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 21st 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 “2nd 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 15th
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.
