1) The character Amadeo, as a well-assimilated immigrant, didn't encounter racism from the Italians. Was this true in your experience, as a well-educated and successful immigrant? What has been your experience with racism here in Italy?
2) What is the significance of the elevator? Is it a metaphor for something?
3) Is the book autobiographical? To what extent?
4) What do you think of the movie? Is it an accurate portrayal of the book?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Writing Assignment #3: Marketplaces
The market at Esquilino is a different breed than the morning market on the Campo de’ Fiori. I stepped out of the pleasantly warm late morning sun, through the doorway and into the covered marketplace. The colors were astounding! Bright reds, yellows, oranges, greens… bell peppers, tomatoes, Satsuma’s, lettuce, carrots, bananas… After pausing to take in the mosaic of produce, meats, and eager vendors, I entered the chaos. Wishing I had more money and a larger bag, I passed by the hoards of juicy fruits and vegetables, growing increasingly indignant with each stand. I recovered from my self pity long enough to notice the faces of the shop vendors, almost every one was Indian or Asian, mostly Indian. I saw very few Italians. This is different than what I’ve experienced at the market on the Campo, where most vendors are Italian with the exception of a couple of Asians.
Many of them called out to me, smiling and pointing toward their displays. I’m still incapable of comprehending most Italian vocabulary, even the catch-phrases used repeatedly in marketplaces. One particular stall caught my eye. The bell peppers were the deepest red I’d ever seen, and swollen to the size of a grape fruit. A small, smiley Indian man stood behind the pile of peppers. I decided that this would be a good time to test my new knowledge and speak some Italian.
“Bella!” I exclaimed, gesturing toward the peppers.
The man, overwhelmed by my ability to speak his language, responded “Grazie,” with a little giggle.
I proceeded to engage him in a stimulating conversation about his name, his country of origin, his age, and how long he’s lived in Italy. I learned that his name started with an “F” and ended with an “ish”, he came from Bangladesh, had been in Italy for six years, and was twenty six years old. At that point, I’d asked all the questions I know how to ask in Italian, and had to end the conversation.
While reflecting on my visit to the market at Esquilino, I compared it to my experiences at the Campo de’ Fiori market. Leaving the city center and entering a neighborhood on the border of the city was valuable and enlightening. The market on the Campo attracts mostly tourists and upper class Italians, and is nestled amidst quaint, successful restaurants and boutiques. Esquilino is in a dirtier, less affluent part of town and is frequented by a wider variety of people. The ethnic diversity in this neighborhood is an obvious change from the Campo de’ Fiori. The substantial Indian and Asian population in Esquilino is immediately noticeable, shops selling soy sauce or saris are everywhere. Despite their differences, however, both marketplaces are borderlands. The Campo de’ Fiori market, more than anything else, serves as a place of crossover between tourists and Italians. The Esquilino market serves as a borderland between Italians, immigrants, tourists, young people, older people… everyone. In my own experience of the two markets, I found Esquilino to be less intimidating and more stimulating. Once again, I found the immigrants to be more engaging and interactive than the Italian vendors.
It is interesting to consider which marketplace better represents the “Italians”. I have been referring to the immigrants and the Italians as two different groups, in order to specify native Italians. But the immigrants are Italians too. The two markets are a fairly accurate representation of the opposing views of Italy as “for the Italians” or as the multicultural and increasingly diverse nation that it’s becoming.
Many of them called out to me, smiling and pointing toward their displays. I’m still incapable of comprehending most Italian vocabulary, even the catch-phrases used repeatedly in marketplaces. One particular stall caught my eye. The bell peppers were the deepest red I’d ever seen, and swollen to the size of a grape fruit. A small, smiley Indian man stood behind the pile of peppers. I decided that this would be a good time to test my new knowledge and speak some Italian.
“Bella!” I exclaimed, gesturing toward the peppers.
The man, overwhelmed by my ability to speak his language, responded “Grazie,” with a little giggle.
I proceeded to engage him in a stimulating conversation about his name, his country of origin, his age, and how long he’s lived in Italy. I learned that his name started with an “F” and ended with an “ish”, he came from Bangladesh, had been in Italy for six years, and was twenty six years old. At that point, I’d asked all the questions I know how to ask in Italian, and had to end the conversation.
While reflecting on my visit to the market at Esquilino, I compared it to my experiences at the Campo de’ Fiori market. Leaving the city center and entering a neighborhood on the border of the city was valuable and enlightening. The market on the Campo attracts mostly tourists and upper class Italians, and is nestled amidst quaint, successful restaurants and boutiques. Esquilino is in a dirtier, less affluent part of town and is frequented by a wider variety of people. The ethnic diversity in this neighborhood is an obvious change from the Campo de’ Fiori. The substantial Indian and Asian population in Esquilino is immediately noticeable, shops selling soy sauce or saris are everywhere. Despite their differences, however, both marketplaces are borderlands. The Campo de’ Fiori market, more than anything else, serves as a place of crossover between tourists and Italians. The Esquilino market serves as a borderland between Italians, immigrants, tourists, young people, older people… everyone. In my own experience of the two markets, I found Esquilino to be less intimidating and more stimulating. Once again, I found the immigrants to be more engaging and interactive than the Italian vendors.
It is interesting to consider which marketplace better represents the “Italians”. I have been referring to the immigrants and the Italians as two different groups, in order to specify native Italians. But the immigrants are Italians too. The two markets are a fairly accurate representation of the opposing views of Italy as “for the Italians” or as the multicultural and increasingly diverse nation that it’s becoming.
Independent Research Project... Topic
My group is planning to choose topics under the umbrella of old to new.. the idea of Rome as a city that is creating and becoming something new out of so much 'old'. For my contribution to the project, I want to look into architecture and renovation. I'm still quite vague on which angle I want to take and what exactly I want to focus on. This is a very broad topic. I am interested in learning more about the efforts that have been made to construct new buildings in the city, and the controversies surrounding those efforts.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Writing Assignment #2: Race Riots Interview
"Scusi, do you speak English?"
That was the extent of my plan. I would approach a nice looking passerby, ask them this very basic question, to which they would respond yes or no. I figured it would be easy from there; if they said 'no', I would say "Grazie, buongiorno, arrivederci, ciao" (thereby throwing out every Italian word I know), if they said 'yes'... well I'd figure it out. This is the hypothetical interaction that I had running through my mind Sunday morning as I jogged along the Tiber River on the conveniently desolate lower walkway. The upper sidewalks are level with the street and are therefore frequented by all sorts of people with whom I could potentially strike up uncomfortable conversation. So, naturally, I took to the lower ones on this particular day. If I didn't come across anyone, how could I talk to them? Couldn't. And I wouldn't even feel guilty about returning to the apartment without my interview done because I'd just gone running. That's a huge accomplishment in itself. My justification for putting off this dreaded interview was nearly complete, the ease just settling in, when I spotted an Italian man walking towards me. My heart rate immediately spiked.. I couldn't justify this, I had to talk to him. I spent the thirty seconds of anticipation talking to myself, getting ready to ask the big question. However, due to my lack of courage, when the moment came to walk up to the man I didn't stop running. If anything I picked up my pace, whipped right past.
I scolded myself for the next five minutes until I saw my next opportunity approaching up ahead. This was a different scenario. Two very dark African men were standing beside the river laying out a display of "designer" purses and bags. I was less intimidated by these men than I was by the first man. They were getting settled in, there were no prospective costumers in sight, a few questions couldn't be that big of a nuisance. I gradually slowed my pace, keeping up a bouncy jog even as I began to speak.
"Scusi?" I was hesitant and made the mistake of pausing. They looked at me eagerly, assuming that I wanted to buy something from them. Oops. "Do you speak English?" I continued, sorry to disappoint them.
"Yes, a leetle," one of the men replied. "Where you want to go?" He thought I was lost, a very fair assumption.
"Oh, no I'm not lost. I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions," I responded. The two men looked searchingly at each other, shook their heads, and turned towards me with a shrug. Apparently "a leetle" = a very leetle. I decided that my plan needed a slight alteration. My new question would be, "do you speak English very well?"
The next person I approached was a man selling umbrellas by the Castel Sant'Angelo. Like most of the other street vendors, his skin was darker and I presumed he was an immigrant. He spoke even less English than the African men. He just grinned at me and nodded his head, "no". Most of my nervousness had faded by this point, and rather than lose faith in the street vendors' ability to speak English, I became increasingly determined to find one who could.
I was on my way back towards the apartment, time was running out when I saw a group of seven or eight African men gathered around the stairway by the river with their own selection of designer purses and bags. One of them was bound to speak English.
"Scusi, do any of you speak English very well?"
One of the young men responded with a confident "Yes."
"Oh good," I exhaled in relief, "Would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?"
The same guy raised his eyebrows and nodded, "Sure."
Right about then I was wishing I'd spent more time planning out how to broach a topic as controversial and potentially incendiary as the race riots. I squinted, grimaced, then explained to him that I was a student from the United States studying in Rome for the winter. I told him that part of my assignment was to interview an Italian person about their thoughts on the race riots and illegal immigration in Italy. I communicated my desire to speak with someone who wasn't a native Italian (I thought it best to avoid saying "a black person".. I don't really know what terms are PC here).
I was surprised by his response, "I understand what you are talking about, but what are you asking me? What do you want me to say?" The entire group was watching us now, talking amongst themselves, inspecting me. I'd been running for awhile, I was red-faced, sweaty and out of breath. I looked completely ridiculous, and they were enjoying the spectacle.
I screwed up my face, motioned meaninglessly with my hands and said, "Anything. Do you have any thoughts or feelings about it?"
"I don't know what you want."
"Do you know about the violence?"
"Violence, yes."
"In the south of Italy?"
"In South Italy, yes."
"Well, I mean.. what do you think about it?"
"I don't understand what you are asking."
"Do you have anything to say about it? Any thoughts? Anything to say about immigrants? About Italians?"
"What you're asking me... it is difficult to say..."
I cut in here, "It's deep."
"Yes. Deep...I don't know what you want."
I thought it was probably time to wrap it up, "It's okay, I just don't know how to ask the question the right way.. It's my fault."
He smiled, "I know."
"Oh!" I laughed, "Well, good. Thank you anyways. Ciao!"
"Ciao!" They all said in unison, smiling and waving at me as I ran off.
I went into this assignment thinking that I would have a meaningful conversation with a 'typical Italian' about the current events, centered on racism, immigration, and specifically the riots in Calabria. Instead, I ended up engaged in a series of conversations, of varying depth, with street vendors. Definitely not what I consider typical Italians, they could have been illegal immigrants for all I know. I was surprised by the sensation I was left with after my last conversation. The group of men exuded a warmth and friendliness, despite the lack of successful communication, that I have yet to feel from the Italians. In a country so opposed to immigrants, I suppose it would make sense that the immigrants are more hospitable than the native people.
That was the extent of my plan. I would approach a nice looking passerby, ask them this very basic question, to which they would respond yes or no. I figured it would be easy from there; if they said 'no', I would say "Grazie, buongiorno, arrivederci, ciao" (thereby throwing out every Italian word I know), if they said 'yes'... well I'd figure it out. This is the hypothetical interaction that I had running through my mind Sunday morning as I jogged along the Tiber River on the conveniently desolate lower walkway. The upper sidewalks are level with the street and are therefore frequented by all sorts of people with whom I could potentially strike up uncomfortable conversation. So, naturally, I took to the lower ones on this particular day. If I didn't come across anyone, how could I talk to them? Couldn't. And I wouldn't even feel guilty about returning to the apartment without my interview done because I'd just gone running. That's a huge accomplishment in itself. My justification for putting off this dreaded interview was nearly complete, the ease just settling in, when I spotted an Italian man walking towards me. My heart rate immediately spiked.. I couldn't justify this, I had to talk to him. I spent the thirty seconds of anticipation talking to myself, getting ready to ask the big question. However, due to my lack of courage, when the moment came to walk up to the man I didn't stop running. If anything I picked up my pace, whipped right past.
I scolded myself for the next five minutes until I saw my next opportunity approaching up ahead. This was a different scenario. Two very dark African men were standing beside the river laying out a display of "designer" purses and bags. I was less intimidated by these men than I was by the first man. They were getting settled in, there were no prospective costumers in sight, a few questions couldn't be that big of a nuisance. I gradually slowed my pace, keeping up a bouncy jog even as I began to speak.
"Scusi?" I was hesitant and made the mistake of pausing. They looked at me eagerly, assuming that I wanted to buy something from them. Oops. "Do you speak English?" I continued, sorry to disappoint them.
"Yes, a leetle," one of the men replied. "Where you want to go?" He thought I was lost, a very fair assumption.
"Oh, no I'm not lost. I was just wondering if I could ask you a few questions," I responded. The two men looked searchingly at each other, shook their heads, and turned towards me with a shrug. Apparently "a leetle" = a very leetle. I decided that my plan needed a slight alteration. My new question would be, "do you speak English very well?"
The next person I approached was a man selling umbrellas by the Castel Sant'Angelo. Like most of the other street vendors, his skin was darker and I presumed he was an immigrant. He spoke even less English than the African men. He just grinned at me and nodded his head, "no". Most of my nervousness had faded by this point, and rather than lose faith in the street vendors' ability to speak English, I became increasingly determined to find one who could.
I was on my way back towards the apartment, time was running out when I saw a group of seven or eight African men gathered around the stairway by the river with their own selection of designer purses and bags. One of them was bound to speak English.
"Scusi, do any of you speak English very well?"
One of the young men responded with a confident "Yes."
"Oh good," I exhaled in relief, "Would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?"
The same guy raised his eyebrows and nodded, "Sure."
Right about then I was wishing I'd spent more time planning out how to broach a topic as controversial and potentially incendiary as the race riots. I squinted, grimaced, then explained to him that I was a student from the United States studying in Rome for the winter. I told him that part of my assignment was to interview an Italian person about their thoughts on the race riots and illegal immigration in Italy. I communicated my desire to speak with someone who wasn't a native Italian (I thought it best to avoid saying "a black person".. I don't really know what terms are PC here).
I was surprised by his response, "I understand what you are talking about, but what are you asking me? What do you want me to say?" The entire group was watching us now, talking amongst themselves, inspecting me. I'd been running for awhile, I was red-faced, sweaty and out of breath. I looked completely ridiculous, and they were enjoying the spectacle.
I screwed up my face, motioned meaninglessly with my hands and said, "Anything. Do you have any thoughts or feelings about it?"
"I don't know what you want."
"Do you know about the violence?"
"Violence, yes."
"In the south of Italy?"
"In South Italy, yes."
"Well, I mean.. what do you think about it?"
"I don't understand what you are asking."
"Do you have anything to say about it? Any thoughts? Anything to say about immigrants? About Italians?"
"What you're asking me... it is difficult to say..."
I cut in here, "It's deep."
"Yes. Deep...I don't know what you want."
I thought it was probably time to wrap it up, "It's okay, I just don't know how to ask the question the right way.. It's my fault."
He smiled, "I know."
"Oh!" I laughed, "Well, good. Thank you anyways. Ciao!"
"Ciao!" They all said in unison, smiling and waving at me as I ran off.
I went into this assignment thinking that I would have a meaningful conversation with a 'typical Italian' about the current events, centered on racism, immigration, and specifically the riots in Calabria. Instead, I ended up engaged in a series of conversations, of varying depth, with street vendors. Definitely not what I consider typical Italians, they could have been illegal immigrants for all I know. I was surprised by the sensation I was left with after my last conversation. The group of men exuded a warmth and friendliness, despite the lack of successful communication, that I have yet to feel from the Italians. In a country so opposed to immigrants, I suppose it would make sense that the immigrants are more hospitable than the native people.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
January 19th - Journal Write
We toured the Jewish Ghetto today. This was my third time in the neighborhood, but my first time inside of the synagogue and the museum. As far as aesthetic appeal or "imagery" I was most impressed by the Great Synagogue of Rome. I have only entered four synagogues in my life, two of them today, but I'd never seen one anywhere near as ornate or massive as this one.
The most striking encounter of my day, however, was a conversation I had after our tour with one of the old women who worked at the synagogue. I had wandered back into the museum to look more closely at the artifacts on display from WWII and was taking notes on the historical information and background posted on the walls when a tiny, wrinkly, adorable old woman approached me and asked if I had any questions. Out of my own discomfort I said that I had already gone through the tour and was just "scopin' it out" (which of course meant nothing to her). Fortunately for me, she disregarded or misunderstood my response and proceeded to guide me over to some of the displays and describe to me what I was seeing.
I spoke to her for about 30 minutes. She shared pieces of her own experiences during the Nazi occupation in Rome, but wasn't anxious to answer directly personal questions. I was especially interested in her perspective on the Pope, whom she referred back to several times. She spoke very negatively about Pope Pius XII, emphasizing his failure to speak out against the Nazis during the war. She did however acknowledge the compassion of the Roman Catholics during the occupation. 8,000 out of the 10,000 Jews in Rome during the war escaped the concentration camps thanks to the Catholics' hospitality in providing sanctuary for the Jews in convents and churches. As the woman said to me today, "we who are here are here because of them".
Today, there are approximately 13,500 Jews in Rome. Pope Benedict XVI has a far better reputation with the Jews than Pius XII did. My friend at the museum believes that, "the Pope today is different. He would speak up for us". I was encouraged by that.
I have been reading about the history of the Catholics in Rome, specifically surrounding the history of St. Peter's Basilica. Sifting through book after book about the corruption and greed in the Catholic Church throughout history can get disheartening at times. It was nice for me to hear about the incredible part that the Catholics played in Rome during WWII in protecting the Jews. I was touched by the Jewish woman's ability to speak so positively about the Jewish-Catholic relations in Rome, focusing more on her optimism for the future than the pain of her past.
The most striking encounter of my day, however, was a conversation I had after our tour with one of the old women who worked at the synagogue. I had wandered back into the museum to look more closely at the artifacts on display from WWII and was taking notes on the historical information and background posted on the walls when a tiny, wrinkly, adorable old woman approached me and asked if I had any questions. Out of my own discomfort I said that I had already gone through the tour and was just "scopin' it out" (which of course meant nothing to her). Fortunately for me, she disregarded or misunderstood my response and proceeded to guide me over to some of the displays and describe to me what I was seeing.
I spoke to her for about 30 minutes. She shared pieces of her own experiences during the Nazi occupation in Rome, but wasn't anxious to answer directly personal questions. I was especially interested in her perspective on the Pope, whom she referred back to several times. She spoke very negatively about Pope Pius XII, emphasizing his failure to speak out against the Nazis during the war. She did however acknowledge the compassion of the Roman Catholics during the occupation. 8,000 out of the 10,000 Jews in Rome during the war escaped the concentration camps thanks to the Catholics' hospitality in providing sanctuary for the Jews in convents and churches. As the woman said to me today, "we who are here are here because of them".
Today, there are approximately 13,500 Jews in Rome. Pope Benedict XVI has a far better reputation with the Jews than Pius XII did. My friend at the museum believes that, "the Pope today is different. He would speak up for us". I was encouraged by that.
I have been reading about the history of the Catholics in Rome, specifically surrounding the history of St. Peter's Basilica. Sifting through book after book about the corruption and greed in the Catholic Church throughout history can get disheartening at times. It was nice for me to hear about the incredible part that the Catholics played in Rome during WWII in protecting the Jews. I was touched by the Jewish woman's ability to speak so positively about the Jewish-Catholic relations in Rome, focusing more on her optimism for the future than the pain of her past.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Writing Assignment #1
Topic: find borders in Rome and borders you encounter in your wandering. Borders can be physical, psychological, or metaphorical as manifested in language, identity, memory, etc. Engage the city as a "traveler". Don't always go in a group. Often you will find more inspiration alone or with one or two companions.
I didn’t arrive in Rome on a chariot; I most definitely wasn’t wearing a ‘stola’ and sandals; it’s not 140 AD. I drove into the ‘eternal city’ in the back of a taxi cab wearing a pair of blue jeans and a sweater... and the year is 2010. Of course I knew before coming here that Rome is no longer the ancient metropolis surrounded by stone wall fortifications and toga-wearing men discussing politics and philosophy that I have seen in the movies. Nevertheless, a small part of me was secretly devastated upon facing this reality as I watched worn-down, dirty, tightly packed apartment buildings whip by through the window of my cab.
The border between the historical and modern-day Rome has been the most frustrating for me. Not because it’s the only one that I can’t bridge, I have encountered plenty of seemingly impenetrable boundaries here. I’m dealing with the ever present language barrier, the discomfort of being an obvious outsider with my blonde hair and American clothing, and the difficulty of stepping outside of my comfort zone to engage in a culture that I don’t understand... even in the most mundane activities like shopping, buying food, and using public transportation. I’m stubbornly determined to see this city as the legendary “Ancient Roman Empire” that I am so fascinated by. I walk about the city, taking in all of the different ruins, artifacts and memorials, using these points of contact as bridges to the past… trying to imagine Rome as it was… attempting to see over the border that Time has established between then and now, between the “Ancient Romans” and myself.
I usually associate “border” with geographical, political, or psychological divides. However, Time is in its own category; it can’t be manipulated or changed… it simply builds on itself, becoming denser, as years pass and layers of history are added, thickening the walls around the ancient empire, burying it deeper (Modern Rome is about 25 feet higher than it was when the forum was built after all). But just as the archaeologists have managed to expose the evidence of Ancient Rome through the excavation of architecture, art, and other works, as a student I am able to transcend some of the borders of Time through reading, seeing, exploring, and imagining the way that Rome was 2000 years ago.
Rome is unlike any other city I have traveled to, in that it is the most layered with tangible records of its history. I come here with the hope of peeking into the past, rather than delving into the distinct energy and character of the here and now. Perhaps this is why I find engaging in the culture so overwhelming and impossible… because I’m not as focused on it. Instead, I’m engaging in a culture and a people that have long passed away.
I didn’t arrive in Rome on a chariot; I most definitely wasn’t wearing a ‘stola’ and sandals; it’s not 140 AD. I drove into the ‘eternal city’ in the back of a taxi cab wearing a pair of blue jeans and a sweater... and the year is 2010. Of course I knew before coming here that Rome is no longer the ancient metropolis surrounded by stone wall fortifications and toga-wearing men discussing politics and philosophy that I have seen in the movies. Nevertheless, a small part of me was secretly devastated upon facing this reality as I watched worn-down, dirty, tightly packed apartment buildings whip by through the window of my cab.
The border between the historical and modern-day Rome has been the most frustrating for me. Not because it’s the only one that I can’t bridge, I have encountered plenty of seemingly impenetrable boundaries here. I’m dealing with the ever present language barrier, the discomfort of being an obvious outsider with my blonde hair and American clothing, and the difficulty of stepping outside of my comfort zone to engage in a culture that I don’t understand... even in the most mundane activities like shopping, buying food, and using public transportation. I’m stubbornly determined to see this city as the legendary “Ancient Roman Empire” that I am so fascinated by. I walk about the city, taking in all of the different ruins, artifacts and memorials, using these points of contact as bridges to the past… trying to imagine Rome as it was… attempting to see over the border that Time has established between then and now, between the “Ancient Romans” and myself.
I usually associate “border” with geographical, political, or psychological divides. However, Time is in its own category; it can’t be manipulated or changed… it simply builds on itself, becoming denser, as years pass and layers of history are added, thickening the walls around the ancient empire, burying it deeper (Modern Rome is about 25 feet higher than it was when the forum was built after all). But just as the archaeologists have managed to expose the evidence of Ancient Rome through the excavation of architecture, art, and other works, as a student I am able to transcend some of the borders of Time through reading, seeing, exploring, and imagining the way that Rome was 2000 years ago.
Rome is unlike any other city I have traveled to, in that it is the most layered with tangible records of its history. I come here with the hope of peeking into the past, rather than delving into the distinct energy and character of the here and now. Perhaps this is why I find engaging in the culture so overwhelming and impossible… because I’m not as focused on it. Instead, I’m engaging in a culture and a people that have long passed away.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Borders in a Borderless World
“At the most micro of scales, anthropologists remind us of the personal, often invisible to the eye, borders, which determine our daily life practices to a much greater extent than do national boundaries – across which the majority of the global population do not even cross once in their lifetime.” (148).
Thursday, January 7, 2010
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