once upon a time

"Once upon a time in the land of Parma, famous over the world for its delicious Parma ham, lived a stupid little prince in a gray and lonely castle. The prince wanted even better ham. He had been told that the best ham in the world was the ham from a magic pig that lived in the woods of his kingdom. The problem was that nobody was able to capture it. The prince looked for a killer of magic pigs on Facebook. This famous killer lived in Africa, and the prince was willing to pay a lot of gold if he could bring him the magic pig. So the killer accepted the prince's offer.
After a long journey, the killer arrived at the castle and the same day started the hunt. During the night, the killer finally found the magic pig and tried to capture him, but the little pig became a lion and started to fight with the killer. The little pig didn't know that the killer was African and he was an expert hunter of lions. The poor little pig ended up in the killer's sack. It was taken to the castle.
When the prince saw the little pig, he was so happy that he started to dance, singing, "I'll have the best ham in the world!" When the little pig heard these words, he transformed the prince into a little donkey so that he could eat only grass and no longer ham.
Soon after the princess came into the room, found the magic little pig so cute, and thought that such a beautiful animal should not be hunted. From that day hunting pigs, whether magic or not, was forbidden.
Everybody lived happily ever after, especially the little pigs."

-a story by V, a studentessa in my 5th year class at Zappa. They had to use the words (chosen by them) "killer, Facebook, Parma ham, stupid, magic pig, castle, prince, to dance, Africa" and to be "super duper creative" (me).

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.

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.

Wrong side of the bed...

Woke up this morning, swung my feet out of bed, and splashed into about a centimeter of water. My whole room had been flooded by the radiator. Sometime in the night, the little lamp we had clamped to it had turned the knob that releases water, beginning the deluge which trickled out of the kitchen and perfectly under my door.

I woke up my valiant roommate Richard (Riccardo), and together we spent a half-hour wiping up water with towels, rugs, and tablecloths and wringing them out in buckets. Finally, the room was relatively dry, and I thanked roomie profusely. Un po' incasinata, but things were improving.

Having a mild case of disorderliness, I had let my two winter coats fall on the floor from the chair they were hanging on, and now they were soaked. So I put on my thrift coat I got in Florence to face the January day. This coat is, however, way too long for my bike. I had almost made it to Zappa before it got sucked up in the brakes, stopping the wheels and almost sending me into traffic. I pulled over and got down on my knees, spending twenty minutes on the side of the road trying to wriggle it out and enduring the confused sguardi of the more functional adults who passed me. Ended up tearing it to get it free. Oh well, it only cost 9 euros, and it makes me look like an old lady anyways...

At last, when I finally made it to school, covered in bike grease and my sanity barely in tact, I had a good story to tell the kids. Who needs dignity when you can make teenagers laugh.