It was a pretty average Tuesday morning in late November. My entire lower body was sore from Monday night's marathon ballet classes. The new quarter had just started but it had been a few weeks that I had been assigned the job of taking attendance in homeroom. It's not that I studied my peers' attendance patterns, but I did notice that Carrie Zino was absent that day. I didn't think I had ever seen that before. Even thinking back to the weeks before I took attendance, I couldn't recall a day since the start of the school year that Carrie had missed.
Even though I had recognized Carrie since elementary school, 8th grade was the first year that really introduced us to each other. We had reading together, in which we were writing partners and I learned that Carrie was a smart girl. And we had lunch together, in which we often sat together, and I learned that she had a particular affinity for green M&Ms. And we had homeroom together, in which I took attendance, and I learned that Carrie never missed a day of eighth grade. Until November 30th, 1999.
If I recall correctly, it was 2nd period, but whatever period of the day it was, it was time for reading class. One by one, we had been giving book reports on autobiographies and on November 30th, it was my turn. Standing at the same podium where I had left the column next to Carrie's name blank on the attendance sheet, I presented my book report on Abigail Adams. Halfway through, an administrator came in to the classroom and waited while I finished giving my report. When I had finished, the administrator made her announcement: our classmate, Carrie Zino was dead.
Dead. Dead? How could she have died? She must have died from a terminal disease. Maybe she didn't know she was sick. Maybe she did and she just never told anyone at school. After all, Carrie had the sweetest disposition and she never complained. She probably did not want to worry her friends or draw attention to herself as the "terminally ill girl". No, she would rather laugh with her friends over lunch about how cheese curls should more accurately be called cheese twigs than make them worry. That's just the kind of girl she was.
But when I left class to go to the guidance counselor's, I slowly discovered that Carrie had not been ill; she had been shot. By her father. And so had her mom. Over the next few weeks, I would hear it reasoned that he was going to have to declare bankruptcy and killed them to spare them from it. I never found out if that was in fact the reason, but after a short period of time, he turned himself in. Over the next few weeks, I would wonder, did Carrie know? Was she awake? Or did she go off peacefully to heaven? I know she loved Jesus and I often pictured her afterwards in a white robe, singing with her sweet, angelic voice and so radiantly joyfully that she seemed to glow.
November 30, 2010
Early this Tuesday morning, I had a dream in which I was riding a bicycle down a large toll road in Atlanta. It was late, so the road was almost completely abandoned, yet somehow it was still daylight. When I rolled up to the toll machine, I took my time fishing out coins, since there was no one else around. I was totally focused on digging things out of the bag slung over my shoulder, but once I found my coins, I turned around and saw two young men who not come by my lane to say hello. It was clear their intention was to rob me. This being a dream, they only wanted my cash and weren't interested in any of the valuables I had on me.
"Give it to us or we'll go get a gun." In retrospect, this sounds ridiculous. If they both left to go get a gun, couldn't I have run away? But this was a dream and so this was very threatening. I knew it was much better to give them my money than risk my life so with shaky fingers, I nervously removed all $26 from my wallet and handed it over. Looking only mildly satisfied, they narrowed their eyes at me (I seem to recall that they insincerely thanked me--again dreamland) and began to walk away, to go find their next victim, one slightly trailing the other. Then the one behind said, "and one more thing..." They both looked at me as if this had maybe been the idea all along, or maybe not. He pulled out a gun and with one quick pull of the trigger shot me in the stomach. And there I died.
My dream continued in what was supposed to be heaven, but looked a bit more like a rehab clinic. There, I was comforted by people I had known on earth that I was not aware were also dead, however I had no real sense of how long it had been since I had met my senseless bloody death in the toll lane to when I woke up in "heaven". I remember only being allowed to mourn my death, thinking about my family, and being comforted by those I had known on earth who were also in heaven. And I remember the feeling that I would pass on from the mourning stage that I was in. That's all I remember before waking up very much alive and safe in my bed on earth.
I couldn't tell you why I had that dream last night. (On more thoughtful consideration, it may have had to do with a movie I watched recently.) But I think about Carrie Zino every year on November 30th and I think this is the first year since 1999 in which it has fallen on a Tuesday. When I woke up this morning after having had this dream, I remembered the image of Carrie being shot in her sleep, which I hadn't thought about in some time. That might have been how she went. But I'm sure it's not how you'd find her now. Tonight, instead of a bloody memory, I want to remember the other image I had of Carrie after her death: glowing, happy, worshipping, singing. When I do get to heaven (the real one, not my dream rehab one), I'll look her up. Maybe we can sing a song together.
Rest in peace, Carrie Zino. 1986-1999.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Reentering and Reentering
It's been a long week. Or whatever span of time it is that has passed. I've been gone from Siena for 10 days. I spent four days in transit to and from the States and another good chunk of two days driving between Atlanta and Charleston. I've hardly had time to think about it all. It feels really strange to be back. Siena felt like home 10 days ago, but now I don't know what to make of it.
When I landed in Charlotte on the way home last week, I was aware that I was experiencing something new: being back in my home country after 2/3rds of a year out of it. Something felt very comforting about walking through the hallway of the airport, maybe it was the sensation of not being a foreigner. I almost jumped back when I first spotted a water fountain.
Sometimes my European friends who have been to America will tell me about the shock they experienced at Americans' tendency to strike up conversations with strangers. I didn't think that this happened all that much more than it does here until on my trip home, I had three people start chatting with me. Along these same lines, one thing that really pleasantly surprised me is the friendliness and helpfulness Americans. Sitting at the Charlotte airport, I watched an airline clerk at the service desk go out of his way to be as helpful as possible to everyone who came up to the desk. Leaving Atlanta, I watched a man working at Nathan's Hot
Dogs in the Atlanta airport greet each one of his customers in a way that earned the title "host" (as he was listed on my receipt.) I saw both of these men work patiently with people who spoke little English, doing their best to express themselves clearly. Their behavior honestly made me proud to be an American.
I volunteered myself for a run to Wal-mart on Monday, partially because I wanted to see how big it was. We have a pretty big grocery store here in Siena, and so when I first walked into Sam Walton's megamart, looking straight ahead, I wasn't too shocked. But then I looked down the length of the store and fully took in the depth ahead of me. "Wow! It's so big!" I gasped to Madeleine, feeling a bit like a 5 year old. I hadn't realized particularly that aisles here in Italy are that much closer together until we stopped at a gas station convenience store whose three or four aisles were so far apart, I probably could have laid down between them. Not that I'd want to lie down on the floor of a convenience store. The one thing that struck me as small, and I mean, really small, was the pasta section in the grocery store. What?!? Less than half an aisle of pasta choices? Where's the rest of it?
Another thing that I didn't really expect to see was the popularity of Italian branded things. Italian style decor, Italian ice, "Tuscan" this and that. I know this hasn't changed, I just had never really noticed it before. I also find it acutely more annoying now the things that make something, "Italian". I really don't want to become a that's-not-really-Italian snob, but it will be hard.
But enough about returning to America, what about returning to Italy? After not having thought a lick about Italian for a week, I was surprised how quickly it came to me when I bought my ticket back to Rome. It was a much smoother linguistic re-entry than coming back from our midyear conference in Spain. But it's weird to waltz in with the throngs of foreigners and know that you are one and yet... aren't. After all, I've learned how to navigate the mob that passes for a line in this country and it got me through customs a lot faster...
But I have only about 6 more weeks here, maybe even a little less. It's hard to want to dive back in when I've just tasted home and I'll be headed back there in so little time. Every time I come back to Siena from time away I approach it with a slight sense of dread. It's not that I don't like Siena. It's beautiful. I've met some wonderful people here. But I have always had a slight sensation of being trapped. I want to go home again but the more I grow up and the more my sisters grow up and the more time I spend away from geographic home, the more I reach that, "You can never go home again" point. The more I have to learn the truth expressed by St. Augustine, "Our hearts are restless till they find their rest in Thee."
When I landed in Charlotte on the way home last week, I was aware that I was experiencing something new: being back in my home country after 2/3rds of a year out of it. Something felt very comforting about walking through the hallway of the airport, maybe it was the sensation of not being a foreigner. I almost jumped back when I first spotted a water fountain.
Sometimes my European friends who have been to America will tell me about the shock they experienced at Americans' tendency to strike up conversations with strangers. I didn't think that this happened all that much more than it does here until on my trip home, I had three people start chatting with me. Along these same lines, one thing that really pleasantly surprised me is the friendliness and helpfulness Americans. Sitting at the Charlotte airport, I watched an airline clerk at the service desk go out of his way to be as helpful as possible to everyone who came up to the desk. Leaving Atlanta, I watched a man working at Nathan's Hot
Dogs in the Atlanta airport greet each one of his customers in a way that earned the title "host" (as he was listed on my receipt.) I saw both of these men work patiently with people who spoke little English, doing their best to express themselves clearly. Their behavior honestly made me proud to be an American.
I volunteered myself for a run to Wal-mart on Monday, partially because I wanted to see how big it was. We have a pretty big grocery store here in Siena, and so when I first walked into Sam Walton's megamart, looking straight ahead, I wasn't too shocked. But then I looked down the length of the store and fully took in the depth ahead of me. "Wow! It's so big!" I gasped to Madeleine, feeling a bit like a 5 year old. I hadn't realized particularly that aisles here in Italy are that much closer together until we stopped at a gas station convenience store whose three or four aisles were so far apart, I probably could have laid down between them. Not that I'd want to lie down on the floor of a convenience store. The one thing that struck me as small, and I mean, really small, was the pasta section in the grocery store. What?!? Less than half an aisle of pasta choices? Where's the rest of it?
Another thing that I didn't really expect to see was the popularity of Italian branded things. Italian style decor, Italian ice, "Tuscan" this and that. I know this hasn't changed, I just had never really noticed it before. I also find it acutely more annoying now the things that make something, "Italian". I really don't want to become a that's-not-really-Italian snob, but it will be hard.
But enough about returning to America, what about returning to Italy? After not having thought a lick about Italian for a week, I was surprised how quickly it came to me when I bought my ticket back to Rome. It was a much smoother linguistic re-entry than coming back from our midyear conference in Spain. But it's weird to waltz in with the throngs of foreigners and know that you are one and yet... aren't. After all, I've learned how to navigate the mob that passes for a line in this country and it got me through customs a lot faster...
But I have only about 6 more weeks here, maybe even a little less. It's hard to want to dive back in when I've just tasted home and I'll be headed back there in so little time. Every time I come back to Siena from time away I approach it with a slight sense of dread. It's not that I don't like Siena. It's beautiful. I've met some wonderful people here. But I have always had a slight sensation of being trapped. I want to go home again but the more I grow up and the more my sisters grow up and the more time I spend away from geographic home, the more I reach that, "You can never go home again" point. The more I have to learn the truth expressed by St. Augustine, "Our hearts are restless till they find their rest in Thee."
Monday, March 15, 2010
5 Random Things + 2
1. Italian women wear boots to dance salsa, at least in the winter. A few wear heels. I was the *only* one wearing flats. In some way though, boots make more sense to me than flip-flops. This observation comes from going out to a salsa dance party Saturday night. I have a real knack for wearing the absolute wrong thing the first time that I go to a nightclub. I'll just say I wasn't dressed like anyone else there but that I didn't feel like I stuck out like a sore thumb. Just a regular normal feeling thumb.
2. I'm changing my mind about what being fluent in a language means. For some kooky reason, I had defined fluent to mean being able to say absolutely anything you want without problem and basically never encountering situations where you don't understand what is being said. A bit stringent of a definition. As I began to search for ways to describe the level in language where you can speak it fluidly, even having a lot to learn, I realized that that's what the literal meaning of "fluent" is. I'm still hesitant to use the word fluent, but perhaps I've lowered my unrealistic expectations of it.
3. I don't know how it is for other people, but I'm not sure I think in words until I have to. I mean that if I'm just in my own little world, there's usually not something ready to come out if asked what's going on up there. (Probably one reason why I hate the question, "Whatcha thinkin'?") The quickest language I could put it into is English. I've now taken the plunge into the world of dance class in a foreign language once again and I am seeing (again) that this creates a problem. As my brain processes movement, it's not processing words, and when my teacher sees that I look confused or asks me a question, it's not a quick process to try to express what I'm thinking. Add to this the fact that the class is in Italian but that my teacher is Cuban and we sometimes speak in Spanish, I can't even decide which language to answer in, which slows the process down even more. I'm happy when I leave class not feeling like a mute who can only shake her head yes or no.
4. A single spaghetti noodle is called a spaghetto. It's true. Even if it's rarely used.
5. Did you know that Indonesia is the 15th largest country in the world by area? It's bigger than Iran! Italy, on the other hand is just slightly larger than the state of Arizona. Spain is apparently twice the size of Oregon.
6. A week or so ago I saw "My Fair Lady" with Spanish subtitles (never mind why). For the phrase, "The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain" they substituted it with, "La lluvia en Sevilla es una maravilla," -- The rain in Seville is a wonder/astonishment. When Eliza Doolittle couldn't say it right, it came out, "La yuvia en seviya es una maraviya." I'm not sure I could pronounce those two spellings differently... On the subject of precipitation in Spain, it snowed in Barcelona! Biggest snowfall since 1962. Additionally, "Doolittle" is a recognized word by Blogger/Firefox's (not sure which) spellchecker. Oh, and one final thought on the subject. Recently, I read about someone who wanted to become a linguist after seeing "My Fair Lady" as a child because it looked like something you could get rich doing. Haha.
7. I used to have a xanga. Okay, so it's still out there somewhere. At some point, they integrated this feature called Xangazon where you could put a little icon of what you were currently reading, listening to or watching. I would occasionally post the album cover of whatever music I was digging lately, even if it weren't what I was listening to at the moment. If there were a bloggerzon, I'd share with you this awesome salsa song. However the reality is that I'm actually listening to the insanely loud irish jig playing over the speakers at the pub where I'm using wi-fi.
The end!
2. I'm changing my mind about what being fluent in a language means. For some kooky reason, I had defined fluent to mean being able to say absolutely anything you want without problem and basically never encountering situations where you don't understand what is being said. A bit stringent of a definition. As I began to search for ways to describe the level in language where you can speak it fluidly, even having a lot to learn, I realized that that's what the literal meaning of "fluent" is. I'm still hesitant to use the word fluent, but perhaps I've lowered my unrealistic expectations of it.
3. I don't know how it is for other people, but I'm not sure I think in words until I have to. I mean that if I'm just in my own little world, there's usually not something ready to come out if asked what's going on up there. (Probably one reason why I hate the question, "Whatcha thinkin'?") The quickest language I could put it into is English. I've now taken the plunge into the world of dance class in a foreign language once again and I am seeing (again) that this creates a problem. As my brain processes movement, it's not processing words, and when my teacher sees that I look confused or asks me a question, it's not a quick process to try to express what I'm thinking. Add to this the fact that the class is in Italian but that my teacher is Cuban and we sometimes speak in Spanish, I can't even decide which language to answer in, which slows the process down even more. I'm happy when I leave class not feeling like a mute who can only shake her head yes or no.
4. A single spaghetti noodle is called a spaghetto. It's true. Even if it's rarely used.
5. Did you know that Indonesia is the 15th largest country in the world by area? It's bigger than Iran! Italy, on the other hand is just slightly larger than the state of Arizona. Spain is apparently twice the size of Oregon.
6. A week or so ago I saw "My Fair Lady" with Spanish subtitles (never mind why). For the phrase, "The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain" they substituted it with, "La lluvia en Sevilla es una maravilla," -- The rain in Seville is a wonder/astonishment. When Eliza Doolittle couldn't say it right, it came out, "La yuvia en seviya es una maraviya." I'm not sure I could pronounce those two spellings differently... On the subject of precipitation in Spain, it snowed in Barcelona! Biggest snowfall since 1962. Additionally, "Doolittle" is a recognized word by Blogger/Firefox's (not sure which) spellchecker. Oh, and one final thought on the subject. Recently, I read about someone who wanted to become a linguist after seeing "My Fair Lady" as a child because it looked like something you could get rich doing. Haha.
7. I used to have a xanga. Okay, so it's still out there somewhere. At some point, they integrated this feature called Xangazon where you could put a little icon of what you were currently reading, listening to or watching. I would occasionally post the album cover of whatever music I was digging lately, even if it weren't what I was listening to at the moment. If there were a bloggerzon, I'd share with you this awesome salsa song. However the reality is that I'm actually listening to the insanely loud irish jig playing over the speakers at the pub where I'm using wi-fi.
The end!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Sunday, January 17th, 2010
I went over to the Gottas today to iron a jacket before I leave town for three weeks on Tuesday.
I’m terrible at ironing so my jacket doesn’t look too much better than when I got there, but that’s okay, because I got so much more than I bargained for.
I wasn’t too surprised when middle daughter Laura, 15, offered me a hot drink. She was insistent so I accepted a hot chocolate and that was just the beginning though at that point I was still planning on leaving fairly soon afterwards. I mean, all the kids had tests to study for and I was sure I would just be a distraction.
But then Elisa decided to take a study break to play the piano. “Do you recognize this song?” she asked me as she started to play something modern and popular sounding. I didn’t really. “But I can never figure out how this part goes!” she pointed to the top of the 4th page where the 6/8 rhythm changed its downbeat from the 1 and 4 to 1, 3 and 5 and back again. She tried it a few times and then I asked, “May I?” and she moved out of the way for me to sit down. I tried it and messed up and tried it again and we laughed, counting and pounding out the beat. “What note is that?” I wondered about a note written several ledger lines below the treble clef. “Re, if I’m not mistaken,” Elisa answered. (“If I’m not mistaken” sounds way formal compared to the Italian version which they use all the time.) Shoot, Re? That’s an E, right? I thought? I hit the E, not thinking it sounded right but not sure either, given the sound of the song. “No, Re,” Elisa said again but it wasn’t until about five minutes later that I realized that Re is D, which sounded much better.
Elisa went back to studying but let me keep playing the piano. I picked through her small music collection delicately (my nails are currently way too long) and sightread whatever caught my fancy as Elisa studied English literature and Mrs. Gotta quizzed Giovanni on European geography.
After a while, I tried to excuse myself. I knew it was approaching dinnertime and I didn’t want to make it awkward if they had to start preparing dinner and couldn’t or didn’t want to invite me to stay. Besides, I had food in the fridge that I needed to eat before I leave on Tuesday. But I should have predicted that they would have asked me to stay anyway, and that it would be difficult for me to say no. “Won’t you stay and have a pizza with us?” Mrs. Gotta said to me right as she pulled out a mat to roll the dough on. I explained about the food in my fridge. “I’m sure you can eat it tomorrow,” Elisa chided me, “and I can come help you with it if you need me to.” And well, it wasn’t too hard to convince me to stay and eat homemade pizza with this family that in some ways feels so much like my own.
I offered to help with something for dinner but instead ended up helping Elisa study for her test on Victorian era English literature. Before we ate, she asked me to listen to her read a text in English and tell her if she mispronounced anything. She had been studying Great Expectations all day, so that’s what I expected it was but halfway into it, I realized that it was Dr. Jekyll talking. I even learned a new English word--tincture.
But the real treat for me was yet to come, and no, it wasn’t the pizza, though it was good. I thought I would leave soon after dinner; I was concerned about wearing out my welcome. After all, I invited myself over so I could iron my jacket. I had expected to get out of their hair after that. I don’t remember what we were talking about as dinner finished up, but the kids pealed away to study again and I was left talking to Mr. and Mrs. Gotta. Somehow I got to talking about my family and a little bit about their story and so I felt, when a lull came in the conversation, I could ask them a little bit about theirs.
“Did you grow up in Christian homes?” I asked them, ever curious about how the current Italian church came to be. “I did,” said Mr. Gotta and I didn’t get much past that. “How about you?” I asked Mrs. Gotta. “My mother became a Christian when I was seven,” she started. And then began to open up a little more. “My mother had been Catholic, well, she was sort of practicing. On the other hand, my father was a practicing Catholic.” “That’s unusual, that your father was more religious than your mother…” I had to comment. “Well, he grew up in Sardinia, which is very traditional, very Catholic, very rooted in its traditions,” she explained. “My mother’s family, on the other hand, was Austrian. She was more skeptical towards religious things, and so was I, as a child. I think I got that vibe from my mother. Then, at some point, there was a door-to-door evangelism campaign. There was this small church and the pastor, no, the pastor’s wife, actually, came to visit her and she shared the gospel with my mother. My father came to know Christ soon afterwards and my family shared with everyone else in our family, but no one else every came to know Christ. My parents went up in Austria and told my mother’s family, but none of them came to know Christ. My brother also is a non-believer.”
And then Mr. Gotta began to tell a little more of his story. “My great-grandfather was a farmer in the Piemontese region, and one day, it must have been in the year, I don’t know, 1850, something like that, he went to a nearby town. He went to the market in the plaza and there he saw someone selling Bibles. In 1850, it was impossible to get a Bible in Italy. The country was just beginning to open up after religious persecution. My great-grandfather was interested and the man selling the Bibles explained the gospel to him and he accepted Christ on the spot. And he bought a Bible even though he didn’t know how to read. He had no idea how to read and he bought a Bible!
“He went back to the countryside and he went to the priest and asked him to teach him to read and write. That’s right, he asked the priest to teach him to read so that he could read the Bible and so my great-grandfather studied the Bible with the priest. And, so, my great-grandmother was very devoutly Catholic and when she found out that her husband had become a Protestant, well that was equivalent to being the enemy. She sent him out to sleep in the fienile, in the hayloft. She banished him. For months he slept out there. And then finally, my great-grandmother came to Christ as well and my great-grandfather could come back and sleep in the house again. And meanwhile, he was studying the Bible with the priest and after awhile the priest said to him, ‘I am old. I am not going to change,’ which is to say, he didn’t want to give up his pension… but he told my father, ‘but this is the right path, keep going down it.’
“And then in this little country area, there were maybe three or four thousand people total, there was another family that had also come to know Christ and their daughter married my grandfather.
“Shortly after my father was born, my grandparents moved to Argentina, but when my father was about 10, they moved back to Italy. When they were still in Argentina, though, my father heard a street corner preacher one time and he accepted Christ. Back in Italy, my father had to go through elementary school again because he spoke Piemontese and Spanish, but he didn’t speak any Italian. So he had to learn Italian. Then when he was 14, he began to work in a factory, but he was studying the Bible on the side. Working and studying and working and studying. He would have continued, but when he was 17, there was the war and he had to join the service. And so my father became a sailor. Our brilliant general took all of these boys from Piemontese and put them in the navy—boys who’d never seen the ocean in their entire lives! They didn’t know how to swim. Swimming pools didn’t exist then, they didn’t have the ocean, the rivers were too dangerous to swim in. And here they were all put into the navy. So if their ship sunk, they had no chance of surviving because none of them knew how to swim. My father’s ship was sunk, actually, and by some miracle he survived. Well, he knew how to swim because he had swum in the rivers, but most of them did not know how to swim.
“Then in 1943, there was October and the government of Italy fell and the king fled to Albania… Imagine if Obama fled the country when the US was at war. Not just Obama, but his entire government, all of his administration, just fled while the country was at war and had no other government in place. Italy was without government and so of course she was taken over by the Germans. Then, a lot of Italian soldiers fled, because if they didn’t flee, they were often killed, or they were captured and sent to concentration camps or sometimes they were made to fight with the Germans. Even if they fled, they were often sought and, if found, shot. My father fled back to Piemontese, back to my grandmother. They came searching for him but they didn’t find him.
“For a long time he never talked about any of these things, my father. But then after about ten years of trying to get him to tell me about his experiences in the war, he started to talk and then he never wanted to stop. He wrote an account of all of his memories actually. It’s really interesting, he writes about all the people he knew. Particularly the way he writes about the people he knew. He writes about sharing the gospel with them. Most of those people came to an ugly end. The war was really a disaster for Italy, it was really a very difficult time in Italy. But it was also a difficult time in the US, I am sure. I know that many thousands of Americans died in Italy.
“Though the church grew a lot in the years during and after the war. Really the evangelical church grew, probably the most, then. Now we have it so good, maybe too good, people aren’t interested in God.”
Somewhere along the way, there was someone in Mr. Gotta’s story who would make a long trek to church; I don’t remember who. But this man, when he was young, lived 50 km from the nearest church and so late Saturday afternoon, he would set off for church on foot and then after church on Sunday morning, he would walk back home. “And we get bothered about our 10 minute drive!” Mrs. Gotta chimed in. Mr. Gotta continued, “I knew a man who did that when I was younger, too. When I was about 15, there was a man in our church, he was in his 80s, who would walk a long distance to church from the countryside. And every Sunday after church, he would come to our house. And my father would give him a sponge bath. He lived in the country, with the animals and the last thing on his mind was bathing, but every Sunday, when he came to our house, he would get bathed.”
“But Pa!” Laura exclaimed, “what did you do?”
“I … watched? I… don’t really remember. I thought it was a pretty strange thing. I was about your age.”
Our conversation was interrupted by a moth in the kitchen and remarks wondering about where the cat was because he’s so good at catching them when he feels like it and other such everyday things. Elisa, who was studying on the couch, asked a question about a vocabulary word and then utilitarianism and Mr. Gotta had some things to say about that too, complete with a tangent about technology vs. science and science vs. naturalism. My heart was as happy as it has been in weeks; I felt so at home.
By that time, it was about 11, six hours after I’d stopped in to iron my jacket. “Thank you for everything!” I told them as I gathered my things to leave. “I really did come just to iron my jacket, but I got so much more than that. Thank you.” As it turns out, Mrs. Gotta had an extra iron which she sent home with me, though she was concerned about how good of an iron it was. “That one will work if you just have something you need to do quickly, but if you have need of something more, you can always come over here.”
I can’t imagine my ironing needs will ever exceed the abilities of the iron she was kind enough to loan me, but I can see myself going back there for a whole host of other reasons. I’m going to bed tonight with a happy heart filled up by a special dose of the international equivalent of home.
I’m terrible at ironing so my jacket doesn’t look too much better than when I got there, but that’s okay, because I got so much more than I bargained for.
I wasn’t too surprised when middle daughter Laura, 15, offered me a hot drink. She was insistent so I accepted a hot chocolate and that was just the beginning though at that point I was still planning on leaving fairly soon afterwards. I mean, all the kids had tests to study for and I was sure I would just be a distraction.
But then Elisa decided to take a study break to play the piano. “Do you recognize this song?” she asked me as she started to play something modern and popular sounding. I didn’t really. “But I can never figure out how this part goes!” she pointed to the top of the 4th page where the 6/8 rhythm changed its downbeat from the 1 and 4 to 1, 3 and 5 and back again. She tried it a few times and then I asked, “May I?” and she moved out of the way for me to sit down. I tried it and messed up and tried it again and we laughed, counting and pounding out the beat. “What note is that?” I wondered about a note written several ledger lines below the treble clef. “Re, if I’m not mistaken,” Elisa answered. (“If I’m not mistaken” sounds way formal compared to the Italian version which they use all the time.) Shoot, Re? That’s an E, right? I thought? I hit the E, not thinking it sounded right but not sure either, given the sound of the song. “No, Re,” Elisa said again but it wasn’t until about five minutes later that I realized that Re is D, which sounded much better.
Elisa went back to studying but let me keep playing the piano. I picked through her small music collection delicately (my nails are currently way too long) and sightread whatever caught my fancy as Elisa studied English literature and Mrs. Gotta quizzed Giovanni on European geography.
After a while, I tried to excuse myself. I knew it was approaching dinnertime and I didn’t want to make it awkward if they had to start preparing dinner and couldn’t or didn’t want to invite me to stay. Besides, I had food in the fridge that I needed to eat before I leave on Tuesday. But I should have predicted that they would have asked me to stay anyway, and that it would be difficult for me to say no. “Won’t you stay and have a pizza with us?” Mrs. Gotta said to me right as she pulled out a mat to roll the dough on. I explained about the food in my fridge. “I’m sure you can eat it tomorrow,” Elisa chided me, “and I can come help you with it if you need me to.” And well, it wasn’t too hard to convince me to stay and eat homemade pizza with this family that in some ways feels so much like my own.
I offered to help with something for dinner but instead ended up helping Elisa study for her test on Victorian era English literature. Before we ate, she asked me to listen to her read a text in English and tell her if she mispronounced anything. She had been studying Great Expectations all day, so that’s what I expected it was but halfway into it, I realized that it was Dr. Jekyll talking. I even learned a new English word--tincture.
But the real treat for me was yet to come, and no, it wasn’t the pizza, though it was good. I thought I would leave soon after dinner; I was concerned about wearing out my welcome. After all, I invited myself over so I could iron my jacket. I had expected to get out of their hair after that. I don’t remember what we were talking about as dinner finished up, but the kids pealed away to study again and I was left talking to Mr. and Mrs. Gotta. Somehow I got to talking about my family and a little bit about their story and so I felt, when a lull came in the conversation, I could ask them a little bit about theirs.
“Did you grow up in Christian homes?” I asked them, ever curious about how the current Italian church came to be. “I did,” said Mr. Gotta and I didn’t get much past that. “How about you?” I asked Mrs. Gotta. “My mother became a Christian when I was seven,” she started. And then began to open up a little more. “My mother had been Catholic, well, she was sort of practicing. On the other hand, my father was a practicing Catholic.” “That’s unusual, that your father was more religious than your mother…” I had to comment. “Well, he grew up in Sardinia, which is very traditional, very Catholic, very rooted in its traditions,” she explained. “My mother’s family, on the other hand, was Austrian. She was more skeptical towards religious things, and so was I, as a child. I think I got that vibe from my mother. Then, at some point, there was a door-to-door evangelism campaign. There was this small church and the pastor, no, the pastor’s wife, actually, came to visit her and she shared the gospel with my mother. My father came to know Christ soon afterwards and my family shared with everyone else in our family, but no one else every came to know Christ. My parents went up in Austria and told my mother’s family, but none of them came to know Christ. My brother also is a non-believer.”
And then Mr. Gotta began to tell a little more of his story. “My great-grandfather was a farmer in the Piemontese region, and one day, it must have been in the year, I don’t know, 1850, something like that, he went to a nearby town. He went to the market in the plaza and there he saw someone selling Bibles. In 1850, it was impossible to get a Bible in Italy. The country was just beginning to open up after religious persecution. My great-grandfather was interested and the man selling the Bibles explained the gospel to him and he accepted Christ on the spot. And he bought a Bible even though he didn’t know how to read. He had no idea how to read and he bought a Bible!
“He went back to the countryside and he went to the priest and asked him to teach him to read and write. That’s right, he asked the priest to teach him to read so that he could read the Bible and so my great-grandfather studied the Bible with the priest. And, so, my great-grandmother was very devoutly Catholic and when she found out that her husband had become a Protestant, well that was equivalent to being the enemy. She sent him out to sleep in the fienile, in the hayloft. She banished him. For months he slept out there. And then finally, my great-grandmother came to Christ as well and my great-grandfather could come back and sleep in the house again. And meanwhile, he was studying the Bible with the priest and after awhile the priest said to him, ‘I am old. I am not going to change,’ which is to say, he didn’t want to give up his pension… but he told my father, ‘but this is the right path, keep going down it.’
“And then in this little country area, there were maybe three or four thousand people total, there was another family that had also come to know Christ and their daughter married my grandfather.
“Shortly after my father was born, my grandparents moved to Argentina, but when my father was about 10, they moved back to Italy. When they were still in Argentina, though, my father heard a street corner preacher one time and he accepted Christ. Back in Italy, my father had to go through elementary school again because he spoke Piemontese and Spanish, but he didn’t speak any Italian. So he had to learn Italian. Then when he was 14, he began to work in a factory, but he was studying the Bible on the side. Working and studying and working and studying. He would have continued, but when he was 17, there was the war and he had to join the service. And so my father became a sailor. Our brilliant general took all of these boys from Piemontese and put them in the navy—boys who’d never seen the ocean in their entire lives! They didn’t know how to swim. Swimming pools didn’t exist then, they didn’t have the ocean, the rivers were too dangerous to swim in. And here they were all put into the navy. So if their ship sunk, they had no chance of surviving because none of them knew how to swim. My father’s ship was sunk, actually, and by some miracle he survived. Well, he knew how to swim because he had swum in the rivers, but most of them did not know how to swim.
“Then in 1943, there was October and the government of Italy fell and the king fled to Albania… Imagine if Obama fled the country when the US was at war. Not just Obama, but his entire government, all of his administration, just fled while the country was at war and had no other government in place. Italy was without government and so of course she was taken over by the Germans. Then, a lot of Italian soldiers fled, because if they didn’t flee, they were often killed, or they were captured and sent to concentration camps or sometimes they were made to fight with the Germans. Even if they fled, they were often sought and, if found, shot. My father fled back to Piemontese, back to my grandmother. They came searching for him but they didn’t find him.
“For a long time he never talked about any of these things, my father. But then after about ten years of trying to get him to tell me about his experiences in the war, he started to talk and then he never wanted to stop. He wrote an account of all of his memories actually. It’s really interesting, he writes about all the people he knew. Particularly the way he writes about the people he knew. He writes about sharing the gospel with them. Most of those people came to an ugly end. The war was really a disaster for Italy, it was really a very difficult time in Italy. But it was also a difficult time in the US, I am sure. I know that many thousands of Americans died in Italy.
“Though the church grew a lot in the years during and after the war. Really the evangelical church grew, probably the most, then. Now we have it so good, maybe too good, people aren’t interested in God.”
Somewhere along the way, there was someone in Mr. Gotta’s story who would make a long trek to church; I don’t remember who. But this man, when he was young, lived 50 km from the nearest church and so late Saturday afternoon, he would set off for church on foot and then after church on Sunday morning, he would walk back home. “And we get bothered about our 10 minute drive!” Mrs. Gotta chimed in. Mr. Gotta continued, “I knew a man who did that when I was younger, too. When I was about 15, there was a man in our church, he was in his 80s, who would walk a long distance to church from the countryside. And every Sunday after church, he would come to our house. And my father would give him a sponge bath. He lived in the country, with the animals and the last thing on his mind was bathing, but every Sunday, when he came to our house, he would get bathed.”
“But Pa!” Laura exclaimed, “what did you do?”
“I … watched? I… don’t really remember. I thought it was a pretty strange thing. I was about your age.”
Our conversation was interrupted by a moth in the kitchen and remarks wondering about where the cat was because he’s so good at catching them when he feels like it and other such everyday things. Elisa, who was studying on the couch, asked a question about a vocabulary word and then utilitarianism and Mr. Gotta had some things to say about that too, complete with a tangent about technology vs. science and science vs. naturalism. My heart was as happy as it has been in weeks; I felt so at home.
By that time, it was about 11, six hours after I’d stopped in to iron my jacket. “Thank you for everything!” I told them as I gathered my things to leave. “I really did come just to iron my jacket, but I got so much more than that. Thank you.” As it turns out, Mrs. Gotta had an extra iron which she sent home with me, though she was concerned about how good of an iron it was. “That one will work if you just have something you need to do quickly, but if you have need of something more, you can always come over here.”
I can’t imagine my ironing needs will ever exceed the abilities of the iron she was kind enough to loan me, but I can see myself going back there for a whole host of other reasons. I’m going to bed tonight with a happy heart filled up by a special dose of the international equivalent of home.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Just how sure are you?
Do the words "subjunctive mood" mean anything to you? If so, you've probably studied a foreign language! You've also probably spent, depending on your commitment to mastering it, many hours trying to figure out this darn expression of uncertainty that, for the most part, we don't bother to distinguish in English.
If you've gotten to that intimidating stage of studying the subjunctive, you've probably had a teacher chastise your for improper usage at some point. "You don't use the subjunctive there! You're stating a fact!" or, "You must use the subjunctive! It's preceded by an impersonal expression!" Your teacher, most likely a native speaker, grew up breathing in her language's logic of the subjunctive. Certain phrases imply certainty and others don't! Surely that's clear to you! (It certainly hasn't always been clear to me!)
But I've discovered something studying Italian. Italian speakers and Spanish speakers differ on what phrases indicate certainty. For example, in Spanish, you don't use the subjunctive when you say, "I think that..." but in Italian, you must. IE:
Spanish: "I think that it is a good idea." Boom. Done. Good idea.
Italian: "I think that it may be a good idea." Just my opinion, though.
So if your Spanish teacher always told you that you use the subjunctive when expressing an opinion, but not when you say, "I think" (duh!) and you were confused, and thought, "but aren't I expressing an opinion?" you weren't alone. The Italians agree with you.
On the other hand, Spanish speakers use the subjunctive when using the word "when". Obviously! You don't know when, or even if it's going to happen! How could you state it with certainty? The Italians, on the other hand are more sure.
IE:
Italian: "I'll call you when I get back to the house." I mean, I'm going home, so when I get there I'll call you.
Spanish: "I'll call you whenever it is that I may get back to the house." I don't know when it's going to be. In an hour. Tomorrow. Maybe never. Sorry. But I'll call you when it happens!
It's not obvious! (Which by the way, would be a phrase that requires the subjunctive... I think.) These two different but similar languages look at some of these situations differently, and it is reflected in their grammatical rules. So the next time you're chastised for your incorrect use of the subjunctive, politely inform your accuser, "It isn't clear!" but whether the next part of your sentence should be subjunctive or not.... for that you're on your own.
If you've gotten to that intimidating stage of studying the subjunctive, you've probably had a teacher chastise your for improper usage at some point. "You don't use the subjunctive there! You're stating a fact!" or, "You must use the subjunctive! It's preceded by an impersonal expression!" Your teacher, most likely a native speaker, grew up breathing in her language's logic of the subjunctive. Certain phrases imply certainty and others don't! Surely that's clear to you! (It certainly hasn't always been clear to me!)
But I've discovered something studying Italian. Italian speakers and Spanish speakers differ on what phrases indicate certainty. For example, in Spanish, you don't use the subjunctive when you say, "I think that..." but in Italian, you must. IE:
Spanish: "I think that it is a good idea." Boom. Done. Good idea.
Italian: "I think that it may be a good idea." Just my opinion, though.
So if your Spanish teacher always told you that you use the subjunctive when expressing an opinion, but not when you say, "I think" (duh!) and you were confused, and thought, "but aren't I expressing an opinion?" you weren't alone. The Italians agree with you.
On the other hand, Spanish speakers use the subjunctive when using the word "when". Obviously! You don't know when, or even if it's going to happen! How could you state it with certainty? The Italians, on the other hand are more sure.
IE:
Italian: "I'll call you when I get back to the house." I mean, I'm going home, so when I get there I'll call you.
Spanish: "I'll call you whenever it is that I may get back to the house." I don't know when it's going to be. In an hour. Tomorrow. Maybe never. Sorry. But I'll call you when it happens!
It's not obvious! (Which by the way, would be a phrase that requires the subjunctive... I think.) These two different but similar languages look at some of these situations differently, and it is reflected in their grammatical rules. So the next time you're chastised for your incorrect use of the subjunctive, politely inform your accuser, "It isn't clear!" but whether the next part of your sentence should be subjunctive or not.... for that you're on your own.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Is It a Love Letter or Is It a Riddle?
I miss you.
This distance has been hard for me and I miss hearing the sound of your voice.
I can feel you slipping away. I know you're still there, but I just don't feel like we're as close as we used to be. It's hard for me being so far away from you. I feel like I'm forgetting you. I can't remember your every detail like I used to. I know you're slipping away.
People said that it would be possible to maintain what we once had. "Nonsense!" they told me, when I expressed my concerns, but I knew it just wouldn't be the same. The little time that we get to spend together, across the internet, don't make up for being together in person. I can hear you, but I don't feel your presence. Our time together is short, usually scripted. I miss the personal interaction. Hearing you say my name, the way you can't pronounce the "th" and get that nice throaty "H" at the beginning... it's so cute.
We've had a lot of really fun times together, and you let me just be myself in ways I never would have expected. Sometimes I mess up when I'm around you, but you just laugh it off. Sometimes you say something funny and I share it with anyone I think would understand. You're so gracious to me. When I lose or forget something, you never make me feel like it's my fault. You've introduced me to so many new friends too and I can feel my connection with them disappearing as I feel like I'm losing you.
You introduced me to new worlds, with lots of dancing and new foods, new music and new places. Those things just aren't the same now that I speak with you less. Instead of feeling warm they just exacerbate your absence. I listen to your music and immerse myself in its sounds and spirit only to take off my headphones and wake up once more to the jarring reality that I'm no longer in your world.
I'm going to be with you again in just a few short weeks and I honestly don't know what it's going to be like. Have I built you up in my head? Will it feel just like coming home? Will it ever be the same? I feel like I'll have to get to know you all over again. I wait with an anxious heart, but a heart that's also poised to sink to the pit of my stomach. So that might be a bit over-the-top, but I think you would have liked it, you with your flair for the dramatic.
Our reunion is right around the corner. I'm not sure if I should hold my breath. I'll see you soon, querido.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Who is it?
This distance has been hard for me and I miss hearing the sound of your voice.
I can feel you slipping away. I know you're still there, but I just don't feel like we're as close as we used to be. It's hard for me being so far away from you. I feel like I'm forgetting you. I can't remember your every detail like I used to. I know you're slipping away.
People said that it would be possible to maintain what we once had. "Nonsense!" they told me, when I expressed my concerns, but I knew it just wouldn't be the same. The little time that we get to spend together, across the internet, don't make up for being together in person. I can hear you, but I don't feel your presence. Our time together is short, usually scripted. I miss the personal interaction. Hearing you say my name, the way you can't pronounce the "th" and get that nice throaty "H" at the beginning... it's so cute.
We've had a lot of really fun times together, and you let me just be myself in ways I never would have expected. Sometimes I mess up when I'm around you, but you just laugh it off. Sometimes you say something funny and I share it with anyone I think would understand. You're so gracious to me. When I lose or forget something, you never make me feel like it's my fault. You've introduced me to so many new friends too and I can feel my connection with them disappearing as I feel like I'm losing you.
You introduced me to new worlds, with lots of dancing and new foods, new music and new places. Those things just aren't the same now that I speak with you less. Instead of feeling warm they just exacerbate your absence. I listen to your music and immerse myself in its sounds and spirit only to take off my headphones and wake up once more to the jarring reality that I'm no longer in your world.
I'm going to be with you again in just a few short weeks and I honestly don't know what it's going to be like. Have I built you up in my head? Will it feel just like coming home? Will it ever be the same? I feel like I'll have to get to know you all over again. I wait with an anxious heart, but a heart that's also poised to sink to the pit of my stomach. So that might be a bit over-the-top, but I think you would have liked it, you with your flair for the dramatic.
Our reunion is right around the corner. I'm not sure if I should hold my breath. I'll see you soon, querido.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Who is it?
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Italian Romance, Continued (and a note on sing-songiness)
"By the way, Josh is now engaged," I told all the girls on the way to Laura and Elisa's house after an afternoon of ice skating. (Side note: In Italian, the words boyfriend or girlfriend and fiance are used interchangeably, so you have to say that they are "officially fianceed")
"Really?!" They exclaimed collectively. "Tell us about it!"
Admittedly, I don't know many of the details, but I explain what little I know. There wasn't that much of a planned program to it as there was with Tom's engagement. The absence of a program brought up the whole episode with Andy and our friend Giacomo's opinion on it.
"Not romantic?!? He doesn't think it's romantic? That's because he's not a woman!" were the various cries that went out.
"Giacomo thinks he knows everything" Elisa comments, "Men think they know everything."
"We do!" piped in her 12 year old brother, which brought out laughter from his five female (and substantially older) companions.
I comment only because it was interesting to see this situation through a different pair of eyes. Maybe there's less of a gap there than there first seemed ;)
On an unrelated note, but one with the same cast of characters.
I ate dinner with this family tonight. We were one Italian family made up of mom, dad, two sisters and a brother, aged 18, 15, and 12 respectively, two Portuguese sisters and me, an American. At dinner, one of the Portuguese girls comments that lots of people think Italian is very songlike. In fact, many Portuguese people think that if they just sing their Portuguese words, they'll practically be speaking Italian.
"But what on earth do you mean? Italian sounds like we're singing? Who thinks that?!?" asked one sister incredulously.
"Most of the world!" I exclaimed, adding that English speakers also tended to think of Italian as melodic.
"Ciao, Pa!" sang the 12 year old son to his father. And then a sister or two joined in between peals of laughter, "Ciao, Pa! Ciao, Pa! Ciao, Paaaaaa!"
"Haha, Italian sounds like we're singing..." the mother commented shaking her head.
And that, was the end of that.
"Really?!" They exclaimed collectively. "Tell us about it!"
Admittedly, I don't know many of the details, but I explain what little I know. There wasn't that much of a planned program to it as there was with Tom's engagement. The absence of a program brought up the whole episode with Andy and our friend Giacomo's opinion on it.
"Not romantic?!? He doesn't think it's romantic? That's because he's not a woman!" were the various cries that went out.
"Giacomo thinks he knows everything" Elisa comments, "Men think they know everything."
"We do!" piped in her 12 year old brother, which brought out laughter from his five female (and substantially older) companions.
I comment only because it was interesting to see this situation through a different pair of eyes. Maybe there's less of a gap there than there first seemed ;)
On an unrelated note, but one with the same cast of characters.
I ate dinner with this family tonight. We were one Italian family made up of mom, dad, two sisters and a brother, aged 18, 15, and 12 respectively, two Portuguese sisters and me, an American. At dinner, one of the Portuguese girls comments that lots of people think Italian is very songlike. In fact, many Portuguese people think that if they just sing their Portuguese words, they'll practically be speaking Italian.
"But what on earth do you mean? Italian sounds like we're singing? Who thinks that?!?" asked one sister incredulously.
"Most of the world!" I exclaimed, adding that English speakers also tended to think of Italian as melodic.
"Ciao, Pa!" sang the 12 year old son to his father. And then a sister or two joined in between peals of laughter, "Ciao, Pa! Ciao, Pa! Ciao, Paaaaaa!"
"Haha, Italian sounds like we're singing..." the mother commented shaking her head.
And that, was the end of that.
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