conversation with a Senegalian

While I'm writing about the subject, I recently had a bit of a conversation with a fellow immigrant in Via Dante. He was one of the Senegalian booksellers who pound the pavement in the wealthier areas of Milan selling books about African culture. I've always wondered how this works, where the books come from and where the money goes. I've never bought one of the books, but the sellers are always so cheerful that I frequently end up talking to them.

Last Thursday I had sat on a bench in Via Dante to listen to some street musicians, and I knew in sitting down I would attract the booksellers, if I was lucky also a couple of rose vendors and the guys that want to tie bracelets to your wrists. After a few minutes a bookseller approached me, said hi, and asked if I had ever been to Africa.

"Yes," I said.
He looked up, surprised, "Where?"
"Kenya, a long time ago."
"Ah, I'm from the other part."
"Senegal?"
"How did you know?"
I wanted to say something like everyone who has ever tried to sell me a book has been from Senegal but then I thought that was inappropriate, so I said, "I guessed!"

He tried for a bit to sell me a book but I told him I didn't want one. He tried to sell me a children's book, but I told him the children in my family didn't speak Italian. Then he got interested and asked me where I was from. He started trying to speak a little English, and I listened and helped him (I am a professional, after all).

He said he had been in Milan for a year. I asked him if he wanted to stay and he said that if he makes enough money he'll go back to Senegal and if not he'll remain in Milan. He said he missed Senegal, its ocean and la gente allegra. In Milan everything was different. I agreed with him there, the people here are grumpy and rushed, and that day I had been feeling a bit down about the milanese atmosphere.

He said he was trying to learn English. I asked him what languages he knew, and he said French ("Because they were our colonizers, but here no one speaks it"), Wolof, Italian, and a little bit of English. He introduced himself then, but I, being forgetful, let his name slip out my other ear. He told me he was always in Via Dante, so I should come back. I said, Maybe. He said, "Thank you," and I asked him how to say your welcome in French, and he said "De rien." Then he said, "If you come back to Via Dante, I will teach you French and you can teach me English." This set my imagination whirling with all sorts of fantastic scenarios, but I said, "Alright, we'll see."

So that's my story, two extracomunitari having a conversation. I'd like to know more about what he thinks of Italy and its gente, who he knows here, where his family is, where he plans to go if Italy doesn't work. I'd like to know what drove him to come here, to this place that puts up posters saying that he's a thief and a criminal. Mainly I'd just like to talk, because I think it's the best defense against prejudice, especially my own.

il cavaliere inesistente

Italo Calvino outside the Einaudi publishing house in Torino

I've been gobbling up books lately, too quickly actually, driven by more a fury to read than to digest, so I decided to slow myself down by reading something in Italian. The book is I nostri antenati, our ancestors, an anthology of the three novellas by Italo Calvino, Il cavaliere inesistente, Il visconte dimezzato, and, the only one I've already read, Il barone rampante. So I'm in Il cavaliere inesistente right now, the story of a knight in Charlemagne's army who doesn't exist; his suit of armor is empty of any body, it contains only his mind, his spirit, maybe his soul? I think I have to finish the book to find this out.

Midway through the book, Agilulfo (he who doesn't exist), Rambaldo (a young and idealistic young man hoping for glory), and Gurdulù (the mad fool who has been assigned to Agilulfo as a page by Charlemagne--O bella! Questo suddito qui che c'è ma non sa d'esserci e quel mio paladino là che sa d'esserci e invece non c'è) set about the task of burying the bodies from the earlier battle. Each confronts a corpse and has his own reverie: Agilulfo thinks proudly and defiantly of the pains and disgust of having a body that can die, Rambaldo questions his fury for glory and thinks of his love...and Gurdulù:

Gurdulù trascina un morto e pensa: "Tu butti fuori certi peti più puzzolenti dei miei, cadavere. Non so perchè tutti ti compiangono. Cosa ti manca? Prima ti muovevi, ora il tuo movimento passa ai vermi che tu nutri. Crescevi unghie e capelli: ora colerai liquame che farà crescere più alte nel sole le erbe del prato. Diventerai erba, poi latte delle mucche che mangeranno l'erba, sangue di bambino che ha bevuto il latte, e così via. Vedi che sei più bravo a vivere tu di me, o cadavere?"

Gurdulù drags a dead body and thinks, "You're farting out worst stink than me, cadaver. I don't know why everyone pities you. What do you miss? Before you moved, now your movement passes to the worms that you nourish. You grew hair and fingernails: now you will melt to manure that will make the grass grow in the sun. You will become grass, then milk from the cows who will eat the grass, blood of the baby who drinks the milk, and so on. See how you are better than me at living, o cadaver?"

And so it goes...

Classes have been going well in these two weeks since the holidays. I've been talking about high school and prom night with the kids after finding a funny little article from Newsweek:

Prom Night Isn't What You Think

They seem to really like it, or at least to be mildly amused by the sorry adventures of our valiant teenager, although he wrote the article before they were born. We begin by discussing their typical image of prom--the romance, the dresses, the perfection, the final scenes of "Twilight"--and then we read the article--disappointment, frustration, a two-year-old tux. Afterward, we talk about the contrast between the two.

In my other fifth year class, we've begun talking about the South, which I hope to follow up next week with some blues and bluegrass. Maybe some Mississippi John Hurt...



When I'm not in class, I've been seeking out a warm place to read. Of course, there are countless cafès and bars, but they are not always welcoming for a long, literary stay. I need a place like the Haymarket in Northampton or La Citè in Florence, a place with coffee and books and magarì a comfy couch, a place where I can go, curl up with a book or some work, and stay for hours. I think once I find that place I will be much happier here...