My Woes of Being Italian and not Speaking the Language
It’s been few weeks now since Vince told me about the troubles he went through on his fateful second trip to Italy. I’ve known Vince since my teens at the time before he moved to Staten Island in New York. I was on a Zoom call with him when he let it all out.
Benevento, in the southern region of Campania, Italy
I’ve always seen myself as a happy Italian, very proud of my Italian heritage and my Italian roots, he said to me all of a sudden. I love my Italian community here in Staten Island and I pride myself for actively taking part in all the events our community sets up. I even learned how to make my own sausages, and how to bake bread and I love playing scopa and briscola with my friends Remo, Franco and Joe.
Vince’s story is not that uncommon - his grandparents came here from San Leucio del Sannino, a little village near Benevento in southern Italy and were raised during the dark times of fascism and WW2. They both spoke dialect and it never occurred to them that learning Italian would be a good thing for Vince.
I loved my mamma e papa’ - Vince told me - and I learned a great deal about being Italian from my parents but not a word of Italian. But as I said, I was a happy American Italian, at least I was so until my second trip to Italy I took two years ago now. I wanted to reconnect with my Italian roots, you see, and to do that I decided to spend a longer time in Italy , so I stayed at San Leucio for 6 weeks in a room I rented for the occasion.
Vince still has family at San Leucio and particularly is very close to his cousin Gennaro who bent over and backwards to help Vince mingle with his Italian friends.
My cousin Gennaro introduced me to all his friends there which, needless to say, meant nearly every single person at San Leucio. After a while I was on my own as everyone knew me. I started joining a group of nice guys who regularly played cards at a charming coffee shop in the main square.
It was during those card rounds that Vince found himself totally speechless, quite literally.
It caught me completely off guard, they kept calling me O’ ‘mericano that means the American guy. At first I didn’t mind at all until I said to them that I was actually Americano and Italiano. On hearing that my genuine Italian friends had quite an astounding reaction. They smiled first and then laughed keeping on patting my shoulder when one of them turned to me and said You Italiano? Speak Italiano… speak Italiano.
I don’t know what came over me I laughed with them but then the next day I was fuming inside. I always thought of myself as deeply Italian even though I never spoke a word of Italian. My blood is Italian I always said to myself and I am Italian. When did being Italian mean speaking Italian? Would I consider someone American who does not speak American English?
Vince confessed even now he’s not sure, but he started taking Italian lessons so he could prove the card-players at San Leucio wrong.
