The Honor and Weight of Citizenship

Michele's speech from the Naturalization Ceremony on December 9, 2011

About 12 years ago, on March 31, 2000, I stood where you are standing; on the other side of this hall, swearing my American citizenship. It was a decision that I made after having lived in this country for exactly a decade. It was something I did with passion and with acknowledgement that this country was my adoptive land, my second home.

I came to the United States in 1990 from my hometown, Napoli, in Southern Italy. Four years prior to this, while traveling by train in Italy, I met my former wife and decided to relocate in the USA, to start a family, to find a good job and to begin a new adventure in my life. It was a typical fall day in October and I remember looking at the New York City skyline from the plane while landing in JFK. I had a feeling of excitement and a feeling of curiosity, but also a feeling of uncertainty and loss for the homeland that I was leaving behind. I am sure this is something that more or less you all experienced, when you first came here. It was not an easy choice for me, and I am sure it has not been an easy choice for you. You will always be bonded to your homeland, your place of origin, and the adoptive land, the land where you live now; there are many things that one can forget, but not the childhood spent with your own family, in your hometown.

I’m a little embarrassed to admit that I did not know of the existence of Cincinnati until I came here. I knew New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, but not Cincinnati. So it was literally a step into the unknown for me.

The United States in my mind, and I think in the mind of many Italian people of my generation, always represented the top notch, the land of dreams, the place where you can find the best, the most advanced and richest place on earth, the country where space is not an issue and everything is big. So the idea to come into this new territory for me was also fueled by the curiosity to see the US in person, to live and work here, and to refine the language.

Speaking about big, the very first images I have after landing in this country were the huge 18-wheeler trucks on the four lane expressway. To me they were just giants, because I had never seen them before.

The language was not a big problem at the beginning because I had always studied English with pleasure and to me it was a great opportunity to communicate in a way that I had always dreamed about: to be fluent in English was my ultimate goal.

I have to say that I don’t believe in destiny, but when I look back on my life I have to come to the conclusion that I was destined to become an American. My legal Italian name is Michele, but my mother, brother and all my relatives call me Mike, even if every legal document says Michele. So for three decades before I came here to the States, I already had an American name: Mike. The only difference was that my mom spelled it in the Italian way, which is M A I C H, perfect Italian phonetic for Mike.

For many years I have asked myself, what encouraged me to move to the United States and finally become a US citizen. I don’t have one simple answer; maybe there is not a single answer. For me it was a blend of different components, some rational and some irrational. It was definitely love for the person I married; it was desire of wider opportunities of work, and it was also the dream of discovering a new land, finally traveling throughout the United States of America.

I don’t know what your story is, the motivation that you had to come here after leaving your country. Everybody has a story and everybody has a dream. The steady stream of hardworking and talented people coming here from all over the world has made America a leading country for over a century, an example of productivity, a place where people with skills are valued and reach the highest level of the social strata. This is something that I have always admired in this country: we call it meritocracy, accomplishment based on merit. Even in this global economic crisis, I think the world still looks at the USA as a land of great opportunities, a land of hope, challenge and freedom.

Of course we all realize that we are lucky to live in the 21^st century and to have come here in these years. It was much harder for our previous generations, those who arrived here on ships to Ellis Island decades ago. Think about how communication has changed since I got here 20 years ago: now we have Internet, Skype, cell phones and satellite that can connect us with our family and friends on the other side of the world instantaneously. The phone call that used to cost me $10 every Sunday, I can now make for pennies.  It was different, of course, for those who came here long before us, when a handwritten letter could take a month to be delivered to their relatives.

Let’s not forget that the stigma against us immigrants living in any foreign land just a few decades ago was much stronger; immigrants were never equal to American citizens. Now some immigrants have reached high prestigious positions in the American society and no longer have to struggle for their rights. I don’t have to be self-conscious about my accent.  Actually my daughter’s friends think it’s cute.

So from today on, you will be part of the American family, you will be walking on a soil that is part of your new home; you will be an integral part of the American society and will be able to climb that ladder that will take you to success if you are an honest, hard-working person, just like any native US citizen.  Now you can call yourself an American.

Of course, you will probably still have the traditions and habits that you had before coming to this country. My wife says that in some categories I am and will always be Italian. You can imagine what those categories are: food, my sense of time and the way I discuss. I will never be able to eat overcooked pasta with sugar in the sauce; I will not be on time at nine out of ten appointments; and I will always want to talk and talk and talk about an issue for days on end without reaching a solution to the problem. Italians love to discuss… with their hands of course!

Everybody has a story.  Everybody has a different reason for the choice he or she made to come here. Now each of you, each of us, has a common denominator which is the American citizenship. Being a citizen of the United States of America is a big honor and has a stronger meaning when you really feel it inside. You have made the decision to stand here today and swear to protect and honor your adopted country; it means you are committed.  Now you are truly a part of this huge nation and will carry on the principles and beliefs that have made this country a role model and a symbol of progress and prosperity for past generations.

Be proud of being American; it is a decision you will never regret.  But don’t forget who you are, where you come from and the people you left behind, because there will always be moments in life when you will sense those original ties, the roots from your past. Those roots are a big part of your contribution to the richness and imagination that is the United States of America.

You made a courageous choice leaving your home land, and you made a tremendous choice coming to the United States. Today, by choosing to be officially an American citizen, you have made an important step that will be carried on by your kids and grandchildren. You have marked a new way not only for yourself, but for your entire family in this honorable country.

Italian Life, as interpreted by Emi Heile, an ESL teacher in Southern Italy

Let's start at the top.
Food and the eating of food. The Italian culture is food\centric. Italians love to grow, buy, cook, eat and offer other people food. And they LOVE to talk about it. If you ever need a small-talk subject to talk about with an Italian, start here. Though, I warn you, it will not stay in the "small-talk" realm. It will become a very important discussion. And you will have to listen and nod enthusiastically, no matter what you are thinking. No matter if you'd rather not hear it. You have to smile and nod as the details of who what when why and how the last meal was consumed emerge.

Next, we have family, closely linked to #1. Because the only people at the Italian table are family OR very very close friends. But usually family- we're talking blood ties, and the people married to them. Families love and dislike each other. Usually simultaneously. There is a lot of discussing, arguing and talking about other families going on at the Italian table. And of course loving. Italian families are very supportive of their members. They will support/defend anyone who was at the table on Sunday afternoon. So, you see, there really is no way to separate family and food. When family gets together, they eat. When food is served, family comes. My sister-in-law calls every afternoon from work to get an update on what her mother cooked that day. Depending on the response, she will or won't be at the table in a few hours happily eating reheated leftovers. Sometimes, she just cuts to the chase and shows up for lunch with her husband. That way, there's no missing out on her mom's cooking or the hot gossip of the day.

Then there's fashion. Which of course is connected to food. Take the example of going to a big celebration like a wedding or first communion (read FOOD and six hours of eating); you better look fabulous or everyone will be talking about you. Well, even if you look fabulous, they will be talking about you but that's a different story. Fashion is big enough to be its own entity, and it is very important. There's not a lot to say on this except if you've got style and shop at the right stores, you are on the right track. Very few individuals can be thrifty and manage to look like a million. (knock-offs, etc.). Italians don't wear last year's colors this year. And they are always DRESSED. Never seen one of them in sweatpants at the supermarket, walking their dog, or anywhere else in public. By the way, "in public" means any point past the family's front door.

After the fashion priority is the fun priority. And it IS A PRIORITY. Fun MUST be had. Recreation must be recreated. Take a look at any coffee bar or plaza. See all of those people in groups talking, playing cards, smoking cigarettes and "loitering"? Well, they are relaxing and having fun. And it is absolutely necessary. You just won't find many Italians working overtime with no pay or studying past 8 p.m. Nope, not even English. There is a time in the day that is reserved for being social and cutting loose. Of course this links to food, because Italians always have fun when they have food and vice versa....

Now we get to learning English. (It's about as important as working or going to school.) Italians see it as "essential" and often describe it as such, but in the end, it often takes back seat to the big four. How does this translate for teachers? What's the reality of English language teaching in Italy?
It goes like this- let’s say you're an ESL teacher in a smallish town in Campania. You've exhausted yourself preparing the most interesting vocabulary and reading comprehension lesson on food and cultural celebrations. You've even added the fashion aspect by concentrating the lexis on clothes and accessories. AND you've set up a fabulous listening activity on "small talk" dialogue between two friends at the table. You are excited. You are sitting, there waiting for the student, and thinking how great the lesson will be. You barely notice that another five minutes pass- and another ten.

Why? Because Italians have real-life priorities, don't you get it? And that is just the way it is. So, you are waiting for them to show up at the lesson and they are:
Finishing lunch and will be 25 minutes late.
In a heated discussion at the table, and will be 25 minutes late.
Shopping for something to wear to their cousin's baptism tomorrow, and will be 25 minutes late.
Talking to a friend on Facebook, cell or are texting, and will be 25 minutes late.
Having coffee and a cigarette with an acquaintance. and will be 25 minutes late.

You get the idea. As long as learning English doesn't cut in on real priorities, Italians are all for it. And besides, 25 minutes late in Italy is just about right on time.

Trip to Taverna: Is the Museum Closed?

by Gerardo Perrotta, Italian teacher at School Amici

(Italian version follows)

This summer, in the middle of our vacation in Fuscaldo, we had occasion to visit the Civic Museum of Taverna, a small town in Calabria in the province of Catanzaro and birthplace of the famous artist Mattia Preti.

It was a one day trip, short and meaningful. We left our house around ten and after traversing the thick and rich woodland of the southern border of the lower Sila, with the help of a good map and a couple of stops, we reached Taverna at noon.

Gerardo Perrotta

It was Monday and during the trip it dawned on us that museums in Italy are closed. But thinking that Taverna is not a big city, maybe the rule did not apply and, if it did it, may not be observed. While the weather was not ideal, we walked toward the museum and did find it closed. We went to the city hall nearby, formerly a Dominican monastery. The head accountant, the only person there, confirmed that the museum was closed. At our insistence to be granted an exception, the accountant felt sorry for us and made several calls to reach the custodian of the museum. He arrived within the half hour with the keys and a big smile, notwithstanding perhaps our appearance on his day off.

Our dream was achieved: to see the works of Mattia Preti up close.  The kind and well informed guide made it very enjoyable.

The artist Preti, known as “the Cavaliere Calabrese”, belongs to the school of Naples from the XVII century and has much in common with the great Caravaggio, not as an imitator, rather as a master in his own right.

He was knighted to the order of St John of Malta, stayed at the house in Malta where Caravaggio also lived. During this time, Preti produced many great paintings mostly dealing with the martyrdom of St. John. His reputation spread throughout Europe thanks in part to the good fortune of a long and very productive artistic career.

Today his paintings, mostly reflecting the exuberant style of the late Baroque, are found in many museums in the world. Close to home, some of these paintings can be seen in the art museums of Toledo, Cleveland, New York and even in Cincinnati. There is also a painting, as of yet by an unknown author, in the Proto-Cathedral of Bardstown, Kentucky that we feel may be attributable to Preti. Something to research further!

Many other works in Taverna are located in the churches of Saint Barbara and Saint Domenico where our memorable trip concluded.   We are delighted for this experience and want to share it with the hope of raising awareness of one of the most important protagonists of the rich artistic patrimony of Calabria.

 Gita a Taverna: E' Chiuso il Museo?

Quest’estate nel bel mezzo della nostra vacanza a Fuscaldo, abbiamo avuto occasione di visitare il Museo Civico di Taverna, cittadina calabrese in provincia di Catanzaro e citta’ natale del famoso artista Mattia Preti.

E’  stata una breve gita, di solo un giorno, ma non per questo di poca importanza, tutt’altro.

Partiti da casa verso le dieci del mattino, dopo aver attraversato la parte meridionale della Sila piccola, una zona fitta di incantevoli boschi e prati e con l’aiuto di una buona mappa ed anche dopo un paio di fermate, siamo giunti a Taverna, alle dodici.

Era lunedi’ e proprio durante il viaggio e non prima, ci siamo ricordati che in Italia i musei sono chiusi il lunedi’. Poi, pero’ ritenendo che  Taverna non e’ una citta’ grande, forse questa regola non  valeva o se valeva, poteva non essere osservata. Il tempo non era proprio bello, ma non pioveva e avendo trovato il museo chiuso, ci siamo diretti a piedi al vicino municipio, ubicato in un antico monastero domenicano. Il ragioniere subito ci ha informato del fatto che era lunedi’ e il museo di lunedi’ e’ chiuso. Alla nostra insistente richiesta di poter fare un’eccezione per noi che venivamo da tanto lontano, questo signore si e’ impietosito e ha cominciato a fare delle telefonate, per rintracciare il custode del museo. Questo e’ arrivato in meno di mezz’ora con le chiavi ed un bel sorriso, nonostante fosse stato disturbato nel suo giorno libero.

Il nostro sogno  si era realizzato: vedere da vicino le opere di Mattia Preti.  Le informazioni e i dettagli provvisti dal custode  hanno reso la visita piu` che  piacevole.

L’artista Preti, noto come “il Cavaliere Calabrese”, appartiene alla scuola napoletana del XVII secolo. Ha molto in comune con il grande Caravaggio di cui pero` non e’ un epigono, cioe` imitatore, ma viene considerato invece un grande maestro, per conto proprio.

Ricevuto il titolo di Cavaliere di Grazia dell’Ordine di S. Giovanni di Malta, visito’ a lungo la casa madre dell’ordine a Malta, dove anche il Caravaggio aveva soggiornato. Durante questo periodo, il Preti esegui’ un gran numero di dipinti soprattutto sulla vita e il martirio di S. Giovanni. La sua reputazione dilago‘ cosi’  in tutta Europa. Ebbe la fortuna di avere una lunga carriera ed una  copiosa creazione artistica.

Oggi, i suoi dipinti, che riflettono lo stile esuberante del tardo barocco, si trovano in vari musei del mondo. Piu` vicino a noi si possono vedere nei musei di Toledo, Cleveland, New York e anche Cincinnati. C’e` pure in dipinto, attualmente di autore ignoto, nella Proto-Cattedrale di Bardstown in Kentucky che noi riteniamo potrebbe essere  uno dei lavori di Preti. Tutto da indagare!

Il resto delle sue opere a Taverna sono  allestite non solo  nel  museo civico ma anche  nelle chiese di Santa Barbara e San Domenico dove si e` conclusa la nostra memorabile gita. Siamo entusiasti di questa esperienza e di poter condividerla con la speranza di far conoscere meglio  questo importante protagonista del patrimonio artistico calabrese.

The One That Got Away

Chef Cristian by Gail Morrison

Last spring Via Vite opened their doors to School Amici students for our Mangiamo! series and Cristian Pietoso did a great private cooking demonstration.  Gail Morrison, the Pendleton artist best-known for her paintings of Italy as Gaia, took that class.  She asked Michele to forward copies of the photos he took during the event.   This is the one that inspired her and she intended to submit the finished painting  to Cincinnati Dreams Italy, opening next week.

Unfortunately for us, the painting sold before we even had a chance to hang it on the gallery walls.

Gail has several other pieces in the show, so I'm trying not to pout.  But this piece, with the steam rising out of the pots, captures Cristian's steady concentration so perfectly that the painting will be sorely missed even if nobody realizes that it's not there.

The Real Thing (October 1, 8, 15)

Every time I get on the plane for Italy, I'm a little nervous with all there is to figure out.  Should I change my money here or in the airport when I land?  ATM machine or one of the tellers in the booth behind the glass? Taxi or train into town?  The train is cheaper, but what if I get on the wrong one?  What if I have to ask somebody for help and I don't understand what they say?  Do you have to buy stamps at the post office and if you do, which line do you stand in?  And when I get there I hope it's not the really long one where everybody else seems to know each other already, like they've been standing there for days or entire generations, long enough to share a history that doesn't include me. 

When I travel, I'm always a little off balance, that uncomfortable, but exhilarating sensation of not knowing exactly where I'm going, when all the world is new and different for the two or three weeks of a vacation.  By the end, I'm tired, ready to come home where I can take life for granted and not have to think so much..

But what if you never go home?  America is a country of immigrants, the bravest of the brave who got up and left everything familiar for a possibility.  Surely they must get used to it after a while, reach the point where every day doesn't feel like the boat is still rocking under their feet.

My husband has been in this country since 1990 and Michele will never get used to it, not if he lives to be a hundred.  He can't remember what time Americans eat dinner, which is really annoying the 52nd time we are invited out and I have to explain.  Since he only watches Italian TV, references to Seinfeld or Friends go completely over his head.  When we attend the company picnic every year he always asks, "Are they sweet?" before he takes a spoon of baked beans because his people don't put sugar and pork in the same dish.  In order to master the concept of grass, he literally took notes and worked so hard at it he put the rest of the neighborhood to shame.  We don't know what we don't know until it's too late to go home again.

I'm not that brave, are you?

Something About That Italian Sun starts October 1 at the Taft Museum.  For 3 weekends in a row, from 2-4pm we will explore cultural differences from the safety of a class room. Real Italians will tell us about love the first week, how courtship works and marriage is different.  On the 8th of October, we look at travel  beyond the tourist attractions, up in the hills of Piemonte, side trips in the South around Pompeii, cycling adventures in the Lake Country, favorite spots shared by the people who grew up there.  Our last get together focuses on food, the philosophy of it and the ritual of a simple cup of coffee in daily life.  Each week we'll also sample different flavors of our favorite country: olive oil, cheeses, and artisan gelatos. Stay after school on the 8th and we'll throw in a free tarantella lesson.

Come find out what we Americans look like to the foreigner.  Come explore the mindset that is Italian.  Because the only way we will ever really understand who we are as Americans from Cincinnati, Ohio, east side or west, is when we travel. Life is infinite possibility, but unless we're brave enough to rock the boat, none of us are going anywhere.

For details and registration, click here.

Perche'? (Why?)

Mona Lisa by Leigh Cooney

Before I married an Italian I was married to a German speaker and almost immediately after I made the switch, I noticed that while lots of folks drive a Mercedes, nobody ever passionately longs for wurst and lederhosen.  Italy, on the other hand, immediately brings out the poets, and I have spent an entire marriage trying to figure out what it is that pulls our American hearts in spite of  long lines at the post office and sleazy politicians.

Occasional mental noodling is one thing, but  I'm sure if you'd ask Michele, this time he'd agree, I've taken my research way too far.

 Next month School Amici hosts Cincinnati Dreams Italy, a companion exhibit  to George Inness in Italy at the Taft Museum.  My friend, Tricia, is in charge of public relations and she asked if we could do a class.

Something About That Italian Sun
(a 3-part adventure in the beauty of Italy explained by real Italians)
October 1 (2pm)  Amore: Friends, Family and Courtship & olive oil tasting
October 8 (2pm)  Paese: Spots (most) Tourists Don't Discover & Italian cheeses
October 15 (2pm) Tavola: Food and Italian Culture & artisan gelatos
If you sign-up for the whole series ($90), it includes a one year membership to the Taft and all their fun events.

That was all they wanted.

Except then I got to thinking, "Mamma mia! When's School Amici going to throw a party and get everybody together around big long tables with red checkered table clothes, outside in the tent in the garden, like they do in the old country, with lots of crusty bread and  steamy dishes cooked just right?"  We could sing Neapolitan songs with Michele on guitar and Silvana's gorgeous voice, an accordion player strolling by every once in a while.  We could go upstairs when the museum is all spooky and quiet and take our time with Inness' dreamy landscapes.  We could talk about food all night with folks who know about it, like it's the most important thing in the world. (which it is)

October 20, 6pm, Per Sempre: The Dinner Party  
Members: $40; Folks Who Haven't Joined Yet: $55

That was really way more than the staff at the Taft ever expected.  "Kathy, you're out of control," one of them said and who could argue?

Sure, the landscapes are pretty, but they don't tell me everything I want to know.   Inness took his Grand Tour almost a hundred and fifty years ago, but we Americans still travel there today with the same hope that our journeys will change the way we see the world forever.   So I invited 35 of the most talented artists in Cincinnati to galleries scattered throughout historic buildings around Lytle Park that aren't normally open to the public.

Cincinnati Dreams Italy, October 8&9, 15&16, 22&23  11am-5pm  (gratis)
an extravaganza in paint, print, and sculpture, part of all purchases to benefit the Taft


"Basta!" I thought to myself.  That is more than enough.  And it was, until I realized that Cincinnati was one of the few cities without a bocce court in any of our parks.  So I ran around and got everybody all excited until finally our co-host, Western-Southern Financial Group, agreed to donate the money for materials and the Park Department (miracle of miracles) said, "Yes! You can have a bocce court"  Now everybody wants to play.


Lytle Park Bocce Tournament, all weekends
Teams of 2, $10 registration per participant.


BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Free Group Tarantella Lesson, Saturday October 8 at 4pm, led by Silvana and friends.  We're gonna dance like there's nobody lookin'!

An espresso cart, walking tours, vintage scooters.


Which will surely be enough, don't you think?  Whatever it is that I'm looking for just beyond words, I'll find it this time and I'll finally be able to explain everything Italian that makes no sense.  It'll be there in one of the oils or the curve of an elegant bronze.  Or if the artists don't get to that secret place, it has to be tucked under the trees, between groups of friends chatting on park benches while they watch the players roll the bocce down the court.  This time I'll finally figure it out, exactly what it is that we are missing in the here and now that we have always called home.

I better.

Because I'll never get Michele to do this twice.

Prendi l'Autobus! (and learn to speak Italian)

Recently School Amici asked for input on a survey about what people want in a tour and I was especially eager to see the response to Question #6:  "What's the best way to get around?"

a. I like to be pampered with someone to carry my luggage and I prefer a private van or bus.
b. Public transportation is part of the fun.  Let's take trains and other forms of public transportation to save money and mingle with the locals.

Signore and Signori, (drum roll) may I have your attention, please.
Public transportation trounced private by a resounding 78% to 22%.

THANK-YOU, SCHOOL AMICI.  You have restored my faith in the inherent sensibility of human beings. 

My twenty-nine year-old daughter is stationed at the Naval base in Sicily and this spring we took a trip from Genova, through France, to Barcelona.  I was surprised that she wanted to drive.  "What about the train?" I tried to suggest.  But there were places she wanted to see in the mountains.  We wouldn't be as flexible. 
Before we had even left Genova, Maryl realized the error of her American ways when she went to get her car and it was gone.  The rest of that day was spent figuring out how to find the lot where it had been towed on the other side of a very big, confusing city.  Turns out her great spot on the street was a bus stop.

Add to that the cost of gas ($8 a gallon), tolls (some as high as $15 and there were a lot of them), parking, insurance, and the stress, getting around by car in Europe is no bargain, even if you don't have to rent.

But the cost of the convenience of going exactly where you want, exactly when you want really hit home when I had to fly down to Napoli to meet Michele unexpectedly.  Since I couldn't chance missing the flight, I decided to take a cab to the airport.  It was a ten minute ride and cost me 25 Euros ($40).  On my return, the hotel was only three kilometers from the airport, but the driver I asked said the price was still the same.  In Genova, rides to and from the airport are apparently "one size fits all."

There was no rush.  I could take my time.  And so I decided to save my money and practice speaking Italian.

"C'e' un autobus per Pegli?" I asked.

They told me the bus number.  They told me where to stand.  They showed me where to buy the ticket.

It took a few minutes longer and I had to transfer to a train, ride two stops, and then walk a half a mile with my rolly-bag and back pack.  I got lost once when I turned the wrong direction out of the train station and had to ask again, "Dov'e' l'albergo Castello?".  But I got there.

The cost? One and a half euros.  Needless to say, the next day when it was time to leave for the airport, I wheeled my suitcase out the door and walked right back up the hill to the train station.  In twenty-four hours on those two trips alone, I saved about 70 bucks.  Now multiply that by three weeks.  Taking public transportation is one of the easiest ways I know to make travel more affordable so I can go more often and stay longer.

But the real advantage was not monetary.  It was the young bus driver who slowly and patiently explained the sciopero (one of Itay's ubiquitous strikes) of public utility workers that was blocking the street that he would normally  take when he dropped me off in front of the train station.  "Binario due," he repeated several times, pointing in the direction of the right track.  When I hopped on his bus the next morning he remembered me and wanted to know all about where I was from and what I was doing in his country.  

The mind-blowing bonus of public transportation is the power of knowing you've learned enough to finally get around by yourself and understand what people are saying, to live like a real Italian and not have to pay a driver or a teacher (or a husband) to hold your hand - and that, my Amici friends, is absolutely priceless.

Music and Language

by Michele Alonzo

There are a lot of similarities between learning how to play an instrument and how to speak a foreign language.

I learned how to play guitar by myself when I was a teen ager. At that time I had a lot of passion and willingness to improve, so every day I played more and more my favorite songs and music, sometimes by myself, sometimes with friends.

I developed more skills when one of my best friends, Umberto, decided to buy a guitar for himself and started to play too. We lived in the same building and I was basically his first guitar teacher. We started to play more and more together and in 1983 we enjoyed a wonderful trip together to Munich, Germany, where we basically paid most of our expenses by collecting tips when playing on Marienplatz. In the time frame of a few years, Umberto became a professional classical guitar master, while I dedicated my time to study for very demanding exams in college. So he became my teacher and I learned a lot from him.

 

My friend Umberto

 When I came to the United States, I left my guitar in Italy and, though I promised myself that one day I would play again, I never touched a string for two decades. So when my wife gave me an acoustic guitar as Christmas present last year, I thought it could well be a decorative object of the house, because it would take years for me to play a decent melody again.

I started to try a few simple tunes that I used to play in my 20’s, every day, every night. Amazingly enough, and against any expectation of mine, with a daily practice and some patience, after a few weeks and some sore fingers, I started to reproduce the same melodies I used to play over 20 years ago. After mastering the basic chords I had learned many years ago and working on proper positions, not only could I play the same music, but I could also play some music having more complicated tablatures, that I’d never tried in my life. I was amazed at what I could do and enjoyed my instrument more and more.

This proves that the brain is like a deep drawer where we store a lot of different things in our life, data that we are not even aware we possess anymore. The trick is to find the way to re-extract that knowledge and to keep it on the surface where you have easy access.

So, if practicing a language is like playing an instrument (or any other skill), I have to come to the following conclusions:

1. Learning a language when you are young is definitely an advantage because the brain memorizes the information and stores it in the long term memory. If you exercise on the instrument when you are a young adult, that knowledge will stick with you and you will play the same after many years when you use that same instrument.

2. If you learned the proper way, it is never too late to re-extract that data and use it right, even after two or three decades. It is there, even if you think it is gone. You just need to dig it out.

3. You must be patient when studying because at the beginning you are convinced that you will never be able to remember how to play that sequence of crazy positions on the fret board or how to properly use most of the 15 tenses to conjugate a regular verb.

4. You need to be consistent, because it takes time to reach a level where you don’t feel that people have to plug their ears when you play or speak.

5. Whatever level you are, you can get better. You can play a song better and better if you try each and every day, as you can pronounce and articulate a sentence better and faster if you use it consistently every day.

6. No matter how dedicated you are, there will always be a friend or neighbor who will play or speak better than you, because he or she has a better ear or because he or she has more time to study and practice. So don’t be frustrated, but listen to him or her and learn as much as you can, possibly playing or speaking with that person.

In conclusion, when students ask me what is the best way to learn Italian or to improve the knowledge of the language, I say: start studying now, be patient, be consistent, be confident, take your time, and don’t be disappointed if you don’t become fluent. It is important that even 20 years from now, you will be able to find your way again and to enjoy something you always liked.



First Words and Secret Codes

Genova, photo by Maryl Smith

My son was born in 1984 and the first word he learned from life in Cincinnati, Ohio was "owl."  Not the bird kind. The ATM.  In the mid-eighties, Central Trust (now PNC) created a marketing campaign to encourage customers to use a brand new technology with 24-hour access to their cash. They named their automatic teller machines the OWL and plastered locations all over town with their easily recognizable logo.  I didn't realize how often we were stopping by the money machine until one day my two year-old picked up on the obvious after I told him he couldn't have a toy truck in the window because we didn't have the money.  "OWL, Mommy, OWL," he said with a big smile, sure he'd solved all our problems.

Wow.  Usually parents are proud when kids learn something new all by themselves, but a quarter of a century after the fact, I'm still embarrassed about what came out of my babe's mouth and what it told me about who we were back then. 

I remember the first word I learned all by myself in Italian.

"Passione."

A few months after I started to date Michele, I enrolled at School Amici because his family didn't speak any English.  I was falling in love.  We talked about going home together.  Word got around quickly that I was the director's girlfriend and during the break other students would approach me about their "passione" for Italy.  "L'aria," they'd say with a dreamy look in their eyes .  "There's just something different about it."

I heard the word so often, "passione" naturally worked its way into homework assignments and dinner conversations, usually as a joke.  But I never interchanged the English word even if I was speaking English, because I could see in the speakers' eyes that the Italian version was a different beast, one that had nothing to do with sex and could not be directly translated no matter how much the two words sounded alike.

A couple years after we were married, I decided to spend two months in Siena working on my language skills at Dante Alighieri.  Different school.  Different country.  But there they were again, foreigners who looked a lot like me, usually middle-aged, almost always female, talking about their "passione."  Women from Germany.  Women from South Africa.  Women from Japan.  They'd flown half-way across the world to connect with a piece of their soul.

But my personal knowledge of the word remained purely intellectual. While I could use "passione" correctly in a sentence, it was something I'd never experienced about a place.  Italy was a pretty country, of course.  The food was tasty.  Lots of nice churches and old stuff.  "But I like lots of countries," I'd explain whenever this new group brought it up.  I was a cynic, secretly sure that these women were really just lonely and sad and depressed, desperately searching for a reason to feel.   "Passione must be the code word for a fling," is what I really thought, one last romance far from the tedious responsibilities of wherever they called home.

This year, ten years after I started to study the Italian language, I spent three weeks driving around the Riviera with my twenty-nine year-old daughter.  We had a blast.  One of the highlights happened on my last day when I overhead the desk clerk at the hotel explain to another member of the staff that the woman in Room 112 (me!) was American, but "lei parla italiano."

This time something had changed.  This time, I didn't want to get on the plane.  The morning after, when I put on a pot of coffee in my own kitchen, the same brand of coffee I always buy in Cincinnati, it tasted like sand.  I missed that faint, subtle scent in the early evening air that reminds you of nutmeg.   I went grocery shopping without make-up and when nobody sent the produce manager to the back in search of a more perfectly ripe melon, I was disappointed.  It was wrong, wrong, all wrong.

Three months later, it still is.  Italy apparently, with its great and infinite patience, has slowly whittled away at my defenses until I finally found my "passione."  It took me ten years, but I broke the code and now that's where I want to be, in a country where the first word you learn is about what you long for in your heart as opposed to efficient access to your cash..

Ultima Festa del Papa' (The Last Father's Day) di Michele Alonzo

Bilingual post (English version follows)

Raffaele e Michele

 Non ricordo quante “Feste del Papà” ho celebrato con mio padre. Da bambino non molte di certo. Non perchè non volessi bene a mio padre, ma perche’ in fondo i genitori si prendono sempre un po’ per scontato. Quando sei piccolo vedi tuo padre come una guida e sei troppo giovane per riconoscerne ed apprezzarne i sacrifici. Crescendo, a volte ti sembra di essere mentalmente tanto distante da lui. Ma da adulto maturo poi ti senti di nuovo vicino, perchè capisci molte cose che prima non potevi capire e ti accorgi inoltre che con i tuoi figli sei in fondo spesso simile a quel padre che ora non hai piu’, e di cui hai solo ricordi, ricordi di un passato più o meno lontano.

In Italia la Festa del Papà non si festeggia a giugno, ma il 19 marzo. Quest’anno quella festa in Italia è caduta esattamente tre mesi prima. E, per una strana coincidenza, la Festa del Papà qui negli USA e' coincisa con un mese esatto dalla scomparsa di mio padre: Raffaele (in famiglia chiamato Lello). Mi sono perciò venuti alla mente quei ricordi di un passato più o meno lontano: le Feste del Papà di tanti anni fa mi fanno ricordare la semplicita’ e la frugalita’ di mio padre.

Ogni volta che accennavo a comprargli qualcosa per quel giorno, lui rispondeva sempre nello stesso modo “Non spendere soldi; mi basta un dopo barba o una piccola bottiglia di colonia qualsiasi”. A lui in realta’ piaceva un tipo in particolare: si chiamava “Tabacco d”Harar” che da tempo non e’ piu’ in commercio. Gli piaceva l’aroma speziato di quel profumo e ne metteva poche goccie ogni tanto, per cui una bottiglia gli durava quasi un anno intero. Così per alcuni anni, seguendo il suo consiglio ed anche il suo desiderio, ho continuato a rimpiazzare quella semplice bottiglia di colonia che costava solo poche migliaia di vecchie lire dei risparmi personali. Lui era sempre contento perche’ non spendevo molto, ed io mi sentivo soddisfatto di avergli dato qualcosa che avrebbe usato con piacere ogni volta.

His Favorite Cologne

Il 19 marzo di quest’anno, come ogni anno, l’ho chiamato a telefono per fargli gli auguri; era qualche settimana prima che fosse ricoverato in ospedale per la sua grave malattia, che ultimamente lo aveva debilitato enormemente. Non gli ho dato regali questa volta, ma dopo gli auguri, gli ho detto di darsi coraggio, pensando in me stesso che quella era probabilmente la sua ultima “festa”. Piu’ che di regali, aveva bisogno di forza morale e parole di fiducia per una battaglia che aveva combattuto gia' a lungo. Fu una telefonata di pochi minuti, una breve conversazione, semplice ma significativa, come semplice e significativa era quella bottiglia di “Tabacco d”Harar” che lui aveva ricevuto per tanti anni. Purtroppo quella e’stata una delle ultime conversazioni di piacere avute con lui.

Quando due mesi dopo sono ritornato nella mia città natale per dargli l’ultimo saluto al suo funerale, volevo portare con me qualcosa che simbolicamente restasse con lui per sempre, anche dopo la morte.

Mio padre conservava tutto, ma non è mai stato un collezionista. Tuttavia negli ultimi anni aveva cominciato a raccogliere monete di tanti paesi al mondo e di ogni tipo: vecchie, nuove, piccole, grandi, in corso e fuori corso. Le metteva persino in cornici di legno costruite da lui stesso. Lo scorso Natale mi aveva dato alcune delle sue vecchie monete d’argento di 500 lire degli anni ’60, di quando io ero bambino. Le aveva pulite con cura, prima di arrotolarle nella carta. Così giusto un mese fa, poche ore prima di salire sull’aereo che mi avrebbe condotto a Napoli, ho messo nella mia valigia due grosse monete americane da 50 centesimi. Erano per lui. Èd è ciò che ho deposto nella sua bara il giorno del funerale. Due monete da 50 centesimi: semplici, modeste, ma significative, che lui avrebbe apprezzato proprio perche tali…. proprio come quella vecchia bottiglia di speziato “Tabacco d’Harar”.

500 lire Silver Coin

English version


I don’t remember how many Father’s Days I have celebrated with my father. As a kid, certainly not so many. Not because I did not care for my father, but because kids often take parents for granted. When you are a little kid, you see your father as a guide, and are too young to recognize and appreciate his sacrifices. Growing up, sometimes you feel mentally distant from him. But then, as a mature adult, you feel yourself close to him again, because you understand many things that before you couldn’t; and you also realize that after all, with your kids you are very similar to that father you don’t have anymore, of whom you only have memories, more or less distant in time.

In Italy Father’s Day is not celebrated in June, but on March 19. This year that day in Italy fell exactly three months earlier. And, just by coincidence, Father’s Day in the USA has marked exactly one month from my father’s death: Raffaele (called Lello in the family). So, today some memories from past Father’s Days came to mind, days that remind me about the simplicity and frugality of my father.

Every time I offered to buy something for him on that day, he answered the same way: “Do not spend too much money; an after shave or a simple bottle of cologne is enough.” He liked a particular brand called “Tabacco d’Harar.” (They don’t make it anymore.). He liked the spicy fragrance of that cologne and he used just a few drops from time to time, so a bottle would last him an entire year. So, for a few years, following his advice and desire, I have continued to replace that simple bottle of cologne, which cost only a few thousand lire from my personal savings. He was happy that I did not spend too much and I was satisfied to give something that he would like and use with pleasure

March 19 of this year, as every year, I called him on the phone to wish him happy Father’s Day. It was a few weeks before he would be admitted to the hospital for his disease, which lately had impaired him enormously. I did not give him a present this time, but after the greetings, I told him to be strong and to keep up, thinking to myself that it was probably the last Father’s Day for him. More than any present, he needed moral support and words of reassurance for a battle he had already fought for a long time. It was a short conversation, simple but meaningful, like that bottle of “Tabacco d’Harar.” Unfortunately that was one of my last meaningful conversations with my father.

At a Restaurant in Naples (Summer 2009)

Exactly two months later I returned to my hometown to say goodbye for the last time at his funeral. I wanted to take something that would stay with him forever, even after death.

My father used to save everything, but has never been a collector. However, in the past few years, he started collecting coins from many countries in the world; coins of any kind: old, new, small, big, in circulation and out of circulation. He even used to put them in wooden frames that he built himself. Last Christmas he gave me some silver 500 lire coins from the Sixties, when I was a little kid. He had carefully polished them to remove the oxidation before putting them in some paper. So, exactly a month ago, a few hours before getting on the plane to Naples, Italy, I put two big 50 cent American coins in my suitcase. They were for him. That’s what I placed in his casket the day of the funeral. Two 50 cent coins: simple, modest, but meaningful, which he would have appreciated just as such… just like that simple, inexpensive bottle of spicy “Tabacco d’Harar”.