Just before Christmas, the asilo put on a play. George
and I, with the children on our laps, squeezed into the car with my in-laws in
the early darkness of a December night and drove to the asilo. Paul and James
had been practicing their parts in the play and singing the songs for a month
or more. They didn’t seem nervous. To them it was just another opportunity to
play with their friends. We arrived, dropped off the older boys with one of the
nuns at the main entrance, and walked with the twins and my in-laws to the
little room with the stage. It was crowded with other parents. I didn’t know
any of them, and George knew just a few, but they nodded and mumbled polite greetings to us and to my in-laws who made their way to the front. I could feel the other parents' curious stares as George and I
sat in the back of the hall with Margaret Ann and Matthew balanced on our
knees, close to the exit in case they made noise. The school had an enrollment of about
twenty-five students, so there were plenty of parents and grandparents in the audience,
but not too many other little kids. Eventually it dawned on me that in this area
of single children, most of the little preschoolers had no brothers or sisters. No wonder the parents stared!
The lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and I held my
breath with pride as Paul led the single line of
little Italian children onto the stage. I spotted James in the middle. My little American boys fit right in! Each boy on the stage
carried a small, carved wooden rifle, which I thought inappropriate for
Christmas, but then I was a stranger, what did I know? They marched
together like little soldiers then stopped and recited something. Paul seemed
to be the soldier in charge. He had a major speaking part, in which I
understood only every fourth word, but he spoke with energy and expression. When he finished everyone laughed and cheered, and I was just another proud parent,
smiling and watching and nervous, and willing him to do well. Each child recited
something, even our shy James. The nuns had taught them to shout out their
lines, so we could hear every word in the back row, even if I couldn’t
understand them. All the parents clapped loudly, and Margaret Ann and Matthew who
had been quietly watching laughed and clapped with them. Next, while one of the
nuns played the piano, the children lined up across the stage and sang the
songs that the boys had been practicing around the house for weeks. Listening
to the voices of all the children singing together reminded me of my first
Christmas in Canada when our children’s choir sang for our parents in a small hall
just like that one. The same aura of peace and joy that I had felt as we sang in
Canada surrounded us as we listened in Italy. After the finale, a man stood up
(the mayor?) and congratulated everyone on a job well done. The audience
clapped and cheered, and then they threw candies at the stage, showering the
little children as they dived around, squealing and laughing and gathering as
many as they could.
The warm feeling that night was the same as in so many
other Christmas concerts, in so many other parts of the world. But for me, the
feeling was tinged with strangeness. I had just watched my children march and
recite, and I was left far, far out of it. I had no idea what the little play
represented. Their voices, which I knew so well, spoke words that I didn’t
understand and that worried me. Paul was only five and half, and James almost
four. If I couldn’t understand them at that young age, how could I expect to
follow where they went in the years ahead?
All of my diligent studying of the Italian language had yielded very
poor results, and yet the children seemed able to glide in and scoop up the
language without effort, leaving me far behind. But as we drove home that night I praised them and laughed with them and hoped I would eventually catch up.
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