A Child's-Eye-View of History

In memory of an event to which I played unsuspecting witness 50 years ago,

I decided to share a poem that I wrote for a poetry class in 2012. 

As young as I was, I am amazed at the clarity of the memory, particularly in the light of not really knowing what was going on at the time. Children do pay attention, but its frequently up to the adults around them to help them interpret what they see.

A Child’s-Eye-View of History

November 24, 1963—six days before my long-awaited seventh birthday

and begged-for blue bike, I hope...

Anarchy and anger crackle. A white-knuckled tension fills the room.

My mother—swept up in mass-hysterics— is crying.

“What just happened?” I ask, sprawled on the couch

fevered, thick-throated, too-sick-to-be-bored, but inquisitive

as frenzied, frightening images unspool before my eyes. Dragged

unaware from  my reveries of red-tasseled freedom,

I am witness to infamy.

Lying there, a junior curator collecting memories  

mined from endless iterations of gray-scale images.

Popping-gun flash, black-sweatered man drops

as chaos erupts around him like brown-sugared anthills.

Along with my lamenting nation,

I am witness—live, in black and white—to the ruby-tinted slaying of assassin.

“What just happened?” I ask again.

I catch the sweater-man’s name—Lee Harvey Oswald.

Who uses three names?

Except for red-faced mothers who are crying, or angry

when you hit your little sister

or come in late for dinner

because you were riding your shiny, new birthday bike

around the block and didn’t hear her call.

Is his mother angry, or is she crying, too?

Margaret Lundberg

2012

In an age of texts and IMs, it’s not so hard to imagine having a conversation with someone sight unseen; we do it every day. Type out a message and hit send, and in a few seconds you have an answer to your question or a comment on your last statement. Speaking with someone not present—even half a world away—has come to feel “ordinary!”

It is this idea—that I could have a conversation with another person simply based on the words on a page—that came to me as I considered the idea of audience in diary writing. If diaries are written to a disembodied someone (as Margo Culley theorized), whether

Friend, lover, mother, God, future self—whatever role the audience assumes for the writer…

then why could I not do the same? Why could I not enter a conversation with someone, not just out of sight, but out of time? I just needed to find the right someone…

When I read the first entry in Emily Hawley Gillespie’s diary—written in 1858 on her 20^th birthday—I knew I had found my “someone.” Emily’s diary presented me with a powerful “I” to whom I could become audience and respond in kind. To be sure we were really compatible, I did a sort of “test response,” a short post which replied to her comments, both spoken and unspoken, and offered a story of my own. When I had finished, I realized that even over the vast gulf of time and space, Emily and I had found a common ground where one author’s voice could respond to another’s.

We were establishing a friendship.

For the next year or so, my conversation with Emily will span a 30 year period of her life—from her first entry at age 20 to her last just thirty years later. Emily and I will share stories of first love, marriage and children, disappointments and growing older. Although she died before reaching my current age, I know there is much we will share and learn from each other. Emily was a witness to history—as am I. And she both discovered and created her identity within the pages of her diary. This is a journey I look forward to making right alongside her.

And when it's complete, it’s a journey I hope to share with a larger world—just as she did. Our conversation will grow into what I hope to be my MA thesis/project—a book that will document our joint expedition.

Would you like to come along?

What if…

What if I changed my topic and plan for my thesis? It’s only my first quarter as a grad student; it surely isn’t too late to change my mind.

What if I take another tack on the idea of identity creation, and use a diary to recreate scenes from a woman’s life? Looking through the lens of her own words to “see” her life—a sort of fictionalized biography. Giving a larger life to a woman who, in her own time, was voiceless except for her writings that may never have left home during her lifetime.

I’ve been rethinking my thesis idea. Although it still appeals to me—both the topic and the format—I’ve been considering what it is I really want to do after I get my degree. Maybe I don’t need to write a thesis. I mean really, what are the odds that I’ll get a PhD. or teach writing at either a community college OR a university? And if I could, is it really what I want to do? I don’t know the answer to that question…

But the one thing I do know is that I want to write. I love research. I love the sense of discovery that comes when I learn something new, or find some new idea that I want to learn more about. I’ve always been this way and nothing will change that.

What has become new for me is the craving to commit ideas to paper. To discern the story in the everyday. To write.

To write a book? Hmmm, the thought appeals to me… a lot. I've had this niggling little thought, that I had a book in me, buzzing through my brain since I was about 25.

Even at this moment, as fingers fly across keys (ok, they don’t really fly. I’m not a great typist), I can feel thoughts form through my fingertips—and I am entranced. I could honestly do this all day! But this new thought is something I’ve always said I could never do—to “make up” a story—and I want to find out if that’s really true. Is writing fiction really any different than writing anything else? Isn’t it really just having an idea and following it? Fleshing out an incomplete story that allows your imagination a little freer rein?

Do fiction writers truly come up with their stories completely out of thin air, or do they just take the everyday and fill in the blanks a bit? I’ve seen enough movies and read enough books to know that there is no such thing as a truly original idea. Someone else has already done it (and usually better when it comes to movies). I read once that the world is made up of a limited number of story forms, but a good storyteller can take one and re-write it dozens of different ways. I want to understand the structure behind the story—but I want to learn it by doing it!

I’m thinking about taking a fiction writing class next quarter, to explore this idea a little further. Talk about stretching myself…

(Meanwhile I’m on the hunt for a good 19^th century woman’s diary. Any suggestions?)

I've spent most of my waking moments this weekend writing papers that discuss things like my "theoretical paradigm," and reading articles about "mommyblogging,"  19th century women diarists, and the creation of identity through language--all so I can write a paper (due Wednesday) that explains why my chosen topic is worth studying. (Isn't it enough to say that I'm fascinated?)

So, I did a little freewrite this morning--just to find out what I think--and I'm including it here:

Why is it important to examine these personal writings of women who are just beginning to understand themselves as mothers? There is probably no relationship on earth more intense than that of mother and child. One literally gives birth to the other, and in that process two identities are born. A child awakes to life, and a mother is born. Before that moment, a woman lives and breathes and has an identity as daughter, wife, friend, maybe sister—and whatever else identifies the person she is. But in the moment when her child takes his or her first breath, she is also born anew. She is born as a mother.

I can’t speak of the experience of adopted mothers, but I imagine that it is not much different. Although love may happen at first glance, it is in that first moment of shared breath that motherhood really begins. And along with this new identity is also born—for many—the desire to experience it in a community that shares that identity.

My goal with this project is to examine the writings of women in two centuries—and across two seemingly disparate mediums—to discover the language that attests to constructions of an identity as “mother.” As we read accounts of women sharing with other women the stories of their own motherhood, we see not only the creation of a brand-new self, but the desire for a new community in which to experience it. We find shared stories of common concern creating support systems and allowing  women to fashion their new identity within this “writing community” they have created.

Clearly, 21^st century mommbloggers seem to be sharing their stories with a larger community, but didn't women in the 19^th century really do the same with their so-called “private writings?” I maintain that they did. Cynthia Huff , in an article regarding Victorian-era women and their diaries of childbirth and motherhood, claims that those diaries were shared among family and friends as a way to share concerns and create support communities. Is this any different than what the Internet allows us to do today—just on a larger scale? Most of the mommyblogs categorized  by Aimee Morrison as “personal” have readerships of only a few to a few dozen, and in them women are creating not only a sense of their own identity as mothers, but a support system for themselves with others who share that same sense of identity. Morrison calls these shared “spaces” of support “intimate publics," and they become for both groups a place of creation—not unlike the moment of shared breath that first gave birth to mother and child.

Any mommybloggers out there? If you'd care to share your experiences, I await with bated breath...

Mirrors and Veils

I came across a quote this week, from Viviane Serfaty, an Associate Professor at Université Paris-Est Marne la Vallée (France), who has done a great deal of research into digital culture. In her estimation, blogs are “simultaneously mirrors and veils.” Bloggers use the platform they have generated for themselves to both create a reflection that allows other to “see” them, but also veils those aspects that they’d rather no one knew about. In other words, bloggers pick and choose what they want others to know; they create an image of themselves with the words on the page. To a large extent, whether you are a blogger or not, you do this every day.

I had lunch yesterday with two friends (Hi, Amy and Kylie!), and although we hadn’t been together in the same place for over a month, I didn’t spend the time filling them in on every little thing that happened since we’d seen each other last. And, in spite of the fact that Kylie had just come back from a four-week study abroad trip to Vietnam—neither did she. We judiciously chose:

• What we had time to talk about in brief one-hour lunch (between bites of French onion soup)
• What we felt was important about the last four weeks

and, whether we realized it or not…

•      What fit in with the identity we each attempt to cultivate in relation to the others.

If all that sounds calculating, I suppose on some level it is. Ask yourself, why are there things one person knows about us that others do not? Sometimes people might know something just because they happened to have been there when it happened (I have  friends who lived across the street from me when I was a child who know more about my childhood than anyone else, except maybe my sister), but more often than not, people know only what we tell them.

My dear husband, when he heard about this blog I've begun, decided that he wanted to create one, too. So we spent a few minutes getting him set up and ready to roll, before I left him alone to consider a name and create his first post. About an hour later, he sent me this link: http://rowlinalong.blogspot.com/ Curious to see what on earth he'd come up with, I followed the link, and discovered that he had created not only a fictional persona, but an entire storyline--supported by actual, unretouched photographs--of a scenario that never really happened (although the bit about the "crab attack" was more or less true, but happened to our grandson). Now, if you know him at all, you are not surprised by this (the biggest surprise to me was that he wanted to start his own blog!).  His blog is one example of those "veils and mirrors": He has created an unabashedly fictionalized version of himself--on purpose. Many other bloggers--believe it or not--do the same.

But every blogger--or writer--does it. Some do it in the name of fiction, and others do it unwittingly. But all of us do it every time we sit down to write, simply through the choices we make. I did it in the writing of this blogpost!

So, as you read your favorite blogs this week, think about those mirrors and veils, and ask yourself which you are seeing—and if there is any way to tell the difference.

I know I will be!

Words and the creation of identity

In my reading this week about blogs and self-identity, I came across a mention of the book “Diary of Anne Frank.” I was immediately taken back to reading it for the first time when I was about 12 or 13, and remembered being incredibly moved by her story. Not because of her situation within the Nazi holocaust (I’m not sure at that point I had any real idea of what that actually meant), or even because of her situation as a virtual prisoner in her home, but because she put on paper the things that I—as a fellow early adolescent girl—was thinking and feeling. I identified with her life and story so strongly that she became alive to me through the words on the page. Because of her influence, I began to keep a diary, to record my thoughts as she did, and began to construct my identity through written language.  Off and on throughout my life, I have kept a written account of my thoughts and my days—most often during times of stress, but also when traveling or just trying to work out some idea or another. Writing has given me the opportunity to know what I think, and to find my many selves within the words on the page.

Have you ever noticed that you speak differently in conversations with different people, choosing different types of words? Most of us do, whether we are aware of it or not. When you speak to your boss or co-workers, your language choices are likely not the same as when you talk to your kids or your best friend. If you blog, your writings will take on a tone that is different from the email that you send to the professor you hope will help you with the paper you want to get published. In some instances, we choose our words very carefully because we want to offer a certain kind of impression—and other times we say the first thing that comes to mind, not even caring if its hurtful or untrue. We just want someone to know that we are angry!

 Over the last few years especially, I’ve spent a lot of time writing. And when I write, the words I choose depend more on my audience (and my relationship to them) than anything else. If I’m writing a lit paper for a very picky professor, every word and idea is chosen with extreme care. Every sentence and paragraph are judiciously constructed, and I agonize over each one. I am trying to present myself as a brilliant and thoughtful scholar who is offering a new idea, or at least one that never presented itself quite so exquisitely before. However, if I am exchanging IMs with a friend…well, let’s just say the best I can hope for is that my sadly-lacking typing skills allow for enough clarity that she has a basic idea of what the heck I’m talking about. Each situation allows me the freedom (or necessity) of creating a different sort of identity.

But, what does it say about who I really am if those “identities” seem to be at odds? If one identity is a wanna-be scholar and the other is sometimes sardonic—or silly—is one truth and the others fiction? Do I have multiple personalities? (Should I be looking for a good psychiatrist?).

I think that all writers present “fictionalized” versions of themselves and their lives. The minute you try to write about an event in your life—even (maybe especially) a true one—you are choosing the elements that will comprise it, deciding what is important and what isn't. You are creating a story that has a goal in the telling, and that intended goal is what decides the sort of language used.

Anne Frank certainly knew that.

One of the things that I hope to discover through my research on blogs is the way that writers use language to convey their thoughts and to construct an online identity. How do bloggers choose which parts of their lives or their days that they pass along to their readers; which stories they tell and how? What are the goals in their telling?

If you are a blogger, I want to hear from you!

Saturday, September 21, 2013

In four days (FOUR DAYS!), I will be starting a brand new chapter of my life. My undergrad years are—at long last—behind me, and I have the diploma on the wall  to prove it. I’ve chosen a topic on which to focus my research, and I’m ready to begin the process of taking that much-too-broad subject and distill it down to a juicy little question. I’m ready to become a graduate student.

Now, you may wonder why I bring this up. Why do I think anyone will really care that I –a somewhat obsessive mid-life female—am ready to commit myself to yet another round of classes, readings, research and papers? Well, I'm hoping someone will  because I plan to use those very things to study what I’m doing right now—blogging. Obviously, I have no intention of reviewing my own blog, or even my own writing process, but I hope to use this blog as a platform—both to inform my research, and to reach out to those of you who are bloggers, or who read blogs, or have ever thought about starting a blog of your own. Over the next year or so, I’ll be looking for feedback to my questions, ideas about blogs and their multitude of intended purposes, and especially, to connect with other bloggers. (Did you know that new blogs spring up at a rate so fast that about 10 new ones have sprouted in the time it’s taken you to read this paragraph? Yeah, I was surprised, too!)

 At this early point in my journey, I am most interested in the idea that people use blogs to create a certain kind of identity for themselves—a self-portrait, so to speak. And for those of you who might be into that sort of thing, I also plan to look at blogs through the lens of narrative theory, with an eye to considering them as acting as a sort of modern-day storyteller or a new format for folklore.

So, there—in a nutshell—is my purpose. Up to this point, my blog has served as a showcase for some of my creative writing pieces. It’s been fun to get them “out there,” in hopes they might be read by someone that I haven’t coerced into reading them. I may still throw a few of those in from time to time as they act—for me—as a mirror of my own self-identity. But from here on out, I plan to post at least weekly about my blogging research, and I hope to hear from those of you with ideas or comments—or a list of your favorite blogs

—please (and thank you!)

"Once..and once again"

Stories are the creative conversion of life itself into a more

powerful, clearer, more meaningful experience.

They are the currency of human contact.

— Robert McKee

“Once…and once again”

Crisp, clean pages enclosed in an uncreased spine that crinkles as the cover cracks open. Inside are words, brand-new yet old, passed down through ages, across cultures and borders, from mother to child. Pages steeped in kindness and cruelty, lessons to learn (and some left unlearned), prose that carries deepest fears and longed-for triumphs; they hold the stuff of dreams and nightmares, cowardice and courage, tragedy and triumph. Match girls and mermaids, red hoods and red shoes. From this day, they all find a home within me.

My heart beat a sudden staccato when I saw it—an exquisitely illustrated copy of Hans Christian Andersen and Brothers Grimm fairy tales, just like the one I owned as a child.  Lost somewhere in the dim recesses of my past, but here, among row after row of hand-me-down books I rediscovered it at last—and remember.

Incandescent yellow light bathes the walls, washing to a brilliant puddle that reflects it back to me. Bundled into bed, snug and sheltered, I crack the pages once again and read by the glow of that nocturnal noon—long after I’m supposed to be sleeping. Safe and warm, I venture into realms unknown, to illusory lands where life is not safe, and yet malevolence lies vanquished in the end. Alongside the hero, my heart quickens—whether in fearsome encounters, or menacing forests.

There is magic here that flashes out and reshapes me.

A musty smell mingles with this living memory as I comb the book’s contents for best-beloved tales. Just as she had always been—last on a lengthy list— is The Snow Queen. I smile, sigh, and settle in to read.

Gerda and Kay. The Snow Queen’s alarming appearance and Kay’s abduction. A steadfast Gerda intent on liberating her well-loved playfellow with the sliver of glass lodged in his eye and a ball of ice in his heart.

Then the story turns. Dark.

Dagger to the throat dark.

Flickering through the leaves of the book, I find blood, death, terror, and even cannibalistic witches. Cinderella’s sisters cutting off toes and heels to fit too-large feet into glass slippers in order to seize the prince for themselves? Children—like Hansel and Gretel, Snow White, Red Riding Hood—bullied, hunted and threatened by the grownups charged with their care, or abandoned in dark and daunting forests; seemingly helpless before the very strangers they are cautioned against? These were the stories I had loved as a child?

How could I disremember this?

Yet, another memory shimmers before my mind’s eye.

Lively little girls grab pillows, blankets—and a tantalizing fairy tale tome. Shushing begins, excited voices fall away, and an expectant hush fills the room. A single voice begins to speak—strong, sure, and smiling.  All these years later, I can still hear it.  Rich as butter, it drizzles over me as I sit spellbound by spoken story. Lyric comes to life, splashing vivid images across mind’s-eye; fright and delight vie in my heart as I listen. And I—along with every child in the room, and across the sea, and throughout time—take my place within the chain of the tale which begins, “Once upon a time…”

In this instant, I realize it: Story sticks.

Despite the machinery of each new generation, Story has survived the insurrection. Twisted to fit the warp and weft of culture, she weaves these tales we know and love from childhood into the texture of our human heritage. Through literary musings over modern meanings, or “rags to riches” media presentation, Story is constantly plaiting fresh threads into her continuous cord. Despite their marketable charms, Disney has not imprisoned the influence of her tales.  Her timeless narratives linger still.

~ For Carol

Half-Baked Cinderella cookies

This little ditty grew out of a class free-write exercise while I was writing my Global Honors thesis, "If the Shoe Fits"--The Evolution of the Cinderella Fairy Tale from Literature to Television. I've spent the better part of the last year immersed in fairy tale imagery, and it has shown up in a lot of my writing. Enjoy!

Half-Baked “Cinderella” Cookies:

Ingredients:

Daughter

Step-Mother (1)

Stepsisters (1 or 2—best if somewhat supercilious)

Shoes – to verify identity

Ball gowns

Conversation—scholarly brand

Childhood fantasy—preferably Princess-oriented

Fairy godparents (mothers are best)

Cultural Variants (whatever’s in season)

Disney© Brand “Pixie Dust

Baking Directions:

These petite and sugary-sweet confections are simple to make—requiring very little effort—making them the perfect project for mothers and young daughters.

Choose one dutiful daughter, fully ripe. (Be sure to wash thoroughly to remove soot and ashes). Add one wicked stepmother and two snooty stepsisters. Sprinkle in several cultural variants—hazel twigs, goat skins or birds (whatever you have on hand will do); “recognizable” shoes—preferably glass (size extra small); gifted gowns, twinkling with fairy dust; winter vegetables (pumpkin is preferred) and rodents, of course; fairy godmothers with glittering wands, offering words of wisdom and a strict curfew, and of course, a sparkly tiara. Stir until well-blended. Allow the mixture to sit—covered—for several hundred years.

When 20^th century temperatures are reached (be sure to allow for global warming), uncover and knead carefully. Dust with scholarly conversations and little girls’ fantasies, and escort to the Ball to rest.

Taking a small portion of the dough, and using 1950’s feminist theory, roll it out—very thin—and, using a slipper-shaped cookie cutter, form several picture-perfect cookies. Bake for 60 years in a moderate oven. Watch carefully, taking care not to overbake. Sprinkle liberally with Disney© Brand “Pixie Dust,” and set in a palace window to cool. (Watch out for vermin and birds)

Bright, dainty and tantalizing, these cookies will reveal a vision of perfection not seen in nature, and are the perfect complement for a fantasy tea party with friends. Enjoy!

From the kitchen of:

~Margaret Lundberg

My Roman Holiday: An American’s Multicultural Experience in Rome

It was raining.  Buckets. Splashing our way through cobblestoned puddles, dodging umbrellas and the white-tarped tents of the market-filled piazza, and tugging our suitcases along behind us, we heard his voice for the first time. Looking up to see who was speaking to us—in English—we saw Antonio’s smiling face. Standing in front of a restaurant fronting the Campo de Fiori in Rome—and situated right outside our apartment’s piazza-side door—he was the official face of the establishment. He was the “draw,” so to speak, and over the next 10 days, we came to know his pitch pretty well.

“Ah, you are just in time! You must come in and eat.”

“Our food is excellent. You will like it very much.”

“Just a glass of wine?

“No? Maybe another day then.”

But at that moment, our thoughts involved nothing more than getting our jet-lagged selves and our luggage inside, out of the Roman rain. Nonetheless, appreciating the sound of our own language and his amiable smile, we promised him—and ourselves—that we would go back to eat at his restaurant another day.

~

A bit over a month ago, I took my first trip to Rome. A ten-day “mini” study abroad with students from all three of the University of Washington campuses, the trip was organized by the Seattle campus’ Office of Minority and Diversity, and my Global Honors fellow Amy and I were selected by the Vice Chancellor to be the students from UWT. As you might guess, a trip organized by the Office of Minority and Diversity was indeed culturally diverse, and I was apparently the token “old lady.” Except for my Portuguese-Jewish great-great-grandmother or British-bred great-grandfather who emigrated to the US by way of Jamaica, I was otherwise “unqualified” to be a part of this remarkable group,  some of whom were immigrants, the children of immigrants, or who spoke affectionately of “undocumented” family members, and all of whom were first-generation college students. They were an entertaining, enthusiastic group who accepted my presence with grace, included me in their daily adventures—and never once treated me like their mother. It was truly an unforgettable experience.

~

The purpose of the trip—aside from the obvious (we were in Rome, for goodness sake!)—was to discover Rome’s multicultural history. Through sightseeing junkets every morning and late-afternoon classes we learned about Rome’s past, and during our free time in between we learned about its present. Our professor spoke to us not only about the history and architecture of ancient Rome (I can now identify three types of columns and an assortment of architectural styles at fifty yards), but also about the fact that Roman society was historically a multicultural society. This was not just due to the fact that Rome took slaves from every land they had conquered, but because in their earliest history the Roman population was actually made up of four different people groups who had somehow come together in this one distinct place. Rome was birthed in multiculturalism.

~

In the midst of our first class session, just before the jet lag overtook us and the members of our group nodded off, one-by-one, I remember a comment our professor made about the way that Italians would know we are American. “It’s not because you speak English,” he assured us. “They know you are American because you are a multicultural group. In Italy, people of different cultures do not hang out together.” It wasn’t our language that would identify us as American, it was our enjoyment of each other’s company.

~

One afternoon, our professor invited representatives from CARITAS, an organization which works with immigrant populations, to speak to our class. Three women, each with an “iffy” command of the English language, talked about their organization’s work among immigrants in Italy. Anna, the primary spokesperson of the three, talked with us about the changes in Italian immigration since World War II, a time when most immigrants were leaving Italy for the United States; in 1985 all that began to change. Immigrants then began to arrive in Italy for the first time, and what they met was a closed and mostly unresponsive society, unprepared to live and work with those from other cultures. CARITAS began their work in Italy in 1991, involved mostly with the children of immigrants, helping them to learn Italian and their families to assimilate into Italian culture. When they began their work in 1991, there was a law that stated that there could only be one person of foreign origin per classroom, and today Italian classrooms are full of the children of immigrants who want to learn about Italian culture—yet those students are still not afforded the rights of the Italian constitution that they study.

Although understanding Anna’s words was sometimes difficult, understanding the immigrant’s hardships was not.

~

“You are going out?”

 “You will eat somewhere. Why not here?”

Every day—sometimes several times a day—we would pass Antonio in his post at the entrance of his outdoor restaurant, and every time he would call out to us as we passed, reminding us of our promise to eat a meal at his restaurant.

“Another day, then?”

~

During my time in Rome, I saw places that I had dreamed of seeing all my life—I literally wept at my first glimpses of the Pantheon and the Sistine Chapel. I walked through the Roman forum, gazing upward at columns that had been standing on that site for dozens of centuries, and gazing downward at myriad layers of history under my feet.  I stood with the polyglot of the faithful in St. Peter’s Square on Palm Sunday as the new Pope circled through the adoring crowds in his “Papamobile.” I actually touched one of Michelangelo’s sculptures at the Basilica di Santa Maria Sopra Minerva (with resolute yet respectful fingers), wandered awestruck through rooms in the Vatican museum painted floor-to ceiling by Raphael, and  saw remarkable samples of Etruscan pottery that were thousands of years old. I even took a high-speed train to Florence and stood face-to-face with Boticelli’s Venus. (I was an artist in my “pre-student” life, so these things are nearly earth-shattering to me). In so many ways, I know I will never be the same. However, it was what I discovered during our free afternoons that has changed me the most.

~

Italy, despite its ancient multicultural beginnings, has—at least in more recent history—been a largely homogenous society. However, the 21^st century reality is that Italy is now home to 5 million immigrants—about 10% of the nation’s workforce.  According to the online magazine Our Europe, by the end of 2001 the most common nationality of immigrants was Moroccan , followed by those from several eastern European nations, the Philippines, Chinese , Tunisians, Senegalese and even Americans. Currently there are also many immigrants coming from places like Mali and Bangladesh, areas wracked by war or political strife. Yet, in spite of the fact that immigration—legal and illegal— is becoming increasingly common, many who have become “2^nd generation Italians,” born, raised and entering adulthood in Italy, or who have lived there for decades, are still not considered Italian. In Italy, there is no “birthright” citizenship, and Italian-born children of immigrants must often fight for their right to stay in the country of their birth, even after many years.

~

“Ah, beautiful ladies, you are back!”

“Maybe you will have a caffé here today?”

Day by day, Antonio continued to ply us with conversation and his appealing smile.  Yet day by day, we resisted.  We were urged to avoid the places where the “tourists” ate, to find the “real” Rome instead—those places where the locals hang out. It will be better, we heard.

 “One day,” we promised again and again. “Soon!”

Just between ourselves, we teasingly agreed we would likely succumb to his invitation eventually and try the place out—if only to see Antonio smile.

~

Ambling through the narrow, cobbled streets of Rome, we found street markets and merchants everywhere. One brilliantly sunny day—on our way to the best gelato shop in the world—we purchased paintings from a chatty artist we met at the Piazza Navona, then stopped at a tiny shop near the Trevi Fountain that had an amazing selection of scarves at great prices. But wherever we went, we were constantly surrounded by street merchants selling fake designer bags, some bizarre toy that made a noise like seagulls, spray paint art (created with an almost dance-like process fascinating to watch), or any number of small souvenir items.

Many of these street merchants, we later discovered, were immigrants just trying to make a living at the only jobs they could find. (You could tell who was who because the “illegals” would scatter if a police officer happened by). Many of these people became illegal after coming to Italy legally as undocumented children—typically, refugee orphans—and then having their status changed when they turned 18, but couldn’t find a job. Although 11% of Italy’s GDP results from the work of migrants, and the jobs they take—for the most part—are those that Italians don’t want to do, many Italians are not happy about their presence in the country.

~

One day, Antonio’s engaging smile and banter finally won out and several members of our group stopped in for a late lunch. We shared a meal and a bottle of wine, and discovered a bit of Antonio’s personal history.

He was a somewhat recent immigrant to Italy. Born in Tunisia, Antonio speaks five languages, has a degree in tourism, and is now living in Rome with his brother while the rest of his family is still in Tunisia. He told us that although he loved Rome—“It is my home away from home”—many Italians were not happy with him living there. Although he didn’t say it directly, we got the impression that he believed it was only due to his language skills that he got the restaurant job—one of several similar jobs that he works to make a living. He was not angry at the attitudes of Italians toward immigrants—or so he said—but his face looked irritated when he talked about how he felt the Italian people perceived him. However, his countenance changed and his charming smile returned swiftly as he asked if we wanted some dessert.

~

The rapidly slowing birthrate among native Italians is leading to a situation where the immigrant population is growing much faster than the rest of the population. Groups like CARITAS estimate that in fifty years, the population of second-generation Italians (children of immigrants) could make up more than 15% of the total population. However, xenophobic policies on the part of some political parties and media hysteria are contributing to a fear of foreigners by Italians who accuse the immigrants of stealing jobs and business from them.

~

A day-trip to Florence where I had hoped to meet Michelangelo’s David, brought instead a different encounter, one that offered me a glimpse of what many Italians think of the immigrants in their country. Amy had just purchased a beautiful leather messenger bag—a gift for her husband—in one of the stalls of the celebrated Florence leather market. Eager to try her bargaining skills, she had managed to get it for 72 euros, and she was elated. As we worked our way back through the market, she paused to look for a moment at a similar bag hanging on the side of another stall. The merchant, doubtless sensing a potential sale, swooped in and said, “I will sell this to you for 60 euros.” Panicked that she had just been “taken,” Amy looked at me for confirmation that she hadn’t made a mistake in her purchase—and at this point her experience began to unspool rapidly. The merchant grabbed the bag, barked “Follow me!” and we (for some still unknown reason) dutifully trailed behind. For the next few moments, in his shop behind the stall, the man showed us all the good points of his bag compared to the “bad” points of the bag Amy had just bought. However, it was his diatribe that followed that was the real lesson.

“You Americans only want to know the price. You don’t care about the quality! You buy this bag and you only make bad people happy.”

His point, which he stated repeatedly and vociferously for at least five minutes, gesticulating madly all the while, was that the “foreigners” Amy had purchased the bag from (they were likely Bangladeshis) were bad people, and by buying from them, we had hurt the “real” Italians. It didn’t matter that he was the one who had offered the bag at a lower price, we were wrong for only caring about the price and buying the bag from “bad people.” Now honestly, unless he had been following us through the market, he couldn’t possibly have known where she bought the bag—but he was upset and wanted to be sure we knew it! It was an exchange I will not soon forget.

~

I’ve been home just over three weeks now, and yet there is not a day that goes by without memories of this once-in-a-lifetime trip wafting through my mind. Hanging on the wall above my computer is a small plaque I bought on our last day in Rome. “Piazza Campo de Fiori,” it reads. It is a replica of the plaque mounted on the wall of a 15^th century palazzo that neighbored the piazza I called home for ten incredible days. A return address label of sorts, it reminds me of morning markets, a bakery with the finest raisin bread I ever tasted, bars that served a morning caffé latte best drunk standing at the counter. And it reminds me of Antonio, the articulate and educated immigrant with the charming smile who worked as a restaurant host in a country that didn’t really want him there—as well as every other immigrant struggling to make a life in a nation where they contribute so much, yet feel so unwelcome. 

I can only hope these memories stay with me forever.