Not Like the Others
Study abroad is a lot like middle school. You have no idea what's going on, people are mean to you, and you can't stop thinking about your "changing self."
Last night my friend and I were sitting in the Piazza delle Erbe (which means Herb Plaza . . . ironically, it's where all the drug addicts do their thing) having our pre-dinner apperitivo. She recounted with clear indignance her experience at the Venice Film Festival the afternoon before, and how when one of our friends refused to be pushed out of the way, an Italian girl turned to her friend and said, "Americani sono merdi," which means, "Americans are s---."
One would take offence immediately at the condemnation of an entire country based on one person refusing to be pushed around, but after living here for a week, I've noticed that it's not so much that we're Americans as much as we're not Italian. And in a world where each country is fighting to maintain its cultural identity, we're a threat.
Italian culture is at once friendly and passionate. Every time someone treats us as their friends, we become included in this world of cheerful kindness and honesty. But we're constantly aware that sometimes we might as well wear Mickey Mouse ears and strap on a fanny pack, the way people pick up right away that we're not from around here.
Navigating unwritten rules is hard when you aren't even confident in your communication skills. No matter how much I tried to get across that I wanted to visit my family's church, they pulled out a phonebook and said, "Methodist is like Anglican, right?" and made sure to personally accompany me there to make sure I went to a Protestant church. We're caught in a delicate dance of exploring each others boundaries and establishing our own.
I figured that at least I'd be more comfortable in a Protestant service, but even then, since I'm always introduced as "the American boy" people put me with the other foreigners and just kind of watch me to see how much Italian I know. Of course, it didn't help that I fell off the pew and hurt myself and kept mispronouncing all the words in the hymns because I was nervous, and a little sore from a long day in Venice (or evening, ahem).
Getting to know Italians is great, but what I really want is to become a part of the famiglia. Reaching that point of understanding and accepting means a long ride on a bumpy road, however. And sometimes that includes falling off pews and getting called names. I suppose that builds character or something.
Last night my friend and I were sitting in the Piazza delle Erbe (which means Herb Plaza . . . ironically, it's where all the drug addicts do their thing) having our pre-dinner apperitivo. She recounted with clear indignance her experience at the Venice Film Festival the afternoon before, and how when one of our friends refused to be pushed out of the way, an Italian girl turned to her friend and said, "Americani sono merdi," which means, "Americans are s---."
One would take offence immediately at the condemnation of an entire country based on one person refusing to be pushed around, but after living here for a week, I've noticed that it's not so much that we're Americans as much as we're not Italian. And in a world where each country is fighting to maintain its cultural identity, we're a threat.
Italian culture is at once friendly and passionate. Every time someone treats us as their friends, we become included in this world of cheerful kindness and honesty. But we're constantly aware that sometimes we might as well wear Mickey Mouse ears and strap on a fanny pack, the way people pick up right away that we're not from around here.
Navigating unwritten rules is hard when you aren't even confident in your communication skills. No matter how much I tried to get across that I wanted to visit my family's church, they pulled out a phonebook and said, "Methodist is like Anglican, right?" and made sure to personally accompany me there to make sure I went to a Protestant church. We're caught in a delicate dance of exploring each others boundaries and establishing our own.
I figured that at least I'd be more comfortable in a Protestant service, but even then, since I'm always introduced as "the American boy" people put me with the other foreigners and just kind of watch me to see how much Italian I know. Of course, it didn't help that I fell off the pew and hurt myself and kept mispronouncing all the words in the hymns because I was nervous, and a little sore from a long day in Venice (or evening, ahem).
Getting to know Italians is great, but what I really want is to become a part of the famiglia. Reaching that point of understanding and accepting means a long ride on a bumpy road, however. And sometimes that includes falling off pews and getting called names. I suppose that builds character or something.
posted by L at
8:24 AM
5 Comments:
How did you fall off the pew?
Sore? Were you falling off other things as well? Also, how old is the "adult daughter?" :-)
"You're a good Methodist. I mean, Mennonite!"
I like the comic a lot.
People here are on the whole nice towards Americans, but every so often, someone will go out of there way to not sit next to me, or something equally indirect.
On the flip side, I sometimes feel embarrassed watching news about American politics over here.
She's like, in her forties and has kids. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Sounds like the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, er pew. :-)
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