Youth Culture: Ethnographic Approach
Diary of a Young Girl
Due dates:
1) Final copy of written part due Monday March 1st. The rest of the week will be for editing and combining the work to make sure it flows well.
2) Final presentation for each person due by the following weekend when the presentation will be combined and practiced. Saturday March 6th and Sunday 7th.
Paper
Introduction: “This is the story of a young American girl named Gabrielle Woods, age 20, who went to high school in America and is now attending University in Rome. She is currently in her first year, end of first quarter, in college.” (more description of her to follow including basic info about where she lives, what she looks like, her likes and dislikes, etc”
Story Line:
1. Giulia: education
Gabrielle awaits results from her college exams. When they are posted, hers are mysteriously not among the rest. She struggles to find out what the problem is and eventually succeeds in finding her scores. She did well on all but one and will have to retake it next quarter.
In the process, Gabrielle reveals facts, times, data about the Italian education system in general and more specific details on the University she is attending. She will also touch on the differences between male and female education/opportunities in Rome
2. Teo: social life
Gabrielle, unhappy with her test scores but pleased with newfound friends she’s met at the University, decides to spend her vacation in between quarters experience Italian social life. This includes bars, clubs, music venues, dinner parties, and conversations with her newfound Italian friends.
In the process, Gabrielle teaches us about social life for Italians and the differences between them and surrounding immigrants in the same locations. She will also discover the difference in how men and women are treated in social situations.
3. Tim: sports
Spring soccer tryouts! Gabrielle is pursuing her passion for soccer. This section follows her through her trying to find a team to play for, gathering opinions (mostly negative) from people she asks, trying out, and eventually making the team.
In the process, Gabrielle tells us about the sport system in Rome and the differences between males and females involved in sports.
4. Nick: youth opinion on politics/religion
Coming home from a dinner party with friends, Gabrielle stumbles upon an anti-Vatican, pro-(separation between church and state) riot of made up mainly of young people between the ages of 15-30 in campo di fiori. She talks to some of the youth protesting and learns about their opinions on the Vatican and on current politics in Rome. She will include statistics and conversations she had with them. Her story will take an interesting twist here that will not be unveiled by Nick until the final paper is written.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Writing Assigment #5: How the Other becomes Home
I saw the Other yesterday. She had brown hair and big, brown eyes. She looked straight at me. In fact, every time I looked at her, she was looking at me. I didn’t recognize her at first. She had a type of smile I’d never seen before. Her facial expressions always seemed to reflect similar feelings to my own –almost identical but not quite. She even frowned when I frowned, though again not quite the same way I imagined I was frowning. I talked to her but she didn’t care to listen. Instead, her lips moved while I was talking. How rude! I tried again. Her lips moved again. I got upset. I motioned to her, only to see her mimic me. I reached out to grab her, to knock some sense into her, to make her listen. She reached towards me at the same time. We almost touched but someone walked up behind her just as I heard my name called from behind. I turned around and left. I still see her once in a while, staring right at me. I think she’s trying to tell me something. I think she’s trying to show me we’re the same. I think she’s trying to show me, me.
The me I was spent most of her life living in Bellevue and dreaming of everywhere else. I dreamt of the sun in California, the big-city bustle of New York, the open spaces and country-side of Texas, the vibrant culture of Spain, the art of Italy, the religion of India, the language of Paris, the food of Mexico –everywhere but home. I was and I am a dreamer.
Just like I need a mirror to see my own face, so must I look outside myself in order to see inside, and so did I have to leave my home in order to find it. Cliché as it may sound, “finding myself” was one of my biggest motives for coming to Rome: my travels are journeys of “inploration” caused by exploration. However, the recent discovery of “home” was wholly unexpected. Until now, I never really felt connected to a particular place.
In order to discover home, I had to leave it.
When my dreams of traveling became a reality, I visited the places I so yearned to see. Neither dreams nor words could explain the beautiful things I saw –beautiful in all senses of the word both external and internal. However, although I loved them initially, I soon discovered the best place of all was home. The more I saw, the more I missed my home. Things I once regarded as flaws became things I yearned for most. They are among the things I yearn for most.
I miss the way people venerate the sun on the rare autumn days it chooses to shine. I miss the endless open lakes and tall snowy mountains.
I miss the sunny month of August and the rainy month of March.
I even miss the craziness of Seattle –the horrid drivers and confusing streets.
In order to fall in love with home, I had to leave it.
When did Rome become my home?! After having been in Rome four weeks, I dreamt once again of other places. I looked forward to the shops and food in Florence and the romanticism of Venice. They became my greener grass. I looked forward to our class trip to Florence like I look forward to dinnertime after two hours of talking about Panini in Italian class. And when the time finally came, I stepped off the train smiling excitedly, prepared to feast on the city. I hoped that Florence would offer all that Rome did not.
At first, it did. If Rome is beautiful, Firenze is resplendent. The people seemed younger, vibrant. The river was endless and sparkly. I could walk everywhere and I could read the names of streets! I hardly ever got lost. People were friendlier, it seemed. Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by gold and leather and water and light reflecting off gold and leather and water and light. But I was only looking for the good.
Within a couple days of being gone, I realized Florence is small and filled with tourists. I became annoyed with the gold and leather and water and light. I was angry with the pushy vendors that I could not escape no matter how hard I tried. I disliked the way stores and restaurants and clubs catered to International (ie. American) students. I disliked the Disneyland of ridiculously overpriced everything. I was even unhappy with the fact that I had learned my way around the town so well that I could no longer get lost. I predicted that a longer stay would eventually leave me little to explore. I missed my Rome. I missed even those things I once regarded as flaws.
In order to discover home, I had to leave it.
I missed my Campo, the contemporary concert it put on everyday, and the way it kept me awake at night.
I missed the mixture of colors of oranges, apples, tomatoes, lettuce, meat outside my window and the temptation it provided.
The taste and the feel of fresh produce. The awkwardness at buying from a new vendor from the first time.
The different rione. Getting lost in them. Getting lost with them.
Trying to find the shortest path to the Pantheon and getting lost every single time.
Trattoria Moderna. Gioletto
The sunlight –the warmth.
Speaking Italian and having people respond in Italian. Being laughed at for my mistakes.
Adventure. Adventure in the rain.
Feeling comfortable. Feeling uncomfortable.
The joy of finally getting where I wanted to go after the anger at taking so long.
In order to fall in love with home, I had to leave it.
Is this unfair to Florence? Why do I feel this bias for Rome? Both Rome and Florence are filled with tourists flocking to see the historical sites and precious ruins. In both, I’ve been so angered by this blockade to my Italian experience that I almost wished the ruins did not exist, or at least that only our class knew of them.
Soon though, I fell in love even with those things I once considered flaws. Going to Prato, I learned the value of the ruins. Prato was…gray. The inhabitants were indifferent. When I think of Prato, I think of industrialization, tall buildings, and boredom. Prato lacks all the beauty of the ruins of Rome and Florence. So Prato taught me to love even those things I so dis-loved before. When I went to Prato, I discovered I had a bias for Florence as well. I wonder where I would have to go to learn to love Prato?
Venice. The labyrinth that Is Venice is an incredibly quaint, confusing city with boats but no cars, street music but no nightclubs, Italian food but no Romanian restaurants, grocery stores but no refrigerators. At least for me, this is what Venice means. In reality, these things that I feel Venice lacks are not in fact things Venice lacks. In fact, no city lacks refrigerators! It is only my accessibility to them that these cities that are not my home, lack.
Venice did not make me miss Prato, but it did teach me what "home" means to me. It was in Venice that I discovered what a home is. Having missed Seattle when I was in Rome, Rome when I was Florence, and Florence while I was in Prato, I was very eager to see what would happen in Venice. I missed home.
In order to discover what home is, I had to discover what home "isn't."
Home is not a city.
A city is people. People are language, actions, mannerisms, habits, facial expressions. Romans speak Italian and English. They walk with intention –except on weekends when they strut fashionably up and down the streets, in and out of cafés. Men shake hands and women kiss cheek to cheek. Everyone gestures. They drink café every day, and eat Panini and kebabs. They smile sometimes (when I make mistakes speaking Italian) and they frown sometimes (when I go places I’m not supposed to go). Rome is Italians, Romanians, Chinese, Africans, Bulgarians, Americans, and more.
A city is landscape. Rome is ancient, artsy, and expensive. Rome is beautiful. It is lit up at night by candles, and lights, and beautiful monuments. It is lit in the day by the sunshine. Rome is open spaces and crowded streets. Rome has few trees and parks, but a beautiful Tiber river –at least it is beautiful in the night when the color of it can’t be seen. Rome is busy streets, fast drivers, inconsiderate pedestrians, and strange parking jobs.
A city is climate. Rome is sunny, but cold. I’ve heard it is almost unbearably hot in the summer. I do not know that Rome.
A city is Art. Rome is Art.
A city is food. Rome is gelato, pizza, spaghetti. Four euro kebabs from the Indian man who has lived her five years. Red Sicilian oranges from the Roman man at the Vittorio Market. Pizza from the man from Senegal. Rome is cheap wine and red champagne. It is Trattoria Moderna, Giolitti, and Magnolia.
A city is not a home. Material things do not create a home. The existence of these things in Rome is not why I can now call Rome, home. In order to discover home, I had to first leave, and then return.
A home is somewhere you can find without a map. A place becomes home when you can find our way to it, to the homes of friends around it, to your favorite restaurants and nightclubs, to the best grocery store around the corner, and to your special, secret place. It takes time for a place to become home. It takes trial and error to find delicious places to eat. For me, it takes lots of trial and error to learn how to get to the places I love to go.
Home is an experience. It is an ease, a comfortability, a feeling of fit. Home is a place where you feel as though you play a part in the drama that unfolds. Home is also a place where you no longer feel as though you are the Other; a place where you have become one with the Other. Rome is no longer the Other for me. Neither is the Other I saw yesterday. I've seen her so much now that I've become accustomed to her. Time made me accustomed to her. I’ve learned her mannerisms, her face. I feel as though I know her now. She doesn’t seem strange anymore. In fact, I think I quite like her.
Time makes the Other, home.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Questions for Caritas
Are there any particular immigrant groups that seem to struggle the most in Italy? Why do you think this is?
We keep hearing that Italy is one of the biggest emigrant countries of all... why did so many Italians leave in the past?
Do you see any solutions to the immigration problems in Italy? Is Italy on the right track to fixing the problems?
What is the best way to overcome racism problems in Italy?
Why did you choose to work here? What are your views on immigration?
We keep hearing that Italy is one of the biggest emigrant countries of all... why did so many Italians leave in the past?
Do you see any solutions to the immigration problems in Italy? Is Italy on the right track to fixing the problems?
What is the best way to overcome racism problems in Italy?
Why did you choose to work here? What are your views on immigration?
Writing Assigment #4
"Make it thy business to know thyself, which is the most difficult lesson in the world." ~ Miquel de Cervantes
I saw the Other yesterday. She had brown hair and big, brown eyes. She looked straight at me. In fact, every time I looked at her, she was looking at me. I didn’t recognize her at first. She had a type of smile I’d never seen before. Her facial expressions always seemed to almost reflect my own feelings and thoughts –but not quite. She even frowned when I frowned, though again not quite the same way I imagined I was frowning. I talked to her but she didn’t care to listen. Instead, her lips moved while I was talking. How rude! I tried again. Her lips moved again. I got upset. I motioned to her, only to see her mimic me. I reached out to grab her, to knock some sense into her, to make her listen. She reached towards me at the same time. We almost touched but someone walked up behind her just as I heard my name called from behind. I turned around and left. I still see her once in a while, staring right at me. I think she’s trying to tell me something. I think she’s trying to show me we’re the same. I think she’s trying to show me, me. Perhaps grass is still grass no matter what side of the fence it’s on.
“The grass is always greener on the other side”
I have spent most of my life living in Bellevue and dreaming of everywhere else. I dreamt of the sun in California, the big-city bustle of New York, the open spaces and country-side of Texas, the vibrant culture of Spain, the food of Italy, the religion of India, the language of Paris –everywhere but home.
Be careful what you wish for. Eventually, my dreams became reality. I visited the places I yearned to see, only to find the best place of all was home. The longer I stayed away, the more I started to miss Bellevue. Things I once regarded as flaws became what I yearned for most. I missed the way people venerated the sun on the rare autumn days it chose to shine. I missed the open lakes and tall snowy mountains. I missed the sunny month of August and the rainy month of March. I even missed Seattle –a city filled with crazy drivers and confusing streets. Most of all, I missed the friendly people and the ease with which I discovered eternal friendships. To fall in love with Washington, I had to leave.
Unfortunately, the human mind forgets as much as it remembers.
How many times must I learn that grass is grass no matter where you are?
I made the same mistake again. After having been in Rome four weeks, Florence became my greener grass. I looked forward to it like I look forward to dinnertime after two hours of talking about Panini in Italian class. When the time came, I stepped off the train in Florence smiling excitedly, prepared to feast on the city. I hoped that Florence would offer all that Rome did not.
At first, it did. If Rome is beautiful, then Firenze is resplendent. The people seemed younger, vibrant. The river was endless and sparkly. I could walk everywhere and I could read the names of streets! I hardly ever got lost. People were friendlier, it seemed. Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by gold and leather and water and light reflecting off gold and leather and water. But I was only looking for the good.
Within a couple days of being gone, I realized Florence is small and filled with tourists. I became annoyed with the gold and leather and water –with the pushy vendors that I could not escape no matter how hard I tried. I disliked the way stores and restaurants and clubs catered to International (ie. American) students. I disliked the Disneyland of ridiculously overpriced everything. I was even unhappy with the fact that I had learned my way around the town so well that I could no longer get lost. I predicted that a longer stay would eventually leave me little to explore. I missed my Rome.
I missed my Campo and the contemporary concert it put on everyday.
I missed the mixture of colors of oranges, apples, tomatoes, lettuce, meat outside my window.
The taste of fresh produce.
The different rione. Getting lost in them. Getting lost with them.
Trying to find the shortest path to the Pantheon and getting lost every single time.
Trattoria Moderna. Gioletto
The sunlight –the warmth.
Speaking Italian and having people respond in Italian. Being laughed at for my mistakes.
Adventure.
Feeling uncomfortable.
The joy of finally getting where I wanted to go.
But Rome has flaws as well. Both Rome and Florence are filled with tourists flocking to see the historical sites and precious ruins. At times, I’ve been so angered by this blockade to my Italian experience that I almost wished those ruins did not exist, or at least that only our class knew of them. However, going to Prato, I learned the value of the ruins. Prato was…gray. The inhabitants were indifferent. When I think of Prato, I think of industrialization, tall buildings, and boredom. Prato lacks all the beauty of the ruins of Rome and Florence. So Prato taught me to love even those things I so disloved before. I wonder where I would have to go to learn to love Prato?
So now I wonder –what is a city?
A city is people. People are language, actions, mannerisms, habits, facial expressions. Romans speak Italian and English. They walk with intention –except on weekends when they strut fashionably up and down the streets, in and out of cafés. Men shake hands and women kiss cheek to cheek. Everyone gestures. They drink café every day, and eat Panini and kebabs. They smile sometimes (when I make mistakes speaking Italian) and they frown sometimes (when I go places I’m not supposed to go). Rome is Italians, Romanians, Chinese, Africans, Bulgarians, Americans, and more.
A city is landscape. Rome is ancient, artsy, and expensive. Rome is beautiful. It is lit up at night by candles, and lights, and beautiful monuments. It is lit in the day by the sunshine. Rome is open spaces and crowded streets. Rome has few trees and parks, but a beautiful Tiber river –at least it is beautiful in the night when the color of it can’t be seen. Rome is busy streets, fast drivers, inconsiderate pedestrians, and strange parking jobs.
A city is climate. Rome is sunny, but cold. I’ve heard it is almost unbearably hot in the summer. I do not know that Rome.
A city is Art. Rome is Art.
A city is food. Rome is gelato, pizza, spaghetti. Four euro kebabs from the Indian man who has lived her five years. Red Sicilian oranges from the Roman man at the Vittorio Market. Pizza from the man from Senegal. Rome is cheap wine and red champagne. It is Trattoria Moderna, Giolitti, and Magnolia.
A city is not grass.
I saw the Other yesterday. She had brown hair and big, brown eyes. She looked straight at me. In fact, every time I looked at her, she was looking at me. I didn’t recognize her at first. She had a type of smile I’d never seen before. Her facial expressions always seemed to almost reflect my own feelings and thoughts –but not quite. She even frowned when I frowned, though again not quite the same way I imagined I was frowning. I talked to her but she didn’t care to listen. Instead, her lips moved while I was talking. How rude! I tried again. Her lips moved again. I got upset. I motioned to her, only to see her mimic me. I reached out to grab her, to knock some sense into her, to make her listen. She reached towards me at the same time. We almost touched but someone walked up behind her just as I heard my name called from behind. I turned around and left. I still see her once in a while, staring right at me. I think she’s trying to tell me something. I think she’s trying to show me we’re the same. I think she’s trying to show me, me. Perhaps grass is still grass no matter what side of the fence it’s on.
“The grass is always greener on the other side”
I have spent most of my life living in Bellevue and dreaming of everywhere else. I dreamt of the sun in California, the big-city bustle of New York, the open spaces and country-side of Texas, the vibrant culture of Spain, the food of Italy, the religion of India, the language of Paris –everywhere but home.
Be careful what you wish for. Eventually, my dreams became reality. I visited the places I yearned to see, only to find the best place of all was home. The longer I stayed away, the more I started to miss Bellevue. Things I once regarded as flaws became what I yearned for most. I missed the way people venerated the sun on the rare autumn days it chose to shine. I missed the open lakes and tall snowy mountains. I missed the sunny month of August and the rainy month of March. I even missed Seattle –a city filled with crazy drivers and confusing streets. Most of all, I missed the friendly people and the ease with which I discovered eternal friendships. To fall in love with Washington, I had to leave.
Unfortunately, the human mind forgets as much as it remembers.
How many times must I learn that grass is grass no matter where you are?
I made the same mistake again. After having been in Rome four weeks, Florence became my greener grass. I looked forward to it like I look forward to dinnertime after two hours of talking about Panini in Italian class. When the time came, I stepped off the train in Florence smiling excitedly, prepared to feast on the city. I hoped that Florence would offer all that Rome did not.
At first, it did. If Rome is beautiful, then Firenze is resplendent. The people seemed younger, vibrant. The river was endless and sparkly. I could walk everywhere and I could read the names of streets! I hardly ever got lost. People were friendlier, it seemed. Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by gold and leather and water and light reflecting off gold and leather and water. But I was only looking for the good.
Within a couple days of being gone, I realized Florence is small and filled with tourists. I became annoyed with the gold and leather and water –with the pushy vendors that I could not escape no matter how hard I tried. I disliked the way stores and restaurants and clubs catered to International (ie. American) students. I disliked the Disneyland of ridiculously overpriced everything. I was even unhappy with the fact that I had learned my way around the town so well that I could no longer get lost. I predicted that a longer stay would eventually leave me little to explore. I missed my Rome.
I missed my Campo and the contemporary concert it put on everyday.
I missed the mixture of colors of oranges, apples, tomatoes, lettuce, meat outside my window.
The taste of fresh produce.
The different rione. Getting lost in them. Getting lost with them.
Trying to find the shortest path to the Pantheon and getting lost every single time.
Trattoria Moderna. Gioletto
The sunlight –the warmth.
Speaking Italian and having people respond in Italian. Being laughed at for my mistakes.
Adventure.
Feeling uncomfortable.
The joy of finally getting where I wanted to go.
But Rome has flaws as well. Both Rome and Florence are filled with tourists flocking to see the historical sites and precious ruins. At times, I’ve been so angered by this blockade to my Italian experience that I almost wished those ruins did not exist, or at least that only our class knew of them. However, going to Prato, I learned the value of the ruins. Prato was…gray. The inhabitants were indifferent. When I think of Prato, I think of industrialization, tall buildings, and boredom. Prato lacks all the beauty of the ruins of Rome and Florence. So Prato taught me to love even those things I so disloved before. I wonder where I would have to go to learn to love Prato?
So now I wonder –what is a city?
A city is people. People are language, actions, mannerisms, habits, facial expressions. Romans speak Italian and English. They walk with intention –except on weekends when they strut fashionably up and down the streets, in and out of cafés. Men shake hands and women kiss cheek to cheek. Everyone gestures. They drink café every day, and eat Panini and kebabs. They smile sometimes (when I make mistakes speaking Italian) and they frown sometimes (when I go places I’m not supposed to go). Rome is Italians, Romanians, Chinese, Africans, Bulgarians, Americans, and more.
A city is landscape. Rome is ancient, artsy, and expensive. Rome is beautiful. It is lit up at night by candles, and lights, and beautiful monuments. It is lit in the day by the sunshine. Rome is open spaces and crowded streets. Rome has few trees and parks, but a beautiful Tiber river –at least it is beautiful in the night when the color of it can’t be seen. Rome is busy streets, fast drivers, inconsiderate pedestrians, and strange parking jobs.
A city is climate. Rome is sunny, but cold. I’ve heard it is almost unbearably hot in the summer. I do not know that Rome.
A city is Art. Rome is Art.
A city is food. Rome is gelato, pizza, spaghetti. Four euro kebabs from the Indian man who has lived her five years. Red Sicilian oranges from the Roman man at the Vittorio Market. Pizza from the man from Senegal. Rome is cheap wine and red champagne. It is Trattoria Moderna, Giolitti, and Magnolia.
A city is not grass.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Questions for Amara Lakhous
Questions/Discussion
1. Are any of these stories based on true events? Did Amedeo really exist? What happened to him?
2. Who is your favorite character and why?
3. What do you believe it means to “be” Italian? To “be” any nationality?
4. Do you think the racism problems in Italy are getting better or worse?
Main question I have: At one point in the book, it says that Amedeo is not crying in sadness but rather in happiness. Is this true? Was he being sarcastic or ironic? Was Amedeo somebody we should feel sorry for or was the happiest character in the book?
1. Are any of these stories based on true events? Did Amedeo really exist? What happened to him?
2. Who is your favorite character and why?
3. What do you believe it means to “be” Italian? To “be” any nationality?
4. Do you think the racism problems in Italy are getting better or worse?
Main question I have: At one point in the book, it says that Amedeo is not crying in sadness but rather in happiness. Is this true? Was he being sarcastic or ironic? Was Amedeo somebody we should feel sorry for or was the happiest character in the book?
Writing Assignment #3: Market Places
Market places are the foundations of society. Marketplace is synonymous with survival. It's a place where people sell the things we need to survive in order to be able to buy the things they need in turn.
A market place.
A place where smells and sights and sounds come together and intertwine.
A place where cultures clash.
A place where things like merit, value, and worth trump qualities like skin color, intelligence, and social class.
Loud. Colorful. Musical. Chaotic. Messy. And very organized.
The Esquilino Market was like disneyland for us hungry, eager Americans. It was a place where we could stare in awe at produce we've never seen before and imagine all the dishes they could combine to create. It was a place filled with beautiful and incomprehensible languages. And it was a place that welcomed us.
At a marketplace, the only thing required to find acceptance is the ability to consume. At a marketplace, the consumer is not only accepted, but he is sought after.
As soon as we walked in, the vendors waived us to them and showed us foods so bright and beautiful that our mouths began to water. All kinds of food. There were Indian vendors, Chinese vendors, Italian, Romanian, and unrecognizable vendors. I met a young man from Bangladesh, a couple from Rome, and three men and one woman from Romania.
A market place.
A place where smells and sights and sounds come together and intertwine.
A place where cultures clash.
A place where things like merit, value, and worth trump qualities like skin color, intelligence, and social class.
Loud. Colorful. Musical. Chaotic. Messy. And very organized.
The Esquilino Market was like disneyland for us hungry, eager Americans. It was a place where we could stare in awe at produce we've never seen before and imagine all the dishes they could combine to create. It was a place filled with beautiful and incomprehensible languages. And it was a place that welcomed us.
At a marketplace, the only thing required to find acceptance is the ability to consume. At a marketplace, the consumer is not only accepted, but he is sought after.
As soon as we walked in, the vendors waived us to them and showed us foods so bright and beautiful that our mouths began to water. All kinds of food. There were Indian vendors, Chinese vendors, Italian, Romanian, and unrecognizable vendors. I met a young man from Bangladesh, a couple from Rome, and three men and one woman from Romania.
Here are their stories:
The cheerful man from Bangladesh:
A man with beautiful red tomatoes smiled at me and said buon giorno. All the vendors say buon giorno, but not like him. He didn't follow up with a gesture towards his produce, nor with an attempt at a seductive nod. He just smiled. Pleasantly surprised, I said buon giorno back in my confused romanian/american accent. He smiled a little more at my attempt. He asked "Di dove sei?" ...where are you from? And thus began our conversation. I found out he is from Bangladesh and has been living in Rome for six years. He likes it but he misses home. He is twenty three years old. He is alone.
We didn't talk about much...there wasn't much to say. I didn't even get his name. But he took the time to talk to me and let me practice my Italian. In turn, I talked to him and asked about his home. It was one of the best conversations I've ever had in my entire life. I will probably never see him again. But I hope I never forget him. Our conversation was insignifcantly significant. The simple ability to communicate was an incredibly satisfying feeling.
There is something innately refreshing in talking to a stranger and finding out his story. It reminds us we are all connected in some way. It reminds us to live in the moment. It reminds us to be happy and thankful for what we have. And yet, it happens so rare.
The Roman Couple:
From across the market, I spotted these gorgeous, exotic-looking red oranges. I love oranges. I love grapefruit. The red orange is a cross between an orange and a grapefruit. The sign had something "Sicilian" written on it. Sicilia has been following me on this trip. Ever since I met the young Sicilian boy and heard his legend of the Mafia, Sicilia turns up wherever I go. I hope to visit some day. Perhaps they'll have these beautiful red oranges everywhere in Sicilia!
I had to taste one. I went up to a middle-aged jolly man to ask him for an orange. I did my best to speak Italian; "vorrai una aranciata per favore." I thought he would be angry that I only wanted one... but he wasn't. Instead, he laughed and corrected my grammar, "un arancio," or something like that. I asked again the correct way and he gave me an orange for 13 cents. I peeled it right away and tasted it. He and his wife laughed at my eagerness. I shared the news of the amazing oranges with everyone around me and they all ended up buying some. The couple was nice, grateful, and patient with us all. They told us they are native Romans. However, they were so eager to learn about us that they found out infinitely more about me than I did about them. Before I left, they made me promise to come back, gave me three oranges, and allowed me to take a picture. I've been dreaming about those red oranges ever since. I will remember the Roman couple and their kindness whenever I eat a red orange from now on.
The Romanians:
If I'd happened to run into Romanians a week prior, I would have been ecstatic. I wanted badly to find somebody I could talk to and connect with, and to find my place in this city . I would have jumped at the opportunity to meet Romanian speaking Italians! As it stood, I had finally started to find my place in Rome without them. I learned a little more of the language and the culture. I no longer felt quite as alone or out of place. Still, I was very excited and curious when I discovered Romanian vendors in the market. Their signs were written in Romanian: one banner read 'Romanian Bread' and the other advertised all kind of meat. It would be nice to know what I was buying, but I refused to purchase food from them and take the easy way out. Instead, I stood back and listened to them speak for a while. Eventually, I said hello in Italian and asked about their lives. I would have tried to speak Italian the entire time if one of them hadn't asked me if I spoke Romanian. Reluctantly, I switched languages.
If I'd happened to run into Romanians a week prior, I would have been ecstatic. I wanted badly to find somebody I could talk to and connect with, and to find my place in this city . I would have jumped at the opportunity to meet Romanian speaking Italians! As it stood, I had finally started to find my place in Rome without them. I learned a little more of the language and the culture. I no longer felt quite as alone or out of place. Still, I was very excited and curious when I discovered Romanian vendors in the market. Their signs were written in Romanian: one banner read 'Romanian Bread' and the other advertised all kind of meat. It would be nice to know what I was buying, but I refused to purchase food from them and take the easy way out. Instead, I stood back and listened to them speak for a while. Eventually, I said hello in Italian and asked about their lives. I would have tried to speak Italian the entire time if one of them hadn't asked me if I spoke Romanian. Reluctantly, I switched languages.
I told them I was a student from the USA studying immigration and social issues. I asked about their lives in Italy and how they feel about the immigration problem. They answered in jest, like most Romanians do, saying "what immigration problems?" I laughed and tried again. I asked them about racism and how it is in Rome compared to other places. One winked at me and answered, "my dear, to answer that question, one must have first been other places." It was a joke but it is very true. He was reminding me not to stereotype and make uninformed judgements. He may have been hinting that my question was innapropriate and too bold. He was also avoiding the question.
I was getting annoyed at this vagueness. But I got little more out of them. It was so strange that what I thought would be the answer to my problems, turned out to be no help at all. I was sure that if I could just find someone able to talk to me, that they would be willing to do so. I thought I could find out something meaningful and deep if I could just communicate well. But the conversation I had with the Romanians (the largest migrant population in Italy by far) about immigration was definitely the least stimulating and most unsatisfying conversation I've had in Rome thus far. It's interesting how sometimes those with the most to say, who are able to communicate the best, can be the most unwilling to speak. The only thing they said was that "Italians have always been racist." That statement, vague and without any kind of proof, is not even worth discussing. Disappointed, I walked away.
On my way out of the market, the Roman couple waived goodbye. I waived also. The man from Bangladesh smiled and waived goodbye. I smiled and waived to him as well. He had such an infectious smile. I left the market beaming, filled with confidence and hope, and with a desire to meet as many people as I can and learn their stories.
Until next time,
Ciao!
Journal Writing: Jewish Ghetto
The Colosseum of Life
No matter how hard we try, we cannot escape suffering. Whether you are a spectator watching or a slave fighting in the colosseum of life, you still play your part. However, it is your choice how you let this affect you. Some learn nothing, others become the better for it, and still some (hopefully few) become worse. From what I’ve noticed, Jewish people have definitely become the better for it. There is some kind of noticeable, electric bond between them. They stick together and they help each other. They create Jewish communities and they grow up together. I’ve never met a Jew who wasn’t excited to meet another Jew. It’s an incredible and enviable phenomenon. I wonder, could this bond have been created without the terrible suffering their ancestors endured?
I believe the strongest human bonds are the ones that come from joint suffering. Humans that have suffered together tend to connect in ways that others simply cannot. To feel terrible pain and know that you are not alone in feeling it is comforting and moving. I’ve always noticed that oppressed peoples tend to preserve their culture and relationships in ways others do not. Perhaps it is because they experienced terrible ordeals and not in spite of them. Negative events always have greater impacts than positive ones.
Today, we took a tour of the Jewish Ghetto. We were told about the forming of the Ghetto and the horrid conditions inside it. We were shown pictures of how it once looked. One picture in particular stuck with me. It was taken in the 16th century and was a picture of the same place I was staring at in that moment. But it looked completely different. It looked dirty and unsanitary. The walls were broken and crumbling –one particular wall to my right looked as if it had a bite taken out of it. There was cluttered hubris everywhere. It did not look livable. Having been told about the market that was once located in the Ghetto, I could almost smell the rotting fish in the street and hear the yellers of merchants. I could imagine the crowds of Jews walking in and out of their homes, up and down many flights of stairs since the only way they could expand their homes was up. Then, I tore my eyes away from the picture and turned to look at the Jewish woman who was giving us the tour. She was telling us these stories without asking us for pity or even understanding. She was telling us because she knew it. And thus, she seemed to become a part of the history. She became another piece in the puzzle of Judaism. I saw it in the way she spoke of the history and the religion, calling it “my” history and “my” religion. She prided herself on knowing about her past. It was as if she had been there to experience it herself. She owned it. You could see it in the way that she walked –the way that she seemed to know every corner and every brick of the Jewish Ghetto. It was in the look she got in her eyes when she spoke of Israel and the holy land. At the risk of sounding too judgmental, it was even in her physical appearance –her height, her clothing, her beautiful, messy, red hair, the curve of her nose, her accent, her teeth, and her mannerisms. To me, she was the most interesting part of that tour. Because in a way, she is the Jewish Ghetto.
Humans are so strange. The same two people who love each other one day can become mortal enemies the next. Not even family is sacred, as is evidenced in Roman history. How can an entire empire pride itself on having a creation myth that involves a man killing his brother because he is power-hungry and incapable of compromise? The story of Romulus and Remus should be something Romans are embarrassed about and not something that is proudly displayed all over the city. What about the colosseum? Just like Jews remember the holocaust when they remember Jewish history, so too Romans remember the colosseum when they think of Roman history –both are symbols of human suffering and pain. The colosseum is probably the most well-known and admired monument in all of Italy and yet it was an arena for killing –where slaves, men, women, cripples, and animals were forced to kill each other for the entertainment of others. It was disgusting, brutal, and shameful. Yet people love to hear about it. Books, songs, art, and movies have been made to recreate the horrid events that took place within its walls. The one movie the entire class enthusiastically agreed to watch was Gladiator. Few people were as enthusiastic for the movie about the Jewish holocaust. It appears humans love to watch movies about those that caused the suffering and not so much movies about those that did the suffering. Regardless, hundreds of movies have been made about both.
How do we justify this fascination with hatred, evil, and death? Are we intrigued simply by the idea of death or is the suffering that we admire? I’d like to believe humans are fascinated with suffering because it leads to an appreciation of life. One cannot experience true happiness without having experienced pain. In the case of the holocaust, I believe suffering has also lead to incredible friendships and bonds across the world. I believe that good can come from bad. However, it is often hard to separate the two… hard to separate true friends from false friends. My grandfather, while giving me advice for potentially the last time, told me that there is no such thing as a true friend. My grandfather is one of the happiest, nicest, most honest people I know. He is not a pessimist. If even he has lost his faith in the goodness of mankind…
What is a friendship? I have seen friends made and lost and made again. I do not know what friendship is. What is family? I have seen families torn apart. I see little reason for a man to love his lying, cheating, murdering brother above all else simply because they are connected by blood. There are no prerequisite for loving certain people. People should earn love –families and friends alike.
What is love?
I do not know. I only know that I see it all around me and that I believe it exists.
Ciao
No matter how hard we try, we cannot escape suffering. Whether you are a spectator watching or a slave fighting in the colosseum of life, you still play your part. However, it is your choice how you let this affect you. Some learn nothing, others become the better for it, and still some (hopefully few) become worse. From what I’ve noticed, Jewish people have definitely become the better for it. There is some kind of noticeable, electric bond between them. They stick together and they help each other. They create Jewish communities and they grow up together. I’ve never met a Jew who wasn’t excited to meet another Jew. It’s an incredible and enviable phenomenon. I wonder, could this bond have been created without the terrible suffering their ancestors endured?
I believe the strongest human bonds are the ones that come from joint suffering. Humans that have suffered together tend to connect in ways that others simply cannot. To feel terrible pain and know that you are not alone in feeling it is comforting and moving. I’ve always noticed that oppressed peoples tend to preserve their culture and relationships in ways others do not. Perhaps it is because they experienced terrible ordeals and not in spite of them. Negative events always have greater impacts than positive ones.
Today, we took a tour of the Jewish Ghetto. We were told about the forming of the Ghetto and the horrid conditions inside it. We were shown pictures of how it once looked. One picture in particular stuck with me. It was taken in the 16th century and was a picture of the same place I was staring at in that moment. But it looked completely different. It looked dirty and unsanitary. The walls were broken and crumbling –one particular wall to my right looked as if it had a bite taken out of it. There was cluttered hubris everywhere. It did not look livable. Having been told about the market that was once located in the Ghetto, I could almost smell the rotting fish in the street and hear the yellers of merchants. I could imagine the crowds of Jews walking in and out of their homes, up and down many flights of stairs since the only way they could expand their homes was up. Then, I tore my eyes away from the picture and turned to look at the Jewish woman who was giving us the tour. She was telling us these stories without asking us for pity or even understanding. She was telling us because she knew it. And thus, she seemed to become a part of the history. She became another piece in the puzzle of Judaism. I saw it in the way she spoke of the history and the religion, calling it “my” history and “my” religion. She prided herself on knowing about her past. It was as if she had been there to experience it herself. She owned it. You could see it in the way that she walked –the way that she seemed to know every corner and every brick of the Jewish Ghetto. It was in the look she got in her eyes when she spoke of Israel and the holy land. At the risk of sounding too judgmental, it was even in her physical appearance –her height, her clothing, her beautiful, messy, red hair, the curve of her nose, her accent, her teeth, and her mannerisms. To me, she was the most interesting part of that tour. Because in a way, she is the Jewish Ghetto.
Humans are so strange. The same two people who love each other one day can become mortal enemies the next. Not even family is sacred, as is evidenced in Roman history. How can an entire empire pride itself on having a creation myth that involves a man killing his brother because he is power-hungry and incapable of compromise? The story of Romulus and Remus should be something Romans are embarrassed about and not something that is proudly displayed all over the city. What about the colosseum? Just like Jews remember the holocaust when they remember Jewish history, so too Romans remember the colosseum when they think of Roman history –both are symbols of human suffering and pain. The colosseum is probably the most well-known and admired monument in all of Italy and yet it was an arena for killing –where slaves, men, women, cripples, and animals were forced to kill each other for the entertainment of others. It was disgusting, brutal, and shameful. Yet people love to hear about it. Books, songs, art, and movies have been made to recreate the horrid events that took place within its walls. The one movie the entire class enthusiastically agreed to watch was Gladiator. Few people were as enthusiastic for the movie about the Jewish holocaust. It appears humans love to watch movies about those that caused the suffering and not so much movies about those that did the suffering. Regardless, hundreds of movies have been made about both.
How do we justify this fascination with hatred, evil, and death? Are we intrigued simply by the idea of death or is the suffering that we admire? I’d like to believe humans are fascinated with suffering because it leads to an appreciation of life. One cannot experience true happiness without having experienced pain. In the case of the holocaust, I believe suffering has also lead to incredible friendships and bonds across the world. I believe that good can come from bad. However, it is often hard to separate the two… hard to separate true friends from false friends. My grandfather, while giving me advice for potentially the last time, told me that there is no such thing as a true friend. My grandfather is one of the happiest, nicest, most honest people I know. He is not a pessimist. If even he has lost his faith in the goodness of mankind…
What is a friendship? I have seen friends made and lost and made again. I do not know what friendship is. What is family? I have seen families torn apart. I see little reason for a man to love his lying, cheating, murdering brother above all else simply because they are connected by blood. There are no prerequisite for loving certain people. People should earn love –families and friends alike.
What is love?
I do not know. I only know that I see it all around me and that I believe it exists.
Ciao
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