Writing Assignment #2

I will have to be honest; at first I was not too pleased about this assignment. There was a certain part of me that was angry. How can I be asked to go out and talk to people who don’t speak my language to speak to me about their country’s immigration problems? If I were an Italian and some young American dared come try and speak to me, in THEIR language about immigrants I would tell them “GO BACK TO AMERICA!” I stewed about this for a few days, just being upset. There was no way it was possible for me to do this. One night I couldn’t take it any more. I was laying in my room with my roommate Natalia stressing out about this.

“Carisa” she said, “You need to stop being ridiculous, just get over it and do it. It’s not that difficult and people have actually been pretty nice about it, the only trouble is finding someone that can understand you.”

Natalia had already been on a roll with her blog, I feel like she asked every person that passed us on the street. How did she do it? I didn’t understand how she could have the courage to speak to these people. I was still battling this barrier with the Italian language. This border is so hard for me to get past, everyday wishing that I could just understand the simplest things.

It took me a few more days to get this through my head. I needed to push my self, to do this even though I might feel uncomfortable. With out struggle there is no success, I told myself over and over. So for sometime I was searching for the right person. I didn’t know who the right person was, I sort of figured when I saw them I would know. After class I stayed in the Campo, wandering. Every person wasn’t right. They seem like they wouldn’t speak English, they look scary, they are too tall, and they walk to fast. They were all excuses. Even though I had made up my mind I would do this, I was still afraid. Why? A few moments ago sitting in Italian listening to Fede talk about different ways to say doctor in Italian, I was confident. Yet another thing was standing in my way. I went to go sit inside the doors of the Rome center to think (there was no way I was going to walk up all those stairs to my apartment just to walk back down).

It took me awhile but suddenly the panic hit me. What was I going to say? What would be appropriate? Ciao what do you think about the race riots in the South? Are You Racist? What do you think about Africans, or Gypsies, or Americans? What was acceptable? This is what I needed to find out. My family always seemed to tell me “be careful what you say, you never know how people will respond.” Thanks mom and dad, tell me what not to do but not how to get around it. One time when I was about 8 one of my moms friends from work came over for dinner. I specifically remember asking her why she didn’t eat rice all the time like Mulan because she was Asian. Needless to say that didn’t go over to well so I had my first talk about race and offending people. No one ever really tells you how to handle these things, I wonder why? I feel like there should be a book written about what’s socially acceptable.

While my inter monologue was running frantically I heard a “Ciao” come from behind me. Caught a bit off guard, I whipped my head around forgetting to return the greeting. There stood a tall, thin man smoking a cigarette and smiling at me. Roberto the doorman, at that moment I felt more relaxed. “Buona Sera Roberto” I said smiling, he had just saved me from the complete madness of my thoughts. He smiled again and started to head back to his booth where he likes to paint really colorful patterns. All of the sudden I knew. “Roberto, parle inglese?” I said using my brand new skills from Italian class. “Yes” was all he said.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions? It’s an assignment for class. Don’t worry it wont be to hard.” As soon as I finished talking I realized I was going too fast. So I tried to slow down a bit, “Just a question for school.”

“Yes,” he said again smiling because now we were both on the same page. I knew Roberto was on good terms with the University and I say hi to him every day, so I felt a bit more comfortable asking him this touchy question.

“What do you think about the riots going on in the South?” He seemed confused at first; he didn’t understand the word riot. I needed to try something else, should I say immigrant? Race? This was so difficult! “The fights going on in the south with the immigrants?” That is what finally worked, after a few combinations of simple words this was finally the one I got a response from. I think Roberto forgot for a minute I didn’t speak Italian. He went off on a rant waving his cigarette around, laughing and smiling. I got the feeling he was happy I cared about his opinion, but got a little bit too excited and starting speaking Italian. This is great! I thought he must have a lot to say. Eventually Roberto and I created our own language, Engtalian. Which was our own mix of English and Italian, along with some pretty serious hand gestures.
“When people come to my house, they shouldn’t get things for less than me. People should not take justice into their own hands. Italians for immigrants.” He said in Engtalian. By house I think he meant home, as in Italy as his home. Roberto began to understand that I was now having issues understanding. Taking a long inhale of his cigarette I could see that he was trying to think of a better way to explain.

“When I go to the Market, in the campo. I buy oranges for 2.50 euro for a kilogram. But when the immigrants who (gesture of picking oranges) the oranges want some they pay .25 cents for the same. This is not good.” I understood where Roberto was coming from. Most of them were living here illegally he said previously, and it wasn’t right that they would get such large discounts on things. He seemed to really like his orange story; through out the conversation he told it to me three times. Once in pretty good English, another time in Engtalian, and a final time in Italian. This was a bit odd he would say it in Italian last… because clearly based on the rest of our talk I didn’t know very good Italian. But I could understand the basics. The words oranges- arance, immigrants, kilogram, the numbers, and of course the picking motion. “Si, Yes,” I said trying to let him know that I understood him.

“One side thinks they are good and right. But that doesn’t mean they can take the justice in to their own hands,” he said. “ I am on no side, I think no one is the right one. It is wrong what people are doing to them, but that doesn’t mean they should do things back.”

“That’s a good point, I think you are right,” I told him trying to do so as easy as possible. He was really helpful so far with the language barrier issue. Roberto was understanding about it and made sure to go slow for me. I asked him a few more questions, but really the same ideas kept coming up. Although we both were willing to try and converse it was really difficult. There were only so many things we could say to each other. The conversation ended quickly after this point. Roberto had nothing more to say that I could understand, and I couldn’t ask him anything else. “Grazie Roberto” I said smiling, extremely grateful he was willing to speak to me.

“Prego” he said back, “Buona Notte.”

I feel amazing that I completed this. Even though I didn’t talk so some stranger on the street. It was still a step for me. I feel like now it will be easier for me to speak to others. I know there will be some common ground. With Roberto most of the time it was hand movements, or words that had something to do with food. But I made this assignment much more difficult for my self then it should have been. Walking up the six flights of steps, where I knew my magical bed and my intensive itunes library was waiting for me, I felt confident. Yes, it was because I had finished the hardest part of my homework, but there was more to it. Small accomplishments like this help me to grow as a person. The thought of breaking down the border of language, what I think almost everyone would agree is the biggest struggle, was almost exhilarating. On the inside I was celebrating. I wanted to jump up and down (and if I wasn’t exhausted I probably would have).