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Dear Italy, Love Carm

Dear Italy,

 

I remember a time of sinking into the blue leather of a Trenitalia seat to watch the evergreen of the Lazio region pass me by, letting the weight of my past month there, specifically my time in the city to which was dutifully returning and the nation’s capital, Rome. The blur of green hues painting the window in specks like pieces of a Van Gogh piece seem to parallel the rush of emotions, experiences, and people that defined my semester abroad and many of my experiences around the country. Each something concrete in their own right, but with the velocity of it all, hitting me at once more like dots and color to be distinguished and interpreted. 

 

My name makes me think of you. Carmela Guaglianone, after my Nonna, who still lives in Calabria with much of my father's family. She is an honorable namesake and a force to be reckoned with. Most of my memories of her include bread being thrown across the table in serving-sized chunks and “Mangia!” being shouted commandingly at any and all who dared pause while they scarfed down her home-made meal. This is an Italian woman; mine is an Italian name. It is a name that, in America, distinguishes my dark hair as brunette-with-a-story and always warrants a follow up, “and how do you spell that?” In Italy, it is pronounced with rolled R’s and long L’s, turning me from a call to a cadence in my classrooms and giving me an edge in introductions.

 

 In some spaces it makes me feel at home, like my Italian-Americaness is warranted and validated. When the follow-ups come and my Italian language skills begins to crack however, it weighs heavy on my tongue, a reminder of my “almost” status. I am Italian, but not quite. Without breaking the language barrier, the country becomes a painting I can’t decipher. Of course I can discern my own meaning within it, one of value and beauty— but the artist's intention falls short of my grasp. The version of you I know is mediated through a translated lens; an outsider looking in. But still you are a part of me. 

 

As I go further into this journey of understanding and embracing my heritage, I am attempting to focus more on how the aspects of my history I am connecting to can educate me, rather than define me. I have learned, also, this means accepting both the good and the bad. Italy, in its past and in its current day has, has committed many wrongs. Often I am overpowered by the beauty of the river and the solemn history, standing stately at each corner and in every piazza; but in turn, I have had the privilege of being part of conversations that demonstrate the tragic history and continued oppression that sits in the cracks of cobblestone and hieroglyphic inscriptions on those same statues. All I can hope is to continue to learn and grow from Italy’s complex, and ever on-going brushstrokes.  

 

Love, 

Carm

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