The Oyster Chairs

Tags

images, nostalgia, Poetry

My grandmother’s living room was not large but warm and inviting. One entered either from the dining room, through the main entrance to the house, past the secretaire in the corner with the oil portrait of my mother wearing a red handkerchief hung above it or –much more commonly– through the kitchen with its warn and warm sand-toned linoleum floor and corner bar and sink placed just opposite the door to the basement where my brother would one day live and hide for a spell. This would become just one of a series of long and short spells.

No matter which way you came into the living room, you faced a rather intricately carved wooden hearth whose bookshelves framed the fireplace. In front of these book shelves where books like The Italians and Italian Idioms lived, flanking the fireplace, were two oyster chairs. I don’t remember if they were called oyster chairs or if only my grandmother called them oyster chairs or if I just dreamt about their being called oyster chairs one day and there they remained in my mind as oyster chairs.

She’d had them recovered in the 80s with a soft velour in varying tones of pale yellows. Their shell-like shape swiveled on an invisible mechanism, hidden by the fabric. The arms were covered with protective sleeves of the same fabric. The chair to the right was nestled between the black, baby grand piano to the back of the room and the right side of the fireplace. It tended to stay put, never teetering, carefully placed on the carpet and just in front of the small window leading out to the screened-in porch on the side of the house. The chair on the right got little use, for the view of the TV was blocked by its twin. It would be used most often on holidays and visiting Sundays for unwrapping presents and conversation.

The swiveling, soft yellow oyster chair on the left was also positioned carefully on the plush red carpet which covered all of the living room, entranceway, staircase and dining room. However, it often shifted ever-so-slightly so just a tiny bit of its intricate, invisible base went onto the slate floor in front of the fireplace, causing it to be off kilter and not only swivel but tip. Here my brother perched and hung and jumped and swiveled. Yet he was not a little boy. He was a big, strong, high school athlete who, bowl of ice cream in hand would take a running lead from the kitchen and land on the delicate oyster swivel chair with a thump. His legs splayed over the protective sleeve, he’d swivel it around, still holding his ice cream in one hand and reach for the remote control with the other. My grandmother would make a plea to “go easy on the furniture” but to no avail. Not because he didn’t adore his grandmother but because he didn’t equate the running down of things with the running down of people.

For years I watched the once identical, soft yellow swivel chairs become different from one another. One carefully preserved, well-positioned and poised, the other tattered, unbalanced, bruised, its slip covers worn and threadbare, its bones creaking.

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Nothing Happened

Tags

girl power, italy, Poetry, rome, storytelling, women power, women's rights, women's safety

Late afternoon sun warms the urban ladder.
Mediterranean promise lies behind its rays.
A light, sultry, dust-carrying desert wind lifts the grime of the inebriating city.
Time is running low to this experience of rebirth –
a Renaissance of her own – from midwest to mid-Med.
Learning hides behind every corner, life lessons coming fast and furious.
Lessons of world struggle, history’s shifting poles of power give pause.
Independence comes through the panes of a speeding train, the pains of growth spurts.
Significance creeps through everywhere, through every crack in the asphalt, in every sprayed tag.
Courage, faith, steadfastness arise, filling her core.
Everyday a new discovery, everyday a new blessing.
All this, she thinks, as she scampers down the metal framed staircase.

Observations skills keen, she sees his furtive backward glance.
She advances aware, her newly fortified armor up.
Rounding the bottom rung, he pounces.
Arms flail, breath caught, fragments of rumpled suit and razor stubble betray social ineptitude.
Escaping as quickly as he attacks, she runs back up the rickety metal staircase towards the masses.
Thank goodness, she repeats to herself and later to her caregivers, nothing happened.

Nothing happened.
Except that instead of falling into warm, fitless sleep each night, she replays the sound of those metal stairs in her head, her heart beating fast against the silent walls.
That happened.

Nothing happened.
Except she no longer walks anywhere unaccompanied, her newfound independence taken hostage in a fragment of a second. Her self-assuredness under siege.
That happened.

Nothing happened.
Except that her smile ever-so-slightly lost its brilliance.
Her glance ever-so-slightly suspects.
Her voice holds a veiled apology.
That happened.

Happy exploration of new pathways is now tantamount to a six-year-old walking down a shadowy hallway to a dark bedroom during a thunderstorm.
Venice’s romantic canals reflect threat.
Rome’s gelato has lost its creamy lustre.
Sleep lacks rest.
Study brings unwanted mental meanderings.
That happened.

From girl to woman in an instant
she discovers solidarity among women and women-loving men.
She will overcome and find power within.
Women are not playthings.
Women band together, find strength and come back stronger and more fierce.
This happens.

 

Preface to the exhibition: A Roman Experience, Reflections on Immigration, Isolation, Otherness

Tags

cross-cultural communication, immigration, italy, migration, rome, the other

“When I Left Home -home! what remnant of home there was to be called home- the smell of saffron and freshly ground flour still filled my pores.

With a rucksack of roots, an extra tunic, a pair of sandals and a head scarf, I set out.

Small figurines of animals known to me and carved in ebony line my left pocket. Prayer beads line my right one. I fidget with them as I walk. My shoes prepare to bear the unbearable in the coming days. 

The dust on my skin is familiar, the wind’s song, the noises from a distance all find a home in my brain’s facets of memory.

We walk – I meet others – we all walk in silence. We are the strong, the capable, the eager, the hopeful, the dreamers. We will make a difference and prevail. We will provide for our own.

I have never known what it is to be a minority, to be the one to speak a foreign tongue, the one with the outlandish dress, the one whose skin differs from most.

I have never pondered what air different from that I knew tasted like; what the wind on another continent felt like; never felt pangs of hunger for what’s known, what’s familiar, what’s friendly.”

 

“I have lived here my whole life and before me my parents and before them their parents, and so on and so forth. We have roots here. 

See that shop? That was once my uncle’s fruit and vegetable shop. Look at it now – a bunch of Sri Lankan immigrants there now. Just listen to that racket! They never stop laughing! 

Smell that? That’s my neighbor. I used to have a nice Sicilian family living next door. They weren’t the easiest to understand either but at least they ate at normal hours and cooked with normal ingredients! The grandfather passed away and his son up and took the family north – said it was getting to be unlivable here with all these foreigners moving in! He decided it was time to go somewhere where he could live and work unperturbed! I don’t know what he thinks they’ll find! It’s not like in the North they’re any better to the Sicilians than we are to the Africans. 

I much preferred Sicilians to this man from Pakistan or Kurdistan or Afghanistan one of those places over there! When he’s not praying, he’s cooking, it seems. And smell that! Have you ever?? It’s all those herbs and spices and vegetables they sell now at the market. All their stuff from all their countries. I have to walk twice as far to find a local vendor of local goods! This country is going to Hell in a hand basket, I’m telling you!!

What? Oh, yeah, that old line? Italians emigrated all over the world? We were the ones who they shut out of clubs, apartment buildings and restaurants? The ones the Want Ads excluded? ‘Italians Need Not Apply’. ‘No Italians Allowed’. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it over and over. It’s what those bleeding heart leftists go on and on about. Or the parishioners who come every year at Christmas and Easter to ask if we’d like to volunteer our time to serve hot meals at the train station to the likes of these guys over here. But I didn’t emigrate, did I? No. I’m right here, tried and true Italian. That wasn’t me on those long boats so why should I feel any empathy at all for these others invading my Rome? My people have been here for over five generations! Get them up and out, I say. Rome is for the Romans.”

 

“I’m trying to recite my prayers quietly to myself because I feel as though my neighbor gets angry every time he hears me praying.

Usually prayers calm people – whenever there is the call to prayer in my country people pause, even if only for a second, and acknowledge a higher power to our own. Here, church bells clang incessantly and yet, no one pauses. No one looks up or bows their head. And on and on they clang.

It is right to recognize our humility, our humanity. We must live in respect of others and of God. We must treat our brothers as we ourselves would like to be treated. But the man next door, as much as he has two arms and two legs, as I do, and two eyes and two ears, as I do, he does not appear to me as brother. As hard as I try to communicate with him, he ignores me or throws up his hands at me. Sometimes, when I hear he is coming out of his door, I open mine to smile at him and he turns the key and runs away down the stairs. It is hard to treat others humbly and with humanity when they refuse you. I try, I fail, I feel defeated. 

I miss the big sky and the earth tones from home. The bird’s song is different here – more aggressive and threatening, or am I imagining it? I spend my days from dawn until dusk on busses and metros and in line from one public office to another. They do not ask my name or where I am from as if they want to know me. They don’t. They want to shuffle me. They want to move me along and push me out. I don’t know where is next but I know it won’t be as frightening and solitary as here. My nights are spent in line at the train station. There Italian brothers and sisters with some foreigners who speak in English serve me hot meals. They do not know me and I do not know them. I try to smile, they’re looking down the line to the next to serve. We are shuffled again. The food is so different from what I know. I eat out of hunger, I hunger for what I know. My biggest fear is that that hunger will, eventually, turn my hope and my will to dust.”

 

“My neighbor is learning a little Italian. Seems the parishioners who bang on and on about the hot meal service also started teaching the poor souls Italian. At least now I can ask what it is he’s cooking all the time. He even brought me a taste. Rice with some saucy stuff on it. It wasn’t exactly a Sunday dinner but it didn’t taste half as bad as it smelled! 

Turns out he’s a doctor, too. Studied medicine but never got to practice it. It seems war broke out, he lost some family and the rest, I guess they say, is history. We’re not friends, mind you, but he’s a nice enough guy. Says his name is Sam. That’s easy enough. Says it’s short for something but I didn’t catch what. Seems he speaks English and German and he’s hoping to head north from here but, in the meantime, he’ll learn Italian and wants to know if I want to help him practice. Ah, what the hell? Who else do I have to talk to? If he wants to come over and watch the game every so often, why not?”

 

“Turns out my neighbor is my brother, after all. He speaks loudly and uses his whole body. Sometimes he hits me in the shoulder to get his point across. It’s a very odd thing but I notice other people do it, too. Sometimes I see two men walking and talking and then they stop. They stop in the middle of the sidewalk to finish their conversation or to make a point. If anyone is walking behind them, he simply has to go around them. It is funny to see how other people get on in the world.

I gave my neighbor-brother some rice the other day. I didn’t tell him but I do worry about all the pasta he eats. I don’t understand how an entire country can survive on wheat alone. If it’s not pasta, it’s pizza and if it’s neither, it’s bread. 

I have begun Italian conversation with him. I think tomorrow I will bring him pictures of home so we don’t have to talk about – and over – the TV!”

 

Separation Anxiety

Tags

italy, loss, love, rome, short fiction

Nora had not taken the call herself; surely there was some inane law against contacting an almost wife as opposed to an actual wife. Had she had the head to sit down and think about it, she’d go on and on about how the policy-driven institutions of this country were squelching its very vitality; ignoring the human side of any issue, erring on the side of caution, taking very important decisions based solely on the institution’s own risk as opposed to determining the best decision for the finest, most humane outcome. Nora and Peter could discuss things like this with the same wild animation one associates with mad Italians in a crowded neighborhood cafe’ the day after yet another government scandal or leading up to a big soccer match. Sometimes friends of friends would think they were arguing but they’d quickly be reassured that despite their very Nordic features, they were happily hot-blooded. Getting worked up was something they both relished, whether it was about getting more people to recycle in town or the importance of eating well, they discussed everything with passion.

Their passion in conversation was matched in the bedroom, beginning quietly and delicately, as one would envision the handling of raw silk upon its arrival to Venice, following months of heavy and dangerous travel on horseback. They would skillfully unwrap it, slowly, taking care not damage the precious contents inside. Then, ever-so-cautiously, they’d hold one fold and then another, examine it as if they’d never seen anything so exquisite, hold it up to the light, brush it against their skin and finally, when their eyes and touch had adjusted, unfurl it in all of its plush and luxurious glory. Always a different hue, each time a slightly different hand, each time the same slow and meticulous process of discovery. Just thinking of it turned her knees to water and she sank to the bottom of her cluttered closet, gripping the quilted bag they’d purchased just behind San Lorenzo on their last foray to Florence. She sat upon the mound of clothes he’d always insisted she sift through, giving away what was of no use to her and hanging the rest but she had never dreamed of giving away anything. There would always be another, exciting use for her clothes, each stitch of them. They would speak of her like photographs in a family album.

She struggled to regain control of her thoughts but instead just kept seeing his face propped up on one elbow above her, after having unfurled yet another bolt of raw silk. It must have been the third or fourth time that day (Why couldn’t she remember? She chastised herself, “third or fourth, which was it? How could you forget?”). He looked at her, eyes dancing from her mouth to her hair, to her bare skin and back to her glance, “they’re sending me to Syria. I leave tomorrow for New York and next week for Beirut. We’ll go in by ground.”

By his tone he might as well have said, “I’m going to get a glass of water. Can I get you anything?”. It took her a second to register the weight of his words. “They” was the UN agency for which he worked as a consultant; there’d been talk that they’d have to go in and file an assessment of the casualties for the new year statistics. She never would have thought it’d take place so soon. “they’re still fighting over there! What’s to assess? As soon as you turn in your report, it’ll be obsolete and there will be new numbers to tally. That’s if you get to file your report and don’t actually become part of it!”

With that, Nora got up, the feel and color of the silk they’d just ruffled already a distant memory. There was no use in pursuing this, she’d been there before and knew that all of the Peace and Conflict Resolution studies they’d both undertaken would lead to some missions she’d prefer not to think about. If she thought too hard about the UN, she’d soon be overwhelmed with that same negativity she had spent years shedding. All of her dreams about actually making a difference put together with all those who shared them, still could not stand up to the bureaucracy and cynicism of reality within those non-territorial walls.

No. Nora happily kept her expertise to her Mac in the comfort of their own home, with a cup of hot tea and one of her carefully selected playlists in the background. She’d write and lecture on Conflict Resolution but had no desire to go back to any seriously conflicted area of the world; frankly, she saw ample ground for her peaceful intervention in the gun-riddled, vitriolic landscape of their own country. And, besides, they were beginning a family; all of this sex used to be just for sheer gluttony but it now served a higher purpose which was affecting her in unexpected ways. It was still too early to tell if any of their attempts had been successful and yet she felt something in her had shifted: when had she ever cared if the placemats and napkins matched at the dinner table? When had she ever been afraid of anything or anyone? Now she did and she was.

She was afraid of car accidents and slipping on the ice and cried during holiday commercials. Once, not too long ago, they’d gone down to the Farmer’s Market on a Saturday. Weaving in and out of the stalls, going on and on with that characteristic verve about the season’s vegetables and what could be done with them, she’d temporarily lost sight of her Peter. Gone was her excitement over mixing that butternut squash with grated pecorino cheese, fresh pepper and nutmeg to stuff ravioli and serve with melted butter and sage. Panic set in; real panic, the kind that came complete with silent, streaming tears, feet stuck in concrete and low, short breaths. Rationally, Nora knew this was a most unhealthy and possibly pathological display of some sort of fear of abandonment or another such textbook condition but she could not think rationally and she could not find her Peter. In fewer than five minutes, he came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her so that his fists full of sage brushed her tear-streaked cheeks. She yelped a most unbecoming, needy and irrational yelp and hated herself for it Nora did not recognize this whiner, knew not where she’d come from nor who had let her take up residence in her otherwise sturdy self but yelp, nonetheless, she did. Eventually, her public yelping turned to a tiny whimper and, finally, she was capable of carting parcels to the wine and cheese stand, clumsily clinging to her Peter along the way. A couple of sniffles gave way to loud laughter, as he did his best to defuse the dramatic episode with some of his signature dry, comic relief.

She jolted atop her mound of clothes and looked up past the hangers and the long chain hanging from the power-saving lightbulb. Her thoughts ran wild: “that had been a premonition. Someone knew this was going to happen and had sent her a warning. Why hadn’t she realized it then? Why hadn’t she protested more before they sent him? Why the fuck did they call his parents, whom he hadn’t seen in nearly 18 months instead of her, his partner of 5 years, his friend and colleague for 10 years before that and the probable mother of his child? Oh, God. His child.” This pushed her forward in her resolve; she lifted herself up and began stuffing her quilted bag with favorite sweaters, socks, underwear, a few pairs of jeans and, before turning away from the closet, Peter’s wood-chopping sweater. The quilted bag puffed out unevenly and looked a bit like a poorly overstuffed sleeping bag. It would not suffice, sadly, and she went to look for another one.

She found a second bag purchased at that same stall, not the cylindrical, drawstring design of the first but rather an Italian knock-off of those flowered quilted bags she’d seen so much in Boston’s Logan airport and beyond, a favorite among the once preppy set of New England. Like most things Italian, however, this knock-off was better and more beautiful than the original it imitated. Peter had been afraid they might be stopped upon entering the US for carrying counterfeited merchandise. “But it’s not a counterfeit”, Nora held the bag up in front of him and reassured him, “look, this one is by “Vera Brotley”. They laughed heartily as they breezed through the customs area, deftly avoiding the cheese-sniffing beagle, and proceeded to the bus stop from which they headed north, towards darkness and home.

She began filling the second bag with her toiletries, her few medications and vitamins, her round brush, a blow dryer, some books. She fit her computer in its scuba diver’s case and slipped it in on top of her favorite boots and a pair of sneakers. She then grabbed all the chargers she might need: phone, i-pad, computer and looked around. That would suffice. For now.

On the phone, Peter’s father had suggested they meet at Dulles Airport as soon as she could get a flight. She had checked flights and found nothing until too late the following day. She decided she’d drive: what else could she do, sleep? Not likely. Not tonight. She’d called her friend and neighbor so that the house would be looked after. She simply said, “I have to go to D.C., it seems something has happened to Peter.” She had not yet told a soul that he was actually coming back in a body bag. Just the thought of uttering it aloud was enough to break her – for good, this time, not like the interminable five minutes at the Farmer’s Market.

Still, she smouldered that the powers that be had called Peter’s parents and not her. She dreaded the thought of celebrating his life with a bunch of people with whom he no longer associated, in a place foreign to her and forgotten by him. She was his life. This was their house. She was – she felt sure now – having their child.

She started the car, purse on the front seat, i-pad playing their “puttering-around-the-house-on-Saturdays” playlist. Her phone was set to silent, plugged into what once would have been a cigarette lighter and resting in what once would have been an ashtray. She drove-thru a Dunkin’ Donuts for a black coffee which she had the guy pour into her own mug. Peter and she, having both lived in Italy separately and then together for a long while, laughed at how American establishments had so successfully misconstrued the coffee culture of the Mediterranean and made it so inappropriately theirs. Whoever coined the terms “single” and “double” for espresso? Why does a latte have coffee in it? And don’t even get them started on mochaccinos, frappuccinos and the like. Of course, they told each other, they had to be careful around their friends, as their snickering could be taken for snobbery when it was anything but. They both firmly believed in the “when in Rome” concept when it came to coffee. When in Rome, or at home, they’d have Italian coffee. Anywhere else, they’d order it as the local Gods intended it to be. Reaching out to reclaim her mug, she impulsively ordered a dozen Munchkins: maple glazed, glazed chocolate and cinnamon. It had been more than 20 years since she’d had a Munchkin but just then she could think of nothing she wanted more.

Cup in its cup-holder, purse now on the floor- having been displaced by the Munchkins- Nora set out for Dulles Airport. 91 S. to 95 S. followed by a little variation of the 295-495-95 dance, easy enough. Coming up to Springfield, Vermont, Nora saw signs for 11 W. Her car exited. She drove-thru another Dunkin Donuts. This time she handed over her cup for a dark, hot chocolate and asked for 12 more Munchkins. Instead of climbing the on-ramp to 91S, Nora’s car –well, Peter and Nora’s, really– headed west. On her last, cold drop of dark, hot chocolate and licking her fingertip before pressing it to the Munchkin crumbs at the bottom of the box, Nora noticed signs for Buffalo and stayed the course on Interstate 90.

It was about then she realized she was headed to Alaska. They’d talked about it forever, watching Northern Exposure re-runs and marveling at the oxymoronic profound simplicity. In her google-mapping mania, she’d mapped it a thousand times. By her calculations, Peter’s plane would be getting into Dulles the following afternoon, EST. If she continued at this rate, she’d stay ahead of him at least until tomorrow night, PDT. If she never turned back, it would be as if he was still on mission and she’d hold the illusion of looking forward to their reunion. Only this would keep her blood pulsing through her veins, granting her warmth.  Only this – and, oddly, a regular supply of Munchkins – would keep her sane.

She would call her neighbor in the morning and tell her she’d be away longer than expected and ask her to have the village real estate agent come down and look at the place. If they could find someone to pack her private things up and store them, she’d rent it out to one of the professors over at the college. Nora would stay on long enough to thank her neighbor for understanding but hang up before she asked too many questions. Her phone continued to flash on and off silently as she drove steadily from dark towards dusk, listening to “puttering around the house on Saturdays”.

Seta

Tags

Seta poetry poesia

 

 

 

 

Il velo di seta

Svolazza, si piega morbida su se stesso

Svela, copre, svela

Seta

Scivola via e ritorna

Si tinge di allegria

tristezza

solitudine

sospiri

sensuale, si estende.

E via. Via ancora.

In My Square

Tags

Aperitivi, Men, Poetry, rome, Summer, Women

There is a man
in my square.
He saunters, he struts,
he stares.

Dressed in white with gold Ray Bans –
the 70s kind that make you cringe –
his steps are fueled by his attention binge.

I can see him sprawled out on his wedding bed
his mind and his body filled with heated dread
following his afternoon sleep brought on by pasta and wine
as he begins to rise, rubbing his creased, sweat-filled brow with scratchy white linen.

He smokes, a cigarette dangles from his loose lips.
His head darts, skimming the Foschi crowd at aperitivi time.
He salutes with a hand held close to his hip
Or waves slightly more animatedly with a wink of an eye.
But then, just then, he catches her eye
And off with a cinematic swoop come the gilded Ray-Bans,
His cigarette drops and is squished by his outdated, pointy-toed, summer lace-ups.

Buona sera, bella,
His eyes dancing up and down and up with a pinpointed scan,
How gorgeous we are tonight, he hums
And they scan once again.

And along comes his wife with the gorgeous green hair.
How stark the distinction between brainless and smart,
How completely ridiculous he seems playing his part.
And with grace and confidence she takes her leave
While he trails after, a tiny boy in an ill-fitting linen suit.

Blur

Tags

adolescence, adolescenza, bambini crescono, poesia, Poetry, raising children, trains, treni

È partita a bordo il frecciadipiombo-
un pisciatoio su rotaie-
in ritardo e stracolmo di faccie brutte
mia figlia che quasi non saluta
disperata nelle sue angoscie adolescenziali
mentre a destra e sinistra
sfrecciano i frecciarossa e argento lucidati
puntualmente mezzo vuoti
e io mi ritiro nel sottofondo
di una libreria di stazione
dove una volta
pochi attimi fa
un Harry Potter
una fata
una favola tutta neve e nuvola
spazzava via ogni lacrima.

Insonne

Tags

Poetry

Night swallows me,
my breath
my thoughts
my hope
my dreams.

Sleep beckons artificial,
begs pleads demands
smooth
dark
soft
strong.

Leaves

Tags

Poetry

Leaves once green, supple, taut, glistening
Wither, burn, sharpen, fragment.
Branches limp.
Seeds fall, fly to thin, shattering death.
Worlds collide. Planets clash.
Mouths courteous and ravenous betray.

Ok, ok, I’ll do it

Tags

italy, lifegate radio, Nuances, rome, Toiling in Rome

After, well, nearly thirty years in Italy, I have finally decided to take the advice of many and begin my own blog. I feel slightly like that other Julia in last summer’s big hit, “Julia and Julia”, sitting here in my Roman – not Brooklynese – sottotetto, listening to my favorite radio station (Lifegate – 90.9 in Rome and on line at http://www.lifegateradio.it/).
On this space, I will share some of those quintessentially Italian, Roman or some other regional moments which I witness in my very busy day-to-day. In doing so, I  hope to reveal some of what makes Italy so fascinating, so mysterious, so frustrating, so maddening, so chic, so apparently unruffled yet so animated and, at times, suffering.

The words “watch this space”have all of a sudden taken on all new meaning!

A prestissimo, allora….