, and other beginnings as a wish for prosperity and success (Tonella, 2025).

For many families, these practices existed alongside devotion to God, the Virgin Mary, and the saints. They were not necessarily understood as something separate from Catholic faith, but as part of the way people experienced and expressed their relationship with the sacred (Carroll, 1992).

This is one of the aspects of Folk Catholicism that fascinates me most. Faith became something people could hold, touch, carry, and pass down.

When I think about my own Sicilian ancestors, I wonder what protective traditions may have existed within my family.

Saints, Mary, and Everyday Devotion

Another defining feature of Sicilian Folk Catholicism is the relationship between communities and the saints who accompany them through everyday life.

In many Sicilian communities, saints are not experienced only as figures from religious history. They can become familiar and beloved protectors connected to particular places, families, hardships, and celebrations. Their images appear in churches and homes. Their feast days shape the calendar. Their stories become part of the identity of the communities that honor them (Carroll, 1992; Orsi, 1985).

Sicily has a long tradition of devotion to saints associated with particular cities and regions.

One of the most beloved examples is Saint Rosalia of Palermo, the city’s patron saint.

According to tradition, Rosalia was a noblewoman who abandoned a life of privilege for prayer and solitude. During the plague that struck Palermo in 1624, her remains were discovered and carried through the city in procession. Following this event, she became honored as a protector of Palermo, and her feast day and pilgrimage became important expressions of Sicilian religious and cultural identity (Butler et al., 1995; Carroll, 1992).

The Sanctuary of Saint Rosalia on Monte Pellegrino remains an important pilgrimage site. Devotion to Rosalia reflects many of the themes found throughout Sicilian Folk Catholicism: the relationship between saints and communities, the importance of sacred places, and the belief that faith can provide comfort and hope during times of suffering (Carroll, 1992).

The same is true of Saint Joseph, or San Giuseppe, who has long been honored as a protector of families and workers. His feast day traditions, including the elaborate Tavole di San Giuseppe, or Saint Joseph’s Tables, found throughout southern Italy and Sicily, connect devotion with food, generosity, family, and community care (Juneau, 2021).

Saint Michael the Archangel, San Michele, has often been invoked for strength and protection. Saint Christopher, San Cristoforo, became especially meaningful to travelers. Saint Francis of Assisi, San Francesco, became associated with humility, compassion, peace, and care for creation and has long been familiar within Italian and Italian American homes (Orsi, 1985; Maselli & Candeloro, 2004).

Saint Francis was not specifically a Sicilian saint, but his devotion spread throughout Italy and became part of the religious landscape of Italian families. His image often represented qualities such as kindness, simplicity, compassion, and peace.

In my own family, statues of Saint Francis have appeared in many of our homes over the years.

Left: Wedding photo of my grandparents, Philip Oliver Correro and Fran Kathryn White Correro, pictured alongside a cross, angels, their wedding cake topper, and St. Francis. Right: St. Francis statue at my cousin William Correro’s house.

Marian devotion holds an equally important place within Sicilian religious life.

Mary has been honored throughout Sicily through shrines, processions, prayers, statues, candles, and devotion within the home. Her many titles often reflect the qualities people seek in her: mother, protector, comforter, and intercessor (Carroll, 1992; Warner, 1976).

Sanctuary of Tindari, near Patti in northeastern Sicily, home of the Madonna Nera.

One of Sicily’s most beloved Marian devotions is the Black Madonna of Tindari, the Madonna Nera, whose ancient image has been venerated at the Sanctuary of Tindari for centuries. Black Madonnas have a particularly rich history throughout Europe and the Mediterranean, often taking on local meanings and traditions of their own (Oleszkiewicz-Peralba, 2007).

For many Sicilians, Mary is not distant or abstract. She can become a motherly presence who understands suffering and watches over her children. Her image could be kept within the home, surrounded by candles, flowers, prayer cards, or other sacred objects.

They can become part of your life. You light a candle when someone is sick. You pray when you’re scared. You keep an image nearby when you need comfort. They become part of the ordinary stuff of life: illness, grief, uncertainty, celebration, travel, and family milestones.

Carrying the Sacred

For Sicilian families, these devotions traveled.

Images of saints, medals, rosaries, prayers, candles, and traditions became ways of carrying pieces of home into unfamiliar places. When immigrants left Sicily, they did not necessarily leave their entire spiritual world behind. They carried pieces of it with them, adapting their religious lives to new communities and circumstances (Orsi, 1985; Maselli & Candeloro, 2004).

The sacred crossed an ocean.

It fit inside a suitcase, hung around someone’s neck, sat on a kitchen table, or was remembered through prayer spoken from one generation to the next.

For Italian and Sicilian immigrant families, these devotions helped connect them to the villages, relatives, landscapes, and traditions they left behind while also helping them create a sense of belonging in new communities.

This is especially significant when I think about migration. My ancestors did not simply leave one geographic location and arrive in another. They carried culture, memory, food, language, beliefs, objects, and traditions with them.

Cefalù

Cefalù is not simply a location on my family tree. It is the particular place where my Sicilian story begins.

When I imagine my ancestors there, I picture them within the world I have been trying to understand: the Mediterranean landscape, the churches and saints, the traditions of protection and blessing, the feast days, the family rituals, and the sacred objects that made faith part of everyday life.

I wonder what they saw when they walked through those streets.

What churches did they enter?

Which saints did they pray to?

What traditions did their families practice?

What did they carry with them when they eventually left?

I cannot recover every answer.

But I can begin to understand the landscape in which those answers once existed.

The Sicily I am searching for is not only the Sicily recorded in history books. It is the Sicily carried through memory, ritual, family, and faith. It is the Sicily that existed between worlds, and eventually crossed the ocean with my ancestors.

And if I want to understand where I come from, I have to follow them there.

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A Note on Sources

Because this essay is presented as a seven-part series, the complete reference list for sources cited throughout all seven parts will be included at the end of Part VII: Between the Old Ways and the Holy Ways.