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.

Moving to Italy: Speaking Italian

Paul and James had settled in the new asilo, and their Italian improved dramatically, while mine progressed slowly. Even James began to chatter more in Italian around home. After a month in the asilo, one of the fathers asked George if his son could come over to play with the boys so the son could learn English. George told him the boy was welcome, but he wouldn’t learn English because when Paul and James played together they spoke in Italian. We were delighted that the boys were picking up the language so quickly.

One day, I was cleaning up around the house as usual when I asked Paul a simple question, in English of course. He looked at his father, then pointed at me and said,

"Che cosa ha detto?"  (What did she say?)

Alarmed, I repeated myself and he still looked at his father. He needed a translation!

I realized he had so immersed in Italian that English had been pushed aside. This was my son, my firstborn, the forerunner of the rest. I could not, would not, lose verbal contact with him—and after him, the others?  No!

This memory returned later, as I taught college students who regretted that they could not communicate with their immigrant grandparents in their native tongue. How many immigrant children were told to speak only English in their homes if they wanted to progress in this country?—standard advice. As they spoke more and more English, many lost their first language. And I wonder how many immigrant parents and grandparents lost the power of a common language with which to communicate with these children. Language acquisition as an adult is a much slower process. Even if the parents/grandparents learned to get by in English for interacting in the community, it takes years of practice to become fluent enough to express oneself clearly, to communicate at a deeper level. I know. In my year at Gabi, despite my ardent desire to speak fluently to those around me, I was nowhere near gaining that ability.

 

On that day in Italy, I stood firm: “English only in the house!” I told Paul and James. It would slow down my Italian, but I had already lost my community; I would not lose my children.  

And then I looked at my 25 year old self. Who was I? I could no longer see the person I used to be in California—engaged in reading, writing, politics, and slowly studying my way to a Bachelor’s degree. With adult interaction in my native language limited to my husband and my in-laws, I was afloat in the world with no other connections except for occasional letters. I felt isolated on the farm with no newspapers, nor magazines, not even television, and no conversation with anyone outside my home. Because we could not converse, the Italians in town and our relatives on the farm defined me as housewife and mother, and nothing more. Were they right? Was that all I had become? My core identity was fading, and I felt helpless to stop it.

Moving to Italy: School--Part 2

The new asilo stood alone on a small lot encircled by a fence. It was not a leftover room that had been turned into a preschool; it was built with forethought, not as an afterthought.   When we went to check it out, the tall gate was shut so we parked outside, and walked down the long driveway that bisected the lot, past the play equipment, to the main building. School was out for the day, and all was quiet. The teachers were three nuns, trained to do only that—teach. One of them was our guide. 

Younger and more energetic than the nun in Cerrina, she showed us four main rooms: one for desk work, one for playtime, one for play-acting, and one for quiet time. We saw opportunities by the score for our boys to grow: percussion instruments and puzzles, construction toys, tea cups, costumes and cars, a stage and a stove, an electric keyboard ready for curious children to play, and a piano where everyone gathered to sing. The children were split up between older and younger, so the older ones wouldn’t be held back. The nun said no naps if you were five and had given them up—Paul would like that. She showed us little exercise books of prewriting exercises, and writing when they were ready. They taught the older children to write all the letters of the alphabet, and to draw birds, flowers, and houses.  Also, they had little projects like Mother’s Day and Father’s Day cards. I was relieved. All of these activities would help Paul get ready for first grade. They seemed to try first to get the child's interest, and let him take it from there, just making sure that the right materials and guidance were available. The sister didn’t mention the ground-breaking Italian educator Maria Montessori, but I recognized her philosophy and methods. The outside equipment didn't look like much, but after the other school, the inside was heaven.  

Off to the side was a long room that alerted me to my support duties. A row of miniature towels hung over a bank of cubbies where the lunchboxes would go. Each towel was provided by the family and embroidered with the child’s name. He would bring it clean on Monday and take it home dirty on Friday. He must bring a sandwich in his lunch box, but soup was provided by the school. And each of our boys would need an apron to cover his clothes. The school put a new child on a half-day schedule for the first two weeks and expected that a parent or grandparent might have to stay for a day or two, so that the child was broken in easily. How much more humane this seemed than the other nun’s “Go! Go!”  No one there knew English, so our boys would immerse themselves in the language and culture of Italy, their new land. All this, and it cost less than the other asilo. We signed them up on the spot.

We had already bought lunch boxes for the other preschool, so I bought towels to match—blue-striped and orange-striped—and I embroidered their names in Italian on the top of each one: Paolo and Giacomo.  I then sewed a loop to hang them on the little nail in the wall.  Marino talked to a tailoress (his term) who would make them each a blue-checked grembialino (little apron) to cover their clothes. It was a cotton, mid-thigh smock with three-quarter length sleeves that buttoned in the front. (Sadly the only picture of them wearing it is lost.)

Paul went first, so James wouldn't distract him with tears. He came home with stories of boys that he met, and games that they played, running up “mountains” and fighting off crime. We took James and stayed with him for a few days then, on one half-day, we left him whimpering in the arms of a short, kindly nun. When we picked him up he was smiling. The little nun told George that she held him for five minutes, and he clung to her legs for five more. Then he made her sit down and listen to him talk. In Italian, he spoke of his family, every last one of us, who we were, what we did, where we had come from and where we now lived. He talked on and on for half an hour, and then he stood up, smiled, and went to play.

The philosopher Charles Taylor says, "I define who I am by defining where I speak from, in the family tree, in social space...in my intimate relations to the ones I love."  James did exactly that.  He defined himself and his position in his home, and only then did he feel secure enough to reach out to the community around him.

Without the tools of language, I struggled to do the same.

Moving to Italy: School-Part 1

As September arrived I was getting increasingly worried. If Paul were in California he would be starting kindergarten. It was time to get serious about school.

The town of Cerrina, whose municipality encompassed Gabi, had one preschool (asilo).  Most of the people in our area had sent their children there, so we drove over to see it with the boys. It consisted of two rooms with a playground outside, attached to a home for elderly Italians who had no children to take care of them. One old nun watched the many children in her care without help. Like most of the people in that area, she didn't speak any English, so I couldn't ask her about her philosophy of teaching little ones, nor find out if she was right for our boys. George tried, but he hadn’t read the same books as I had, and he didn’t know all the right questions to ask. Once more I felt frustrated at my lack of Italian, but I could still observe the facilities. 

One room had a piano and books, the other a table with blocks and pegs, and outside was a small yard with some play equipment. Because it was the local asilo, and we wanted to do what the locals did, we signed them up. George and I told the boys that they were going to preschool and they seemed to understand and offered no objections. The next day, we walked in with them and said goodbye. Paul was fine, but James began to cry as we walked towards the door. The nun told us this was normal, and to Go! Go!  James was howling as we pulled out of sight, and I felt awful. He rarely cried, but he could be very shy, so I knew this was hard on him. I wanted to go back to get him, but we decided I was being silly and that he was safe, for a day anyway. He was playing nicely when we returned at four, but Paul looked bored.

At home, they told us their day was blocks and pegs and singing at the piano, then lunch. They had no writing, no painting, not even crayoning, and after lunch they had to take a nap. Since Paul had given up naps at age three, he objected to that. But I could understand. The nun was alone, she probably needed the break, and it was easier if everyone napped at the same time. In the afternoon, they played outside until we arrived.  James said he had cried for us loudly at lunch, and the sister yelled at him. 

"What did she say?" I asked.

"I don't know, she was speaking Italian," James replied.

Hmmmm. He spoke Italian better than I did, but perhaps I expected too much, so I gave him advice: "When you don't understand, you must say 'Non capisco.'" 

He looked up at me, frowned a bit, then replied, "No. When I don't understand, I say 'Non ho capito niente.'" (I haven’t understood anything.)

I realized that was probably better than what I had told him. It certainly sounded better. He was only three years and nine months but he was catching on to the language far quicker than me, and his accent sounded perfect. "Is that what you told the teacher?" I asked him. 

"Yes."

"Then what did she say?" 

"I don't know; she was speaking Italian."  

How could he correct my Italian and then claim not to understand the teacher? I couldn’t be sure, but I thought maybe he was resisting. Or she was speaking dialect. He cried the next morning and said he didn’t want to go, but we made him anyway. His grandfather drove them, thinking maybe I was the problem. He said James cried a little bit but was fine when he picked him up. The old nun said James had refused to eat his lunch, but at four o’clock when he saw his grandfather’s car, he ran to his lunch box and gobbled his sandwich. When he got home, he announced that he wouldn’t go the next day. With minor variations, this went on for three more days, but more importantly, Paul was still bored and I worried that he wasn't learning anything. So we pulled them out. 

This was not a wise move for people trying to fit in. That asilo was where the local people sent their children. Because we pulled them out we were making a statement that their preschool wasn’t good enough for us. Because this was mostly my decision based on my readings about early childhood education, I felt a little guilty. I felt it even more when my in-laws questioned what we were doing, then frowned. They wanted the best for the children too, but I think they considered me a bit too fussy. The community was tight and we were "the Americans."  Uncles and cousins, and grandfathers—Marcas galore—made no difference to them. We were still "the Americans." We were indeed acting like Americans. When one service didn't suit us, we weren’t afraid to reject it. Our children meant more to us than community solidarity. 

We had heard about another asilo, in a town much further away, where Cousin Luigi had sent his boys. We decided to check it out.