Moving to Italy: Work

While birthdays came and went, and various building projects in the house had progressed then ended, George continued to work around the farm and look for paid employment. He received leads from cousins, and friends of cousins, and friends of friends who had heard an employer might need a translator, or a salesman, or . . . . but he had had no luck. This was in line with what the American Embassy in Turin had told us: jobs for Americans were hard to find. 

In September George tried the factory in the village. He wasn’t aiming high. Like many immigrants have found to their dismay, his education didn’t count for much in the new country. He hoped to get some kind of assembly job, anything to earn a little money. When he came back he was very discouraged. They told him there were no positions for him in any capacity. Because there was a recession, if a job opened up, they would be obligated to give it to an Italian before him. That was disturbing news. They thought of George as an American first, and he would have to stand in line behind Italians before he would be considered for employment. This was a big contrast to what we had been used to in America. We were white Americans and part of an oblivious majority who had never known such discrimination. Even though the unwritten rule might have been “Americans first,” or even “white Americans first,” it was never stated that blatantly. In the United States, we had hope that we might be considered. In Italy, we were told straight out that we would always find ourselves at the back of the queue. At least they were honest with him.

After that we felt much more pressured, so we spread the net wider, putting the word out to all of the relatives and friends that George needed a job, any kind of job. Meanwhile, his father mentioned that shortly after he had arrived at Gabi, Zio Silvio and Zio Remo had asked for payment for the milk and eggs they had given us when we first arrived. Stupidly enough, we had thought they were gifts. I was a little taken aback, but later I realized that everyone worked very close to the margin and very little was wasted or given away. 

That was the first warning scratch on the wall, but we couldn’t see it.