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.