Italians and prejudice

We've just had elections here in Milan, and it looks like the center-left candidate, Pisapia, might have pulled off a victory against the ubiquitous Letizia Moratti, the candidate for Berlusconi's Popolo della Libertà party. Which is a poke in the eye for Silvio, as he had declared the elections to be a test of the people's will. Apparently, the people want to poke him in the eye.

("Houses and jobs for residents first" and "Stop Immigrants")

For the months leading up to the elections, there have been posters slapped all over town, new ones posted over the old ones every day until there were layers and layers of them, so thick that they started to peel off their base. The ones I found the most repugnant were the Lega Nord posters, and not just because I find their political ideology to be xenophobic, homophobic, and racist, though that was a big part of it. The main reason why I found the posters themselves creepy was that they never displayed the name of a candidate in the city, they always said either VOTE or some polemical statement like STOP IMMIGRANTS. At most, they said the name of Lega Nord's leader and backbone, Umberto Bossi.

Why, I wonder, don't they put up the name of their candidates? Every single other party does it, from right to left. The fact that the Lega doesn't makes them seem both completely tied to their leader, Bossi, and incredibly secretive, a society that wants to be known and unknown. They play on old fears of the Other and on campanilismo in a boldface manner that has to be seen to be believed. One poster literally says that what happened to the Native Americans will soon happen to Italians, and another says that keeping Italy unified is the equivalent of Apartheid. And they are arguably the most powerful political party in Italy.

Still, I can badmouth the Lega all I want, but I don't feel that this is just another instance of those racist Italians shunning political correctness. I see it happening from a distance also in the United States and in northern Europe, where racism seems to be creeping into even the most unlikely places. No one is immune.

I've had two conversations on the subject recently too, one with a barista at one of my favorite cafès and the other by chance with my students.

I was drinking a coffee a week ago when this chatty barista came over to talk to me. He likes me because I'm American and I speak English (even though we speak Italian, I think people like to know that if they felt brave enough they could switch to English to practice, if only they felt like it), and now he can't let me leave without starting up a conversation. This time he asked me if I were staying in Italy forevermore. I don't think so, I said. For many reasons, but also because I don't think I can find a job that will get me a work visa. He looked at me, shocked, and said, "You need a visa? But you're American?" I said, well yes, but I'm not a European citizen, so I don't get a free pass. I am extracomunitaria. He said, "Well there should be some sort of deal between the United States and Italy. You came here to work, not like a Moroccan who comes here to steal!" With that I snapped my mouth shut and stared at him, but I didn't have the courage to reply. Of course in the next five minutes my mind was flooded with things I could have said and should have said, like the fact that the average Moroccan immigrant probably works three times as much and as hard as I do, that the fact that I was white and from a rich country didn't mean I should be treated differently. But of course I didn't say these things, instead I left the cafè and haven't gone back.

Then today in my first year class, I asked the students to practice the conditional by saying what they would do if they ruled the world. For example, one boy said, if I were president, I would fight corruption. Another boy asked me to come to his desk to help him. He asked, "Come si dice mandar via la gente?"
"Send away. But send away who?"
"Lampedusa!" he replied, referring to the Italian island between Sicily and Tunisia that has been inundated with immigrants and refugees from the fighting in northern Africa.
"You can't send away a place," I said.
"Gli extracomunitari! The immigrants!"
I pulled a face of shock and offense. "Me?! You want to send away me?!"
The kids all erupted in laughter, and the boy's deskmate said, in Italian, "Don't listen to him prof! He's a racist! He's a racist!"
I stormed away in mock disgust, listening to them recounting the story to their companions, still laughing. "The prof is extracomunitaria too! He wants to send her away!"

Italians never think of me as an immigrant because I am white and blonde, and for sure I don't suffer the way other immigrants do. But I try to remind them that I am an immigrant, that immigrants come from all over and for all sorts of reasons, often just for work and money, which is what one needs nowadays for a better life. We're not some sort of mass invasion, ready to steal your jobs, rape your women, and murder your children. We're all human beings navigating a new and strange situation together, and it's not going to just evaporate.

Sorry for the seriousness. I'll get off the pedestal tomorrow.

I hear Italy singing

I haven't written anything about the political situation in Italy--that of bunga bunga fame-- and I don't have much excuse for avoiding it. The events of the past months, with Berlusconi at their center, are scandalous, outrageous, and at times incredibly depressing. Rather than get into it now, though, I thought I would share some of my students' (indirect) words about it.

A few weeks ago, I tortured my 5th year kids by making them write (gasp) poetry! We had just read Walt Whitman's "I Hear America Singing," the full-throated song to the joy of hardworking former-colonists, and so I assigned them an Italian version for homework, "I Hear Italy Singing." There was a delightful chorus of groans and moans. I told them to be as playful or sarcastic or patriotic as they wanted to be, and a few of them did a really nice job. Many were very pessimistic, a majority of the poems mentioned corrupt politicians and the mafia. A few stuck to the classics, citing Italian food and beautiful monuments and singing gondoliers. Many brought up football in some way, and playing children. Here are two of my favorites by two students N and A:

"I Hear Italy Singing"
I hear Italy singing, his mediterranean vibes I hear
The vibes of the greengrocer yelling through his loudspeaker,
How red his tomatoes are and how mellow the grape
I hear the jangle of the steel rails, crossed by their streetcars.
The gondolier singing, about Santa Lucia,
The businessman singing, the joy of the contract,
Just signed with the mobster, more joyful than him.
The streetwalker singing, what's on her own menu,
Thinking about the time when Italy's song was her only hope
I hear Italy singing, his melancholic vibes I hear.

"I Hear Italy Singing"
I hear people singing only when the national football team wins
I hear the corruptors and the corrupted singing together
I hear the pope and the priests singing about morality
I hear the politicians singing about nothing while talking too much
I hear the premier singing about the importance of family while paying for sex
I hear the Mafia's criminals singing while they get richer making business with mayors
But then I hear other songs
Those of my friends and my family who don't accept Italy as it is
Those of the honest workers
Those of all the Italians that believe in good before anything else
I hear Italy singing while I'm quiet.

20 questions

A scene from my game of twenty questions with my fourth year students today:
[A boy approaches the front of the classroom, as he has just guessed Bangladesh correctly and now it's his turn to think of something. He chooses jobs.]
E (aside to me): What do you call a man who makes pizza?
R: Let's say, pizza maker.
E (to class): Ok, I've thought of it.
Class: Do you work with other people?
E: Uh, sometimes.
[He sits down at the teacher's desk (I'm always on my feet) and leans back.]
E: I'm tired.
Class: Is it a manual job?
E: Uh, yes, I suppose.
Class: Do you earn a lot of money?
E: Sometimes.
Class (growing indignant): What does it mean, sometimes?
E: Some people who do this job have a big salary but not always.
R: Most of the time no.
[Class grumbles.]
Class: Do you work outside?
E: No.
Class: Can you do this job in Milan?
E: Yes.
Class: Do you work in a hospital?
E: Ehh no. Ok, maybe in a really big hospital. Maybe in the United States hospital.
Class: Are you a lawyer?
E: No.
R to E: Maybe you should give them a hint.
E: Okay, it's someone who gives people happiness.
[Class mumbles.]
Class: Is it a clown?
E: No.
A girl: Un attore comico! Non so chiedere in inglese...
A boy: Is it a comic actor?
Same girl: Sarà il suo spacciatore! Fai soldi un po' si un po' no, qualche volta lavori con altra gente...
Class: Is it a pusher?
R: Drug dealer.
E: No.
[Class grumbles.]
A boy: Do you give massages?
[Some of class makes confused noises and I explain what "massage" means.]
E: Sometimes.
[Class is becoming truly confused.]
R, reminding: He said that you can do the job in Milan. What kinds of jobs are especially Italian?
Class: Do you work in the evening?
E: Yes.
A boy: Is it a prostitute?
E: No.
R: You guys are leaving out a big industry.
[The bell rings.]
Class: What is it?
E: A pizza maker!
[Collective moans and loud complaints. "Makes you happy?! Massages?! Macché!" E trundles back to his desk, a victorious smile on his face.]

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).

l'arte di arrangiarsi

The occupation has ended, with a whimper. Classes began again today as everyone had expected, the desks had been put back in their rightful places, the signs removed from the windows. I came into my fifth year class and asked, "Soooo, what have you guys been up to?" The answers included: staying at home to play video games, playing poker, and attending the assemblies organized by the students.

The assemblies included a meeting with some of the immigrants who had been occupying an old factory smokestack near my home to protest the new curfew in their neighborhood, a rapper who found solace in music during his time in prison, and a scholar of the Piazza Fontana bombing. An assortment of political causes, insomma. Then this morning, instead of having classes for the fourth and fifth hour as usual, the students held an assembly for the whole school outside on the basketball court and requested that the teachers join them.

I went with Giovanna, my teacher, and watched as an intrepid group of students with a microphone implored their peers to come up and share their thoughts about the occupation, about the reform, or about politics in general, with no success. The teachers who had braved the cold stood on the edges, a few smoking, while the others watched from inside or waited it out in the teachers' lounge. The kids sat in a big ring around the basketball court, talking to each other in lowered voices, staring back at their friends with the mic, but no one wanted to come and share their views. Those who actually had articulated thoughts maybe were too shy. They are teenagers, after all. Giovanna and I had a giggle, thinking that now these kids were experiencing a little bit of what we deal with every day: the difficulty of making adolescents talk.

As they repeatedly lectured the others about standing up for their rights and how they should be ashamed that they wouldn't speak, Giovanna and I began to talk about Italy in general. She said that the students were protesting (in part at least) the debt owed to the school, but the truth is, there just isn't any money. People do work all the time, she said, that simply isn't paid. There's no money. Berlusconi pushes private schools to funnel money towards the church and private enterprise. Only immigrants are willing to pay taxes. There's corruption everywhere. And people just won't speak up. She said Italy has always possessed l'arte di arrangiarsi, the ability to worm out of even the most dire problems, but maybe it is getting too bad. Maybe Italy is losing its art.

She said that she thought the families would always be what holds Italy together, what gives it the ability to adjust. She looked around at the teenagers before us and said that the situation is bad, people don't have work, so they depend on their parents. And their parents, with their pensions and what little extra money they might have, support them, shelter them.

We spoke about immigrants, the school system, and politics, both in the United States and Italy. Giovanna said that she, ormai, has become a bit of a pessimist about the way the world is going.

We ended up going inside because Giovanna was beginning to feel the cold. I came back down to hear the last bit of the assembly, but it didn't seem like they had made much progress in cajoling their fellows to speak. A pair of my students came up to me to ask me what I thought as a foreigner. I told them that they had great power, being able to shut down a school even for three days is impressive, but they needed to organize and get productive, don't waste those precious days.

But what do I know? My only act of rebellion in high school was dying my hair blue.

volantino dell'occupazione

This is a volantino that I found in the school yesterday that explains some of the reasons for the occupation. It says:

CREMONA OCCUPIED!
As everyone knows the school reform is causing enormous difficulties for Italian schools...
Specifically in our school:
Halving of the funds for projects like theater, photography, dance, and school newspaper that now have to pay for themselves to prevent their extinction
170,000 euros owed by the government to the school Cremona-Zappa
Financial problems that lead to the cancellation of school trips (over 2 days long) and remedial courses
No funds to repair laboratory equipment
No money to buy and maintain photocopiers, to which every student has the right.

These are just some of the problems that our school has and they will continue to grow if we don't make our voices heard...NOW!!

skuola okkupata!

The students have taken over my school!

I received a message from my tutor, Giovanna, yesterday saying oggi i ragazzi sono in autogestione quindi non venire per il first, today the kids are self-teaching so don't come for class. Autogestione, like last year? I thought. Don't you guys plan these things ahead of time?

I came to school anyway because I needed to pick up and photocopy a few things. I left my bike at Cremona, noting the large number of bicycles out front and thinking, Weird, people saw a glimpse of blue sky and decided to ride to school? I went first to Zappa, the school next door, and so didn't notice anything else strange.

Returning back to Cremona via the basketball courts, I saw a lot of students in giro, heading towards the gym where I could hear whistles and yelling. Weird for them to have a game during school, I thought. I came in the back door and up the steps to find backpacks strewn all over the floor, the stairwell barricaded with desks, and a group of my students from last year milling around. "Grande Rachel! Sei venuta!" said a boy who had wanted me to friend him on Facebook. "Scuola occupata!"

The school is occupied! So no, not autogestione. More like coup d'etat. I went to the teachers' lounge and found all of my colleagues huddled in the overheated room, snarking about the fact that they were there and if the students wanted to have lessons they could. I found Giovanna, surprised that I had come, and she explained the situation a little bit more...

La Signora Chiara (the head custodian) had found many windows open afterschool on Saturday, but she and the other custodians closed them all. Still, apparently the kids arrived super early on Monday morning and, without open windows, convinced the doorman to give them the keys (still not clear on how this worked). They blockaded the school until 8 am, when all the professors showed up, but the vice-principal convinced them to let the professors in. So they entered, lessons were technically held, but no one came. So the profs all crowded into the teachers' lounge to look over their ledgers and grumble.

They are protesting la riforma and its subsequent budget cuts to school programs. Signs up around the school say that politics have become personal vendettas and power plays, and someone had scattered fliers making the students' case.

Giovanna said that the students and the vice principal had decided the occupation would last until Wednesday, but by that time, she said, most of the kids will probably be sleeping in rather than linking arms in front of the doors. She said she hoped they did something productive with their time off, occupations had become fashionable, they just weren't like they used to be. I kept hearing that from the teachers: it wasn't the same as it used to be back in 1968, that's when occupations meant something.

They asked me if these sorts of things happened in the U.S. Maybe in the 1960s, I replied, but nowadays I don't think we realize it's possible.


This morning I overslept my alarm by almost an hour, leapt out of bed, jumped into my clothes, and raced to the school. I was worried that with letting the professors in on Monday and negotiating an end to the occupation for Wednesday I would still be responsible for my 8 am lesson. I was relieved when I saw the huge group of students outside the school. A couple of my 2nd year students from last year were blocking the gate, but I said, "Good morning sunshines!" and passed through them. "Ciao Rachel," they replied, smiling, even as one girl said, "Ma non dobbiamo fare entrare nessuno!" We're not supposed to let anyone in!

Looking up to see the front doors completely blocked by desks and inside no one but students, I realized that maybe things had escalated. Another prof was trying to get past the first guards, so I returned to hear what they were saying. Basically, the girl explained, no teachers were allowed inside, but if we wanted to go around back we probably could get in if we really insisted. The other prof decided no, I decided yes, I was curious. So I locked up my bike and went around back, where I was greeted with more of my second years, including the ringleader, a girl with a partially shaved head named M.

They smiled at me and said "Ciao Rachel!" but M said, "Non puoi entrare." You can't go in. I wasn't going to insist but I asked them how occupations worked, this being my first. M explained in Italian that they had let professors in yesterday and they had held some assemblies but today no, today began the real occupation. They had slept there overnight, I heard one boy say that he had stood guard outside from 11 pm to 5 am. M continued that the principal and the vice principal were going to call the police but what could they do? "Siamo 500 cristiani qui dentro." There are 500 Christians inside. One boy said, "Io non sono cristiano." I'm not Christian! and she replied, "Vabbè, per dire." It's a figure of speech.

So I bid them good luck and turned on my heels, saying hi to the kids that were arriving. I unlocked my bike and went home.

My thoughts later on...I think this entry is long enough.

machismo and the Italian high school student

Last week, in one of my fifth year classes at the technical institute, I presented an article about machismo in southern Europe (Spain, Italy, Greece, and to a lesser extent Portugal) and its ill-effects. The article basically argued that southern Europe's economic woes--such as lagging productivity, enormous debt, an aging population and low birthrate, and a shrinking workforce--could be helped by courting women into the labor market. (In Italy the employment gap between the genders is 22%).

I picked this article because I wanted to start some debate about women's rights and childcare. The article ended up being very difficult for them (gah why you so erudite NYTimes?) and so we didn't get to discuss the issue as much as I had hoped. So I assigned them some homework, a couple of comprehension questions and then an opinion question: What do you think about women working?

Most of the answers were almost identical, little robot responses that said women working is a good thing for the economy. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy the robots are leaning towards feminism. But my favorite response was this one, from a boy R:

"In the workplace I think that women should be treated like men and have the same rights because they work as hard as men.
I'd prefer that my wife, Valentina (his unmarried deskmate), stays at home to look after the children and I would work harder to sustain my family.
Perhaps it is machismo!"

la riforma

The teachers have been a little grumpier this year. Or, at least, the circles under their eyes have deepened. Perhaps the reason is la riforma Gelmini, the reform proposed by education minister Mariastella Gelmini and passed last year by Berlusconi's government. Gelmini began in 2008 to fire teachers, justifying her actions by saying that the school was for instructing, not for insuring jobs. This newest reform has further cut school budgets, reduced hours in certain subjects, cut hours from teacher's pay provided for substituting, and in some cases doubled the size of classes. One of my teachers has told me that this is all an effort to slowly transfer education responsibilities from the public sector to the private one.

For example, four of my third year classes at Cremona have been combined into two mega classes of thirty students. Thirty sixteen-year-olds, corralled together in one room! In my class with Prof. Scafi we divide into two groups as we've always done, but an intimate discussion is a bit daunting even with 15 students.

As a result, strikes have been occurring almost every week. But they're gentle (not in the style of the French, for sure), two times just for the first hour on Friday. Many teachers, confronted with this brevity, come to school anyway even if they agree with the idea of striking. My friend X, a middle school science teacher, told us over dinner that he thought the strikes weren't enough. Non crea abbastanza disagio, it's doesn't cause enough disruption to just skip the first hour. We need to block the schools for a week, keep the kids at home, before the power will feel anything.

Technically, the strikes are for the teachers, not the students, but of course when the kids listen to an announcement that their first hour of lessons can't be guaranteed, they hear, "NO SCHOOL ON FRIDAY!" and disappear for the whole day.

The concept of striking in general is new to me. That even the teenagers can skip school for ideological reasons seems a little tricky. It might be too easy to excuse shirking responsibilities with political motives. But still, people taking any action at all when they want to communicate their frustration with the government is già something I appreciate.

In my lesson about the Declaration of Independence in my other 30-student third year class, I began by asking the students if they had any complaints about how teenagers were treated at the school. They mumbled and a few said no. I asked them if that was the case, why did they go on strike on Friday? More mumbling, a few answered that they disagreed with the reforms. Don't forget to be informed, I told them, when you take action. Maybe they were, they just didn't want to risk explaining in English.

I'm the opposite. I think and inform myself and think and end up going about my day lo stesso. Though Fridays I don't have class, so maybe I was striking by default.

Bonus: This is the education minister on the cover of a right wing news magazine, Panaroma. Welcome to Berlusconi's administration.

what goes on between classes...

Just another exemplary student at my high school sprecando some extra energy.

writer's block

...is a good thing to get when you've just restarted a blog. Also when you have to write a personal statement for grad school applications. And when you really would like to get back on the fiction-writing horse (which for me is a bareback bucking mustang. Or catatonic). I told myself I needed to write something today, though, so here I am.

In school, I am finding that my responsibilities are multiplying in my second year, which makes perfect sense given that I now have 8 months additional experience. I assign homework in one class now, and in another I have begun to interrogare, or give oral tests in class. This all makes me feel very Real Teacher-like, which is nice, since I hadn't expected my role to change very much.

Given that I have 12 classes plus 2 at the classics high school down the road, I've been exposed to a great variety of students and volontà to learn. Today I started thinking about what makes a "bad class," whether that's ever a fair name. One of my fifth year classes at the technical institute where I teach gives me more trouble than any of the others. One the first day of lessons, the kids were rowdy, talked over one another, spoke only in Italian, didn't pay attention to anything I said. One boy, when I asked him what he did over the summer, told me, "I dreamed Rachel every night." Another told me that a girl in the class hates America, though the girl denied it. For the rest of the lesson he glared at me and the space in front of his desk. They threw pencils across the room, carved initials into their desks. I had to circle the class like a teaching-assistant bird of prey, descending on the distracted kids.

But the more time I spend with the class, the more I realize that independent students are not cattivi and are not hopeless. As a group they are casinisti, no doubt. But some of them try. And those that don't, when I corner them and help them answer a question, they try too. Like when they have to explain the meaning of a word in English, first they say Non lo so, prof, dai but with my hints and help they figure it out in Italian. Then of course there's the Ma non so spiegare in inglese, I don't know how to explain in English, which I pretend not to understand. Come on, I say, give it a try. You can do it. And they try, and they do. It's such a tiny victory, just one word and one definition in English, but to me today it felt big. Which makes me wish I could spend an hour with each of them, pushing them along until they figure out how to move forward by themselves.

Bah. Maybe with some more experience I will figure these dilemmas out. For now I'm just a fledgling myself, trying to wing it.

little gifts

Gifts I have received from my teachers and students:
A linen scarf from the teachers at Zappa
A bottle of limoncello from the principal
A bracelet from Ms. B
A photo of the class of 1G where they are giving thumbs up (one of my signature moves) and have written "THANK YOU RACHEL"
A photo from 1E class plus a note saying:
FOR RACHEL! Nice to meet you! Remember us! You are very funny! You are fantastic! We like you!
A bouquet of yellow tulips from the 3rd year class plus a note that says "We won't forget you, have a nice trip, with love..."

Pretty sweet. And then upon leaving, I found this note in the basket of my bike:
X Rachael (spelling error!)
Hi Rachael
Have you got Facebook?
If it is a yes, can you add us
P F & M DM

Hmm.

$$$

Today was my last day teaching at Parini, and I'm a little relieved. It was impegnativo, a little stressful, working my schedule around the 2.5 hour block I needed to get to the school, teach, and leave. The kids were not always a treat either, as in the beginning they were a little aloof and I couldn't shake the feeling of privilege that permeated the classroom, but by the second half of the year we had gotten to know each other and we could joke and laugh a little bit.
In the last ten minutes of class, we played a short game of "Would you rather..." to practice speaking. I asked them, "Would you rather a job that you love that doesn't make much money or a job that you hate where you make lots of money?"
M, a boy with long black hair and the air of a metalhead, smiled at me and said immediately, "I want a job I love, because I don't need a lot of money."
"Okay, great," I said. I then turned to the rest of the class. "What do you guys think?"
L, a blonde girl who has spent a good deal of time in California and has asked me what "co-ed party" meant, said, "I would rather a job that makes a lot of money because I want to be rich and I can always do what I love when I am not working."
"Ah, okay, good...T, what do you think?"
"I would like a job that makes lots of money because I can quit it after a few months but still have lots of money."
Oh dear, maybe I'm an idealist, but this was a little bleak for me. I turned to G, the artistic girl who wants to be a photographer and loves to read and got teased about her new boyfriend. She was my last hope. "G, which would you rather?"
"I agree with T. I want to make lots of money but then I can quit."
I turned to the class in general. "Does anyone disagree, other than M? Do you all want to make money?"
They all nodded. "Yes, lots of money!"
I looked around the room. "Alright, so no one here wants to be a teacher, I guess."
They guffawed. Sigh.

for rachel!

To walk from Zappa to Cremona you have to pass the basketball court and track, which frequently host all sorts of sports. I had run over to Cremona to make a photocopy and was returning to Zappa, and I found my students of last round's fourth year class playing soccer. They saw me and said, "Hi Rachel! Hi Rachel!"
The ball rolled my way, I kicked it back (despite pencil skirt), "Grande Rachel!"
And as I passed, one of the boys pulled away from the others, ball shooting out before him, and raced to the goal, yelling, "For Rachel! For Rachel!" And scored.
I was moved.

all downhill from here

I'm beginning to realize just how little time I have left here. Six weeks. Six weeks is nothing...and the sun has just started to come out! Che sfigata.
I spent a lovely Easter break in Avignon and Paris with my close friend from Smith. We took the train from Milan, something I've always wanted to do, and ended up in a 17th century studio by the house of an old friend of my mom's in Saint-Hilaire-d'Ozilhan. Chuck was a grandfatherly Brazilian-American who regaled us of his human rights efforts during the Dirty Wars in South America. I felt I had arrived during the idyllic and beautiful conclusion of a film, just after the dramatic action.
Paris was also beautiful, full of the street performers I miss in Milan. I think at the end, however, Emily and I were sick of butchering the French language and both ready to get back to countries where we could be understood...
In other news, I've begun a new round of classes (my last), which means a new round of students to meet. Yesterday, I introduced myself to a 3rd year class at Cremona. When I said I was from the United States, a boy up front said he liked South Africa better.
"South Africa?" I asked, thinking maybe he meant South America, as opposed to North America, a preference I've heard before.
"Yes, South Africa."
"Well, they're very different places. What do you like about South Africa?"
"I like the Negro Woman," he said with a grin, waiting for me to be shocked.
This took me aback, I have to say, which is rare. I have become relatively accustomed to the politically incorrect (at best) and blatantly racist comments that pepper conversation here.* I raised my eyebrows and said, "Ah, well we all have our preferences. Does anyone else have a favorite country?"
A boy in the back said, "USA!" but the others remained silent. I asked, "Maybe Italy?"
"No," several kids said, others shook their heads. The first boy said, "I hate it here. When I wake up in the morning, non riesco a respirare, cioè I can't breathe."
He was Albanian, and he first immigrated to Puglia before moving up the peninsula to Milan. And he did not like Milan, for sure. I found myself defending our strange smoggy city. Look on the bright side, I said, thinking in my head that, with more knowledge of English, he might have replied, "There's no bright side, it's cloudy all the time."
In a way I understand him. Milan has offered me its share of challenges and smog. But there is much here that I don't want to leave, and sometimes I forget what a pleasure it is just to interact with strangers in Italian. To be missed when I don't go to my favorite bar, wave to the workers at my neighborhood gelateria, go on long bike rides in the sun, to be close to someone I love.
The time is creeping up when I will have to decide whether to come back for another year or not. I told my mentor that I have applied to return, and we have already made a toast to it over Cola in a fifth year class. But I am not so decided. I will have to think about what I should do, the best idea for my career and my personal development, and perhaps most of all what I want. Non lo so. We will see.

*Another example: At a world sustainability fair here Milan full of green products and charities, Fa la cosa giusta, a charity had made posters expressing solidarity for Africa. Their solidarity took the form of white Italians in blackface with wide grins. I did a double take. F called it a cagata.

a word on grades

Back from a long hiatus of indifference to blog-writing. Turns out when the suns out it can be hard to stay inside. Also my parents were here, and I was busy running around with them and eating. Word to the wise: All the pain and suffering to make a reservation to see Da Vinci's Last Supper is worth it!

I've been thinking a lot about grades and motivation, especially after an incident a few weeks ago at Zappa. Zappa is the technical school I teach at, as opposed to the classics and scientific high school, and I have noticed that the average level of English is lower here. Some of the kids are still wonderfully positive and allegri, but they do struggle more than the kids at the other schools. (This goes in hand with the common belief that linguistic and classics high schools are the best schools with the highest-achieving students, followed by scientific high schools, and then by technical and vocational institutes. As with all common beliefs, it is not entirely true, but I have noticed general differences in the academic levels and economic status of the students at my schools.)

Anyways, in one of my 4th year classes at Zappa where we were learning business English, the students, in pairs, had a project of conducting a mock interview. One was the potential employer and one was the potential employee. One boy, M, missed the day we assigned this project and, because these kids rarely check up on the work they missed when they're absent, did not have a partner and was not prepared to act out the interview. We decided that I would be the employer, he would be the employee, and we would do the interview next week.

The next week, I sat down with him in front of the class and asked him questions, not all of them from the script in the book, and he responded decently. He stumbled over some phrases and didn't understand every question, but I could understand him. The teacher then asked me to give him a grade.

I knew about the Italian grading system already, even though I almost never give grades myself. It goes from 0 to 10, with 6 as passing, on the surface pretty similar to our 0 to 100 scale. However, I had been surprised in the past when I heard students rejoice over 7s and 8s. For me, those grades seemed low.

I thought of the boy's performance, and decided it deserved about a C. It was hardly spectacular, but he had reacted well to unexpected questions. So I whispered to the teacher, "Perhaps a 7?"

M overheard me and immediately began cajoling the prof in Italian to let me decide. I could tell from her face that she disagreed with my opinion, so I asked what she thought was best. "Listen," she told me, "you have to understand how its works. If you give these students a passing grade, they will not study anymore because they think they have done well. They stop working. If you want them to study more you have to give them a lower grade. M especially will not study."

She didn't think he had done a good enough job to pass. Also, his relentless attempts to convince the prof to give him a better grade began to change my mind about his effort. We compromised and gave him two options: accept a 6 or re-do the interview the next week with the teacher. He accepted the 6. When we continued with the other interviews, the highest grade was a 7.5, and the kids who received it were quite happy.

Both the students' contentment with lower grades and the teachers' philosophy for motivation surprised me. While a student at a good public high school, I was never obsessed with grades, I always worked hard and appreciated an A as a reward. Maybe I was a little nerdy, but even my less smartypants companions wanted good grades, at least in the B range. Rarely did people fail.

Here, students regularly worry if they will pass the year. And the teachers, convinced that the kids won't study if they aren't worried, seem to keep them in suspense. Small errors lose you entire points off your score. I've never witnessed anyone receive a 9, and I asked F if he knew of anyone who had received a 10 when he was in school. He said, "Mai, never." The system here embodies the idea that you cannot reach perfection, as a opposed to U.S. system where it is possible.

So, I wonder, which system is better? Perhaps a question that I will continue to chew on as the months wind down...

Teacher's pets and favorites

Never the twain shall meet...

FAVORITES
I've been thinking about the teacher/student dynamic a lot in these past days. For a teacher, what is playing favorites? Is having favorites okay? Because I definitely have them. I try my absolute best not to show it, but I have them. For example, there's a girl in one of my younger classes, A, who always has a smile on her face, wears brightly colored sweaters and turquoise pants, does her best to speak in class, and plays in a band. If I were 15, I would want to be best friends. Does it show in my face when I walk in the class that I am in love with her? I sure hope not. I don't look at her more than the others, I call on (torture) everyone as equally as I can. But after a sometimes full and stressful week, a smiling face like hers plus the seemingly genuine desire to learn absolutely delights me, and I look forward to that class.
Alla fine, though I may have favorites, I won't play favorites.

TEACHER'S PETS
I haven't encountered too many teacher's pets in these months (perhaps because I don't actually give grades), but the quality of the few I've encountered has been quite high. For example, R, a handsome boy at Parini passionate about cooking, sailing, and French classics, never misses an opportunity to ingratiate himself. He's the first to help me if something isn't going right (like when the CD player wouldn't work, cazzo, I'm 22 years old, I shouldn't need help with these things!). Today as I arrived in class, I gave the erasers a sideways glance and commented that they looked very white, someone must have made lots of mistakes. He immediately collected them and took them to the window to beat them against the sill, only to discover that they were, in fact, white erasers. I can't help but smile. No one has ever run to clap erasers for me before, but it ain't gonna help him pass the FCE.

It's a delicate balance to maintain, the democracy of the classroom. Every student has a right to my attention, and I try to give it equally, even though to some I would like to give more, and to others I would like to give less...

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.

The Characters

A compelling story without compelling characters is a rare thing. My story may not be compelling, it might be kinda normal, but I can at least include some kinda normal characters as well. (My roommates, I can say for certain, are less than normal).

RACHEL: 22 years old, native tongue assistant, teacher, tutor, English language gigolo (gigola?). Intrepid bike-rider, book-reader, and Italian-speaker. A little fuzzy about the next step, or The Future.

THE OTHER PROFESSORS:

GIOVANNA: Generous and sweet professor who guides Rachel through the delights of the Italian school system and its bureaucracy (speaking of which, when will Rachel ever get paid?). Before class, a little scattered and tends to drop things, but during class she's totally in gear. Frequently talks about her son, who apparently has little passion for English.

ANGELA: In gamba professor with a beautiful British accent. She doesn't yell or scold the students, and together they do their best to encourage and teach them. Gave Rachel bedsheets and one day even took her to the Virgin Fitness Center (fashamancy) to try out their vibrating pedestals and sauna. Oddly insists on translating simple Italian phrases into English for Rachel.

ELENA: The second of the two blonde, in gamba professors. Sweet and confiding, bonds with Rachel because they are both southerners (Elena from Ischia, near Napoli). Invited Rachel to lunch at her house, where she taught her a delicious fresh zucchini recipe, and frequently heaps advice upon her (which pesto to buy, which alleyway to take to school, where to get a mattress/umbrella/pastries/mozzarella di bufala). Has an adorable and embarrassed son in one of Rachel's former classes, plus two other boys. Is frequently exhausted.

LUCA: Passionate and intelligent literature teacher. Needs to discuss all lesson plans at length, but in the end they usually come up with nifty ideas together. For example: Everything Rachel --> the South --> Civil Rights and Obama's victory speech --> American ideals --> Romantic ideals --> Whitman --> Emerson --> Dead Poet's Society. Now that they are working together in the 4th year, he seems a little less enthusiastic.

MS. B (first name unknown): warm and competent professor, with the philosophy that a little bit of strictness at the beginning doesn't hurt. Laughs a lot. Rachel would be really happy to be in her classes more, if she ever let her, but there always seems to be an exam or grade to prepare for. Still, when they are together they make a cheerful team. Rachel misses her 3rd year class with Ms. B.

ROBERTA: Über competent teacher big on intimate discussion. Rachel is working on "the open road" as a concept in her class.

MS. R: Very strict but very curious about the United States. Gives Rachel a candy after every class because she has to "talk so much".

MS. G: Called her class "donkeys" on the Rachel's first day. This has colored their relationship ever since.

FABRIZIO: Former Alitalia employee now teaches. Suave and tall. Happy for Rachel to teach pretty much anything, and to teach that anything to both his second-year classes.

MARINA: Professor at the fancy classics high school who hired Rachel. Small and sweet, refers to herself as a nanna, gnome. Candid about her personal life. Thought Rachel was English, almost kissed her when she found out she was, in fact, American. She loves Americans.

Then there are the professors I am getting to know little by little, mostly by smiling and speaking Italian competently. There is the Siciliana that confided in me how incredibly difficult teaching can be, especially when a student tells you to your face she doesn't give a fuck. There is the gym teacher that starts awkward conversations while I am working. There are my wonderful "students" of my conversations class: the French teacher who considers herself timid but says her personality is red, the scientist who declared the life of the punctual man (his life) a lonely one, the hyperactive vice principal who invited me to her house for dinner and introduced me to her lovely daughter (female friend! working on it...), the professor who brought in Pink Floyd to learn from the lyrics...

Other characters to follow...

Would you rather...

At the end of my stay with the October and November classes, I decided to have a little fun. In my fifth year class (high school is five years long in Italy), where we had studied American Romanticism, we watched the Dead Poets' Society. The teacher and I agreed that putting a poet like Whitman ("I sound my barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world") into the context of school life would be fun and helpful for the students. I brought snacks and soda for them, as a way of saying goodbye. When they saw the chips, they asked me to stay their English teacher forever.

In my other classes, we played a conversation game called "Would you rather..." I played this game in high school and college with friends and heard from some other assistants that it could work in the classroom. You give two options and ask them to choose one and to explain why. I think of it as a sort of frat boy time waster. Often it's risque, but with the kids I cleaned it up a little bit. It was a hilarious experience for everyone involved. Here are some of the questions and responses:

Would you rather...

find true love or 1 million euros?
"If I find 1 million euros, I can buy true love."

be able to fly or read people's minds?
"I would rather be able to read people's minds so I could know the answers to the tests."

overthrow a dictatorship or be a dictator?
"I would rather overthrow a dictatorship and then become the dictator."

overthrow a dictatorship and then establish a democracy or be a dictator?
"Be a dictator. Democracy doesn't exist."

always speak everything on your mind or never speak at all?
For this one, the kids almost always said speak everything on your mind. One of the professors lectured them that they should all choose "never speak at all" because otherwise they would risk being impolite. The horror!

be stranded on an island alone or with someone you hate?
"With someone I hate so I could talk to him. I do not want to be crazy and talk to a football."
"With someone I hate because I can kill him and eat him."
(A boy) "Is the someone I hate a girl or a boy?"

be a werewolf or a vampire?
"Be a vampire so I could kill all the girls who like Twilight."

be the smartest person in the world or be spectacularly beautiful?
"If I am the smartest person in the world, I can invent something to make me beautiful."
"Be beautiful because then I will marry a smart woman and she will teach me things."

always smell like onions or always taste onions?
"Always taste onions. I like onions."

The gender differences were very interesting in this game. For example, more girls picked find true love over 1 million euros than boys, but many still chose the money. A few boys opted for finding true love, and more boys than girls chose beauty over brains. It was a girl who said she would kill and eat someone trapped on the island, and it was a girl who said she would be a dictator because democracy didn't exist. I was happy to hear from many girls that they would rather be the smartest person in the world than very beautiful. Thank goodness that we can bend gender stereotypes even in Italy.