O's story of the cappotto bianco

(as told to author last night over impromptù cena, paraphrased/translated/butchered here)

Ahh, che bella Roma, I remember going to Rome with my aunts and my mother when I was young, and we were near Piazza di Spagna, in the street with all the beautiful shops like Via della Spiga in Milan. Everything costs less there, you know, less than in Milan. Anyways I was already cicciotella, a little chubby with glasses and brufoli, it couldn't get any worse. And my aunts bought me this white coat. But you don't understand, in Rome the white coat looks beautiful, everyone goes around in white or camel or some other light color, but the minute you take it back to Milan it turns gray and brown and disgusting with the smog. And the smog back then wasn't the like the smog now, there weren't all these controls. You went outside and the air was yellow, and after a moment your white coat was no longer white. So ridiculous, a white coat. And I looked ridiculous, wearing this thing, already chubby and this white coat with a belt not helping. After two weeks it was a disaster. And I tried to get it dirty. I would rub up against buses, just to ruin the thing once and for all. Che roba, un cappotto bianco. Ahh, but Rome is beautiful.

Rocco e i suoi fratelli

It's the last day of All Saints vacation weekend, it's raining, and the only food I have in the house is food that needs something else to be not gross (like rye crisps). So of course I'm delaying my inevitable drenched venture to Esselunga by staying in my warm room and writing in here.

Last week, F and I went to Gnomo, Milan's community art cinema, to see Rocco e i suoi fratelli, a 1960 film by the great Luchino Visconti. Actually we thought we were seeing Napoleotani a Milano and we didn't figure out we had mixed up the days until a Corriere della Sera movie critic came out and started talking about scenes of violence and prostitutes and false moralism. I was a little bummed that we had traded a fishes-out-of-water comedy for a three-hour melodramatic opera, but I soon got over it watching the film.

This movie has traumatized me a bit, I keep thinking about it. I enjoyed seeing old Milano, the train station, the Navigli before there were so many cars to foul things up, and watching a portrayal of the southern Italian immigrant experience. The brothers together with their mother were fascinating, and Rocco, the saintly brother, was beautiful and frustrating. Nadia was a unexpected force, and I can't help but think that her fate was unfair. The 1960s scenes of violence affected me greatly, me the jaded millenial, and I've been thinking about them a great deal.

Anyways, if one has 180 minutes to spare, I would recommend this one, if only to get you thinking about a movie for more than five minutes.

Our families

Today in my 4th year class with Ms. B (finally I get to return to her class), we improvised. I had thought that it was my first time with the class, so I thought I would do my usual introduction, my life story, ask them their life story sort of deal. I told this to Ms. B as we were running in opposite directions down the hall, and she gave the okay over her shoulder. In the next period though, she stopped me and said, "You've already seen this class before!" Oops. I had thought my schedule had changed, but it was the same class I had alternated seeing the last section. I was just confused. So we decided to talk about our families. Luckily, by this point I am pretty good at improvising.

I told them about my family, how my great-grandfather had named my grandmother, one of four girls, Benny Jean because he wanted a boy. How my grandfather traveled Alabama as a pastor, moving from parish to parish ("What? I don't understand. He works with sheep? Like in Sardegna?"). How when they got divorced, my grandmother went to college and became a social worker. How my mother left Alabama, became a professor, and traveled to South Carolina. How my father was raised by his mother, after his father died of a heart attack, in the heart of Minnesota. How he traveled the northeast and then to South Carolina, also as a professor. My brother, a half brother whole feels like a whole one. Me. But we had already been over me.

These are the stories of two of my students...

N is Rwandan. His parents fell in love while on a school trip to San Francisco, and when they got back they got married. They had three children, including N. the youngest, before they moved to Italy "because there was a war." They stayed together for a little while before they divorced. His father went to London, where he remarried and had other children. His mother stayed in Milan, where she worked for a firm, and raised the children. I asked N if he went to London often, and he said never, he didn't know his father. His oldest sister works in a bank and wants to be "an important manager." His other sister studies at Politecnico with his brother. I said, "Oh, so you're the baby of the family," and he replied, "Yes, but I'm the tallest. I beat my brother at basketball."

A is Italian. He claims his parents met while working together in the United States, fell in love, and got married in Las Vegas. Ms. B and I didn't believe him, "Are you kidding?" but he swore it was true. I asked him how his parents met in the U.S. and he said, "I don't want to know, I don't want to think about it!" I asked him if he had any pets, and he said a big dog named Timmy, but don't blame him for the name because it's his mom's fault.

The stories you hear...

P.S. Today as my regular reward candy, Ms. R gave me truffle-flavored white chocolate. I found it pretty gross, I don't dig truffles. I fear offending her, but I also fear the replacement of the usual chocolate-covered cherry or PocketCoffee with mushroom chocolate. Dilemma.

English as bread and butter...

On November 28th, I will have been in Milan, Italy, for two months. Two months is not the sort of anniversary that requires a fancy dinner or a ring, but it's exciting nonetheless. Because I didn't start writing this when I arrived, I have a bit of catching up to do. Here's the story so far...

Who I am:
I am about to turn 22 (beginning of boring birthdays!). I was born and raised in South Carolina, terrona americana. I attended Smith College, graduating with honors and an English major and International Relations minor. I spent a year abroad in Florence, Italy, where I discovered adventure and self-reliance. I am lost in love with books and languages (though only two languages: English and Italian. If I knew more, I would be in love with them too!). I write short stories and think of myself as a writer, though I'm lazy about it. I have a very vague idea of my future...

What am I doing in Milan:
I came here to teach at two schools, un liceo scientifico Cremona and un istituto tecnico Zappa, as a native speaking assistent. I will work at them until May. As an assistant, I am never alone in the classroom, but most of the time I plan lessons and lead class conversation. I teach in 11 different classes every week, 7 at Cremona and 4 at Zappa.
To feed myself, I've also taken up odd jobs. I stayed with a family during my first three weeks in Milan, and I still return to their house every week to tutor their four children--Chiara, 16, Cecilia, 14, Tancredi, 10, and Caterina, 7. Chiara dislikes (perhaps "dislike" is too weak a word) studying English, but her mother wants to her to take an English proficiency exam called the First Certificate. Cecilia is more enthusiastic, perhaps because usually we just chat, chiaccerare, instead of practicing tests. Tancredi groans and rolls his eyes when we work together, but he can't hide how bright he is. Caterina is adorable and a bit of a terror, who likes our time together but really just wants to draw on me with markers.
The mother of the family, Elena, also gave my resumè to Chiara's high school, un liceo classico called Parini. I didn't expect much to come of it, but they contacted me to teach a preparation course for the First. I teach this class every Wednesday. Parini is famous for being ritzy, and I can see the difference in the students when they whip out iPhones or talk about their long summer holidays bouncing around Europe. My roommates have teased me that I should find a husband there, preferably with two last names.
Lastly, the teachers at Zappa asked me to teach a conversation course just for them. Every Thursday we get together in a little classroom beside the elevators and chat (sort of) in English. They make up for their open-mouthed, blank stares with a genuine desire to learn, a desire that I don't find as often in my teenagers. I generally start from a topic (an article we are reading, how to describe our personalities) and teach them whatever comes to mind.

I am beginning to find my place here after two months. I have a better sense of the classroom, how to cajole quiet students and settle down rowdy ones. I am not afraid to joke with them or look like an idiot (though after misspelling "uninterrupted" on the board at Parini twice, I've been more paranoid about making mistakes). Even with the stress and confusion of the Italian school system, I enjoy teaching. Who knows, maybe this year will bring me some sense of purpose, or maybe it will make me ever more of a vagabond...