Stay where you belong. The command operates as a kind of idée fixe throughout Cabrini, one which the titular character repeatedly ignores when uttered by those intent on diminishing her. Mother Cabrini, deemed the first American saint, was born in Italy in 1850, named Maria Francesca Cabrini and ended up seeming to belong everywhere and nowhere at once.
In Italy or in America, in the Church or within the State, Cabrini depicts a woman defying the “powers that be” in pursuit of her calling to care for the poor, the sick, the immigrant, and the orphaned. Why the very human urge to care about the welfare of others (we are wired for empathy after all) is perpetually at odds with the isms and institutions that play a large role in shaping life as we know it, is something my own heart refuses to make sense of. I have a feeling that’s mostly the point.
Caring and belonging live in symbiosis with each other. The power within this dynamic must be willing to operate like the ebb and flow of a wave. But, too often, that sense of recession is the movement power fears.
Mother Cabrini decided to assert herself exactly where she did belong, with the kind of determination that is as dangerous as it is freeing. She’d managed an orphanage for years in Lombardy and wanted to open more, dreaming of expanding her network of care to China. When she brought the idea to Vatican City, Pope Leo XIII submitted to her quiet insistence to begin international mission work, but having heard of the Italian immigrants’ material and spiritual plight in New York, he compelled Cabrini to travel West instead of East. In 1889, Cabrini and six other sisters from her order - the Missionary Sisters of the Sacred Heart of Jesus - landed on the shores of a new world.
At the turn of the 20th century, a surge of people from Italy sought refuge and opportunity through the welcome of Ellis Island, fleeing poverty, political unrest, and limited prospects in their homeland. Drawn by the promise of the American Dream, they embarked on arduous journeys across the Atlantic, hoping to build better lives for themselves and their families. However, upon arrival, they encountered a harsh reality characterized by discrimination, exploitation, and marginalization.
At times, the emotional tone of Cabrini reminded me of the classic Italian drama, The Bicycle Thief, directed by Vittorio De Sica. The stories share a similar sense of devastation in the face of crushing economic and social systems, though one is a story of despair, and the other, of possibility. There’s a hefty grace to Cristiana Dell’Anna’s performance as Mother Cabrini that is both grounding and numinous, and a lyricism to the cinematography that conveys hope, despite the harshness of the setting.
Cabrini, directed by Alejandro Gómez Monteverde and written by Rod Barr, doesn’t shy away from the tenets of white supremacy, allowing the derogatory, racialized terms for Italian immigrants to fall from its characters’ mouths. The grit of violence is implied rather than brutally visioned. The sudden appearance of a gun in a tense moment, or a hand raised against a child, is enough to be shocking–this isn’t Gangs of New York or 12 Years a Slave–though the material the film tackles could have warranted a similar visual treatment (though thankfully, for the sake of all our nervous systems, it doesn’t wander in that direction). Mother Cabrini and her sisters were reportedly known to venture into parts of the city even the police dared not tread. To say they were bold is an understatement. Cabrini makes no mention of it, but in 1891, eleven Italian immigrants were lynched by a mob in New Orleans, a grisly fate normally reserved for “unruly” African-American men. The news most certainly would’ve reached Mother Cabrini at the time, underscoring the virulent clash of race and class in the unfolding of the American Dream.
While Cabrini is certainly powerfully told and beautifully visioned, it fails to explore the reality that Italian-Americans and African-Americans were largely lumped in a similar category of “blackness” at the time. In a climatic moment, one of the characters laments the moral failings of a country built on a “bedrock of immigrant bone,” and I couldn’t help but wonder why there wasn’t at least a nod to the Indigenous or enslaved Americans to whom the U.S. also owed an innumerable debt. The history of Italian and African American intermingling is woven in my own family tree, and I’m always eager to see more of these kinds of intersections depicted on a larger scale, if only to drive home the point–we’re all more connected than our constructs would like us to see.
But even if Cabrini side steps this particular aspect of the historical climate, if I might borrow from Orwell’s sentiments, the story does showcase the general absurdity of the idea that “all immigrants are equal, while some are more equal than others.” In a nation of immigrants, what is the metric of belonging anyway?
In a scene which gathers Mother Cabrini in a room full of wealthy, second-generation, Irish immigrants, she petitions them to support her dream of building a world class hospital where anyone in need–especially those who would otherwise be turned away from–could receive care. The men are, at first, reluctant. But when she asks them to remember why their families left home and how they were treated when they first arrived in the land of opportunity, their resistance falters. The common thread of need–for shelter, nourishment, and safety–proved to be enough of a foundation for belonging. Race, religion, ethnicity aside, Mother Cabrini worked tirelessly in a seemingly unfeeling land.
I found myself wondering, but Mother, when did you rest? Among all the moments we watch her fundraising, rescuing, organizing, directing, and advocating, there certainly were no equivalent scenes of candle lit bubble baths, or any other small luxuries championed by the current industry of self-care and wellness. Of course, the idea of self-care, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist at the time, and wouldn’t grow in popularity until the Civil Rights movement. Which is why, I suppose, I’m drawing the connection. The seed of self-care grew in radical soil, and as I watched her pour her life into championing the dignity and inherent worth of others, I wanted to see more of how this radical woman also took care of herself.
Cabrini tells the story of a “slip of a woman” made frail by illness. Soon after she lands in America, a doctor–portrayed with welcoming warmth by Succession’s Patch Darragh–informs Cabrini she most likely only has a few more years to live. Yet, nevertheless, she persisted and would go on to live for years to come, eventually traveling all across the world to establish schools, hospitals, and orphanages. In light of her chronic illness, Mother Cabrini’s indomitable spirit shines like something of the miraculous. Though I know the Church has sometimes wielded a mandate of service in harmful ways, this telling of her story reminded me that care for others can also be fuel that gives us life.
It can become the province of the holy.
Stay where you belong. I think Cabrini is for those who dare to belong anywhere, despite the conventions of power that might say otherwise. It’s a film for those who know how to turn that sentiment on its head. We right injustices, we help heal the wounds of racism, we spread love and create lasting cultural change because we choose to stay true to the unquenchable desire to unleash heaven on earth.
Cabrini, directed by Alejandro Gómez Monteverde (who co-wrote the screenplay with Rod Barr), is released on March 7th.
Jasmin Pittman is a writer and editor living in Asheville, North Carolina with her two daughters. She enjoys facilitating healing through creativity, imagination, and deep listening.