My Husband has Skin of Brown.

Mary Grace has skin of white tinted gold, hinting at her Italian heritage generations back. Her skin tells a story of long summer days in her youth spent on the warm beaches of the Connecticut coastline. In her mid thirties, after discovering that she could not have children, she opened her heart and home, and she saved me. She stepped in as a mother at a time when my own was unable, and from her I learned the meaning of the words unconditional and compassionate. I also learned that one must always finish all of the cereal that one pours into a bowl. Mary Grace is a Christian in the most literal sense, following the bible as closely as she can. She fears many things, avoids many things, and often times, her fears are inconsistent with the willingness with which she has accepted my husband. However, when we sit down together at the dinner table, such things are irrelevant. Mary Grace is, has always been and will always be, the mother of my heart 

My husband has skin of brown. He is quite possibly, the same exact shade as the gingersnaps I bake each year for Christmas. He was born into the crowd and color of India but only a short year later, his family relocated to Bangkok for his father’s work. He had a childhood of freedom and mischief, running around the neighborhood with friends and basking in the constant love of his mother. He came to America for school, and quickly learned about the harshness of a midwestern winter while suffering from a lack of Thai street food. As a physical therapist, he has worked hard to make his patients stronger, and has become a friend and means of encouragement to the many who have been in his care. Though not quite American, he is most definitely American, and can often be found on his couch shouting at a football game.

Genevieve has skin of white, a flawless complexion to go with her stunning smile and long brown hair. She is thinly built, but with a deceptive strength. She has been hurt and she has been afraid, but she is so strong. She lives near Switzerland in the east of France and when discussing her hometown, she speaks with a pride similar to that of a proud mama. Upon asking her where to visit before a trip to Paris, her eyes focused far away and her voice grew wistful. “I had a moment,” she said, and proceeded to describe  emerging from a train station in central Paris, while a delicate snow blanketed the city under the soft glow of twilight street lamps.  She did not simply tell me a place to go, as most people would have. Instead she gave me her moment, an infinitely more valuable gift. 

Jim has skin of olive, dark hair and a perpetual mustache. As an ethnic Muslim Albanian, he came to America from a country that no longer exists. He worked as a line cook and through the years, worked his way up to being a contractor. He learned English quickly by simply trying and failing over and over again. He was a wonderful father to my younger brother and brought a sense of calm to a home that was so desperately in need.  From him I learned that mac 'n' cheese need not come from a box, that bread is not always sliced, but torn, that there is integrity in hard work and that though life may spin out of control, one can have the strength to build anew.  

Amelia has skin of brown and dark eyes that reflect kindness bred from a difficult past. She and her husband come from Guatemala and work incredibly hard to break a cycle of poverty in order that their children have opportunity and happiness.  Amelia struggles daily to live life in a language not her own. She and I met in an ESL class and conversed frequently in a mixture of horrifyingly bad Spanish and rapidly improving English. She has moved up to the next class, but each Saturday afternoon, her two children stampede like little elephants, up the steps to my apartment to learn piano, and to color pictures... pictures which are now taped to my fridge.

Esther has skin of white with a hint of olive, a gift from her mediterranean father, and her face shares features with her Jewish American mother. When she moved to America, she left her family in Brussels and Valencia and her boyfriend in England. She moved into my spare bedroom and from that point on, we learned. She learned that, no, she could not put me, her roommate, on her work health insurance, and I learned (or attempted to learn,) how to cut potatoes without a cutting board. I followed her to sushi shabbat as she endeavored to find a home synagogue in a new city, and she followed me to mass, where I cantored.  Together, we made Christmas cookies and Hamantaschen, we set up a Christmas tree and lit candles on the Menorah. (which the cat loved to sleep next to as we had decided to raise her Jewish) We went kosher for passover, eating far too many macaroons and we watched Fiddler on the Roof while singing along. We married within a year of each other, she to a Catholic man and I to a Hindu, thus permanently confusing the cat.

Sister Barbara has skin of white with a rosy rouge on her cheeks, Her white hair is closely cropped and her stride has slowed to a shuffle as the years have added to her wisdom. She wakes each day to do battle, to demand better of herself, her church and those around her. She slays her enemies not with hate, but with her heart and kisses cheeks indiscriminately. She kisses the dying, the healthy, the clean, the dirty, the strong, the fallen, the young, the old, the happy and the devastated. And if while kissing my husbands cheek, she happens to ask him, ”Do you works out?!”   Well... 

Samira has skin of brown with large kohl lined eyes. She is a strong, beautiful, independent woman with a loving husband and two adorable imps for daughters. She works hard to keep her family on track and reads every book she can find on raising children. She is confident in her career, and she balances time with skill that any planning manager would envy. She and I talk of our faith, comparing quirks and anecdotes of each and she wraps her love of God and freedom of speech around her in the form of a beautifully colorful hijab. After all, her religion is not the same as the one we hear of on the news.  As I look at how lovely she is, I wonder if I would be so brave were our roles reversed. 

I have skin of white, the kind of beige that if I leave off makeup for a day, people inquire after my health. I am Catholic, though I have a heretical view that God can be found in many names, through many paths. I adore my church, my community, my music, my students. I have everything I need, but still everyday, I fight my own battles. I battle fear and anxiety and I fear that the events of my daily life are small and shallow. I fear that I have no power to change anything in myself and in the world around me. I fear that I won’t write, that I won’t stand up for my opinion. I am afraid that my freedom of speech wouldn’t need to be taken from me, that instead I would toss it aside out of fear of disapproval. I fear that in the wake of recent events, there are those I love who may be less safe because they may pray in a different way or have skin of a different shade. 

We have freedom of speech, and so many have died to gift us this right. We have the right to speak hate and divisiveness and we have the right to speak love and unity. The choices we make point to our own true color. And so as time speeds and I find I may have more years behind than ahead, It becomes vitally important to me, that I use my gift of free speech to spread love. This is my personal war with fear and I am stepping up to the challenge. Each day I will work to be brave enough to smile and say hi to those who may be different from me. Each day, I will acknowledge that I do not know everything, that every person I meet can be my teacher. I will fight to make sure that the words from my mouth reflect the combined knowledge and grace of those I love. When I reach the end of my life, I want...  No... I NEED to look back and see that the story I have written is one full of love. This is the war I choose to wage. 

After all, 
Nous sommes Charlie, Nous sommes Ahmed, Nous sommes Mary Grace, Nous sommes Jim, Nous sommes Genvieve, Nous sommes Amelia, Nous sommes Esther, Nous sommes Samira and so on.. Nous sommes tous. 

We are everyone.

I am everyone.

Je suis tout le monde.

 

Elena

Everyday, Elena sits, leaning her elbows on the windowsill of her second story flat, directly above the front entryway. This tiny, birdlike woman with sun speckled skin and pale hair, watches with open shutters as her modest world moves along on the street below. She folds laundry, mends clothes, and waters courtyard flowers from her perch. Upon catching a glimpse of a familiar face, she shouts with surprising force and clarity, holding countless daily conversations with neighbors in the street or on nearby balconies.  Despite her bonhomie and vivaciousness, Elena lives alone. She had loved and lost many years ago and perhaps as a result, she has become comfortable on her own... strong. Her nephew Alessandro visits daily, picking up his clean shirts that Elena's frail yet capable hands have lovingly washed. As Alessandro leans down to kiss Elena's papery cheek, their conversation echoes through every centimeter of the three flat building (and possibly, a few neighboring buildings as Alessandro had inherited Elena's tendency towards extraordinarily loud speech.) 

Elena was a dream neighbor for one hoping to learn Italian. My days began as I woke to Elena's voice in the next apartment. I drank my morning cafe while shamelessly eavesdropping, I waved goodbye to her in her window as I headed out, and when I came home, I looked for her and listened for her deafening "Ciao!!!"    

Sometime though, when one lets go of a dream, it is not just the obvious that is missed. Sometimes it is all the little things, like a small table on the roof, or a plant on a balcony, or the smiling bank guard and his dog at the corner, or the quiet walk to the bike path, or the garden shop two blocks away, or the smell of earth and sage or the taste of salt in the air. Or sometimes, it is simply a petite old woman in a second story window, fluttering her hands in welcome as you unlock the front gate, the woman who leaves her window to throw open her door as you race up the steps to your own door, the woman who stops you in your haste, reaching her slight hands up to cup your chin.  

"Ah, Bella!" She says, as if to say... 

"What took you so long?"

Popes and Prostitutes..

Roma is achingly beautiful with her seven rolling hills, her ornate architecture and her sweet Mediterranean air. She tugs at the heartstrings of those who visit, inspiring instant love and loyalty, and many who romantically observe her have imagined that her allure is flawless. Oh yes, she is stunning, but occasionally, our bella Roma restlessly shifts her skirts. If we happen to be looking, we catch a glimpse of a vulgar weariness that quickly disappears back under her immaculate hem… provided of course, we graciously look the other way.

Roma exists inside the circular embrace of the Grande Raccordo Anulare, known to Romans as the "Gra" or as the soul sucking infinite highway of clogged dreams. In order to leave the city in any direction, one must first drive a lethargic stretch of this highway while plotting varying means of escape with escalating levels of desperation. As the "Gra" is a large endless circle, one is never truly lost and given enough time (say, 16 days...) one is sure to reach the planned destination.

Within the circle of the "Gra" exist other progressively smaller circles of car stalling highways, causing one to imagine that Roma's city planners were actually enthusiastic students of Dante, students who euphorically modeled Roma's highway system after Dante's Inferno. Jutting out from the city center, like spokes on a bicycle wheel, are a series of smaller highways which connect the inner and outer circles in ways that seem to defy logic.  

Out of the way in Genoa

One such highway, starts charmingly a couple blocks north of the graceful loveliness of Villa Borghese.  However, Via Salaria, named for it’s history as an ancient road transporting salt from the mouth of the Tiber, has retained it’s salty reputation. Heading north from city center on Via Salaria, one eventually leaves behind well tended, prettily painted buildings, replacing them with countless car dealerships, shady motels and ironically, Italian headquarters for multiple media outlets. Nearly on the doorsteps of these businesses, exists a perpetual number of varying types of women, engaging in the worlds oldest profession. There are statuesque blondes and delicate brunettes, there are ones who are constantly tugging down their obscenely short skirts and there are those who stand tall though nearly naked, pride holding their spines straight. They are standing along the Via Salaria in the dark hours of the night, in the bright sun of the day and in every hour in between.  Some have eyes full of the knowledge of Eve and some have eyes that are far too young to have seen a loss of innocence. Some are of Romani decent, some have survived harrowing boat trips from Africa, and some have been trafficked from Eastern Europe. Many do not have papers and so, in the eyes of the world, they simply do not exist. Their pain cannot be real if they are not real.

The revered late Italian priest, Don Oreste Benzi, who in 2003 brought a Nigerian former prostitute with aids to a meeting with the then Pope, once stated, “It’s the fault of the police, it’s the fault of the caribinierri, it’s the fault of those Catholics who sleep rather than wake up as one and put a stop to the whole thing.”  But it is not just the Catholics, it is all of us, we are asleep, we drive quickly past, we look the other way and the world continues as it is.  

Italy is overflowing with non practicing Catholics. Perhaps they are disillusioned, resentful of the control that the Catholic church exerts over daily life and policy in Italy, or maybe they are tired of the hypocrisy.  But things are shifting and with the election of a new, more humble and compassionate pope, many lost Catholics, Italian and otherwise, are having a second look towards the Vatican...even if just out of curiosity. 

Towards the end of July, we packed our overheated bodies together under a brutal high noon sun in Saint Peter’s Square. As Pope Francis stepped forward with his signature sheepish smile, a roar rose up from the crowd at his feet. He began his Sunday homily, quietly, soothingly, and as his gentle Italian words rolled past my understanding, sweat rolled down the back of my legs. I lifted my camera to my face, adjusted the zoom and held my breath to steady myself.  

“Man, I can’t see shit!” a loud male voice stated. As shadow engulfed my lens, I lowered my camera and stared into the back of a large man taking lip smacking swigs from a bottle of Heineken. “Brutto!” I thought... and I fumed. And in doing so, I forgot that I was standing in front of the Pope, I forgot that his words were washing over me. I had stupidly allowed myself to lose the moment. 

Later, I looked up a translation of Pope Francis‘ words. 

“Let’s remember that all is lost with war, and nothing is lost with peace.  Brothers and sisters, no more war! No more war! Above all, I think of the children, those who have been denied hope of a decent life, of a future: dead children, wounded children, maimed children, orphaned children, children who have remnants of war as toys, children who don’t know how to smile. Please stop!  I ask you with all my heart, it’s time to stop! Stop, please!”     

*****

Saint Peter chuckles “Jen, how is your Italian coming along?” 

“Pah! I could speak every language and still miss the point!”

“Jen, I know that you are starting to see, but when will you start to Do?”

“Gee, I don’t know.. maybe when Pope Francis tells me where to dive in, what I can do to magically help change the world...” 

Peter lifts one brow skeptically, “Well in that case, Ms. Sarcasm, perhaps you should get back to your Italian. You’ll want to be able to answer when the Pope gets chatty..”

Kissing Pete

Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita,

mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,

ché la diritta via era smarrita.

Midway upon the journey of our life

I found myself in a dark forest,

For the straightforward path had been lost.

Dante Alighieri

Saying goodbye to my Saint Peter is always difficult. He is the rock upon which the church sits, and at times, he is my rock, but he is also my friend. I walked so far to get to him. He is my north star, my confidante, my conscience. He is not always kind, but he is always there. He stands quietly in the large square named for him and he holds the keys to heaven gripped in his right hand. He is flanked by the grandeur of the Vatican and he has stood among the millions of tourists and pilgrims who have packed the giant piazza. Ninety six saints watch over my dear Peter from the surrounding colonnade and the tiny, dark, square Sampietrini stones lay at his feet. Upon arriving in Rome, I quickly head to the Vatican to say “Hi,” and before leaving Rome, he is my last stop. 

Recently, on a cool clear summer evening, I walked quietly towards him, through the nearly empty square, prepared to say goodbye yet again. A few stars winked and the moon sat low next to the Castel Sant’Angelo. Despite a soft breeze teasing the ends of my hair, the Sampietrini stones still held the day’s warmth beneath my feet.  I looked up at Peter, shocked to find myself already saying goodbye. 

“How fast time passes!”
“You’re telling me! I’ve watched a couple millennia just slide right by!”                                       
“But Peter, what comes next?” “ 

Time races.. I can hold my breath, squeeze my eyes shut and stomp the ground, but still, time refuses to yield. I have blinked and 12 years have passed. And I never feel this more than at the start of another school year. Some of my students are going off to college, some are moving onto high school. Others are driving and discovering the joys of the opposite gender. (dear God!) My students are growing up... but am I? Friends are moving quickly through the stages of life; marrying, leaving the city, buying houses in the suburbs and larger cars, having babies and discussions about potty training and parenting methods. And yet, I am digging my heels in. I have no explanation, only questions. I feel so strongly that there is something I should be doing, but no matter how I search, I can’t discover this illusive purpose.  And so, like Dante, (only less talented,) I find myself in a dark forest, having lost my way.  But I am reminded that without his forest, without his inferno, without his purgatorio, Dante would never have stood in paradise chatting with Peter about faith.

“Peter, will I see you again?” Peter sighs deeply.    
“Jen, why don’t we start with the forest…”

I blew him a kiss and walked away.

                                                    

Calma

There is the historical Trastevere neighborhood with its narrow meandering streets and it’s plethora of trendy bars and boutiques. In one tucked away corner lies a tiny, dusty, cluttered shop full of soon to be repaired old instruments, a family of rescued stray kitties, and a retired man with small silver spectacles. There is the university neighborhood of San Lorenzo, home to La Sapienza, and filled with the buzz and energy of youth. One can frequently catch a stray scent of weed, while walking through these impudent streets. There is the excessively wealthy Parioli neighborhood with its immaculate historical homes and impenetrable gates. Chic dogs weave and chase through the upscale cars lining these streets. 

There is the heavily graffitied Pigneto neighborhood with its culture clash of gentrifying, young, up-and-coming Romans and its constant influx of desperate immigrants. There is the grandiose Piazza Venezia with its wide busy round-about and its massive national monument. 

There is Villa Borghese, the sprawling English style garden portrayed in Respighi’s symphonic poem, “Pines of Rome.”  There is Campo de Fiori, home to a picturesque daily food and flower market and and well known magnet for tourists. There is the southside Testaccio neighborhood, home to a large 19th century slaughterhouse turned museum of contemporary art. There is the stately Vatican, epicenter of the Catholic church and home to my beloved dear Saint Peter. 

Also...

There is a quiet road. There is no historical significance that I am aware of, only an empty curvy road surrounded by trees and connecting the city center to the northwest commuter neighborhoods of Balduina and Torrevecchia. The road dips gently into a subtle valley, just deep enough to trim a more than a few degrees off of a stifling summer day. 

After an evening well spent in drinks and dinner with friends or wandering the crowded banks of the Tiber, it takes only about 3 short minutes for a scooter to traverse this mini highway from end to end, but in that short time, cool air kisses overheated skin, humidity laden trees perfume the night, and stars shine brighter overhead while clouds chase across the face of a super moon. 

One reaches out a hand to touch these chilly dark hours, One exhales, then inhales deeply, purposefully as hair whips and curls in the wind. Occasionally, one attempts to freeze time, only succeeding in stealing precious moments. But as the road begins to climb, one leaves the brisk quiet behind and looks to the way ahead.

The Home by the Sea

In my kitchen, I am confident. I can cook a feast for 30 while only breaking into a light sweat. I can bake perfectly formed cupcakes with creamy centers and light enticing frosting at a moments notice. I have been having a life long love affair with my Calphalon frying pans and me and my knife... well, we are best friends. BUT, when I am taken out of my kitchen, out of my element, when I am placed into unfamiliar territory, such as in a tiny kitchen by the sea about 45 minutes south of Salerno, a kitchen complete with a strong Italian mama, my previously mentioned skills dissipate. I looked down in horror at the head of lettuce, the simple task of tearing each leaf causing my hands to shake. 

“Am I taking too little time to wash the salad? Am I taking to long?? When the hell was the last time I washed my lettuce?? Am I tearing into pieces insultingly small? Oh dear God, does she want me to squeeze the lemon on the salad? How much is too much? What if this is the cleanest most sour salad to ever exist in the history of all creation? Where is a tornado siren when you need one???”   

Antonietta Raffaella rules her kitchen with an iron strength earned from 45 years of marriage, raising two children now going gray and chasing after three energetic grandchildren. She is a tiny woman, not quite reaching 5 feet, with a sturdy build and patches of pale vitiligo affected skin dotting her capable hands and feet.  Her short puff of hair is tinted red, matching her cardinal colored nails, and her smile is well etched into the lines of her face. Beyond raising her own children, she dedicated her life to helping others through her work as a nurse to mentally and physically handicapped children and young adults. At the wise age of 66 years, she has well earned her summers in the little house by the sea.

Rizziero, Rafaella’s husband, endearingly known to some as “Baffone” (The Big Moustache,) is a bulldog of a man, with the arms and legs of a triathlete and the belly of one who is blessed with an extremely talented wife in the kitchen. He is the definition of a man’s man with his dark hair, sun bronzed skin and forceful personality. He spent his entire career building and inspecting cars at the end of one of Fiat’s assembly lines and in his retirement, he obsesses over crossword puzzles and falls asleep while sitting at the dinner table, his head slowly drooping into his afternoon expresso. He lives loudly, full of generous emotion and when he heads off to the bathroom, his adult children (who really should know better) snicker and say “ scimmie con le scarpe da ginnastica ai piedi.” (it smells like he ate monkeys and gym shoes.)

Rizziero is from the old guard.. the generation who knew how to find dinner in the sea, how to fix cars, how to hold a hammer, how to repair one’s house, the generation who voted for the communist party and still would if one currently existed in Italy, the generation who believes wives tales such as “wet hair will cause migraines” and “one should never open the refrigerator barefoot,” the generation whose hands don’t fit comfortably on a computer keyboard...the generation in which people spoke face to face to one another.

Every August, Raffaella and Rizziero play host to family and friends in their little house by the sea, while living by the motto that “to feed is to love.” Guests are embraced as family and are given food and drink to a near bursting point, and after a week of sun, sand, wine and quiet evenings, one cannot leave their orbit without a bag of potatoes grown in their own garden. 

However, their’s has not always been an easy path, and there were times in their many years together when one thought seriously of leaving the other. But even so, even as the breeze through the window carries the smell of the sea and they fall into a comfortable bickering, Raffaella leans her head towards Rizziero and their chairs are close. 

Dangerous Ciambelle!

my downfall...

I knew as soon as I saw the little ciambella, that I must have it, but I also knew that to have one would likely cause great physical distress. However, one must weigh moments of true happiness carefully in comparison to the potential resulting pain..

We were strolling one cool summer evening, through the final night of a Partito Democratico festival (the left leaning political party of Italy’s current fresh faced leader, Renzi.) We passed by stalls and tents full of used books, incense, free Tibet info, pizza, assorted sweets and hippy clothes (otherwise known as ‘clothes I like to wear.’) I stopped to watch at one stall as a man shaped dough into hand sized rounds before dropping them into a giant deep fryer. On another counter, hot, golden fried orbs glistened as they cooled. Two woman then liberally doused each doughy bite of heaven with sugar before arranging them as a display to tempt ravenous pilgrims such as myself.  

Unfortunately though, there are two types of food that, without fail, cause a nearly immediate need for a toilet... ‘Deep Fried’ and ‘Creme.’ But there are two types of food that I truly love... 

After walking by the ciambelle stall 3 times, I decided to ignore ALL past experiences with my digestive system. As I lovingly picked my very own sweet ciambella, the server woman gestured to multiple pastry bags full of potential filling... chocolate creme, vanilla creme, limoncello creme, Nutella (holy mother of GOD!!) I gestured to the simple vanilla and watched as she stabbed the center of my ciambella, inflating it with euphoric amounts of fatty goodness.

I picked up my newly adopted ciambella.. now weighing in at at least a kilo, and I bit through the golden crispy outside, tasting the soft warm spongy center. Oil dripped onto my fingers and hands as my lips became coated with sugar. My eyes rolled back as I sighed rapturously, thanking the gods in all forms.

Ten minutes later...

“Oh No, we need to go home NOW!”

“We are about 30 minutes away. Can you make it?”

“I think so..” said haltingly while breaking into a cold sweat..

Italy’s Florentine 13th-century poet Dante (otherwise known as Il Sommo Poeta,) devised many gleefully imaginative punishments for woeful sinners in his Purgatorio; the envious had their eyes sewn shut, the proud crushed under rocks, the slothful forced to run incessantly. However, I propose a change to his punishment of the gluttonous. Rather than having the overeaters starve while surrounded by overly tall trees full of succulent fruit, I propose that the punishment for a life lived stuffing one’s self silly must include a lengthy (years long) ride on the back of a scooter, over painfully uneven cobblestones while one’s intestines are trying to turn themselves inside out.   

SamPietrini is the endearing name of the heavy, square volcanic stones that pave the tiny streets of Rome’s city center. Sharing the namesake of the basilica that centers the catholic church, these little Saint Peters add character and loveliness to an ancient city. They also add misery and torment to the life of those who head downtown to overindulge in the culinary joys of Italy. We raced home over the crooked bumpy streets while I prayed to a sadistic Saint Peter and tried to internally manage the waves of abdominal cramping. Despite the unimagined closed roads, despite backtracking, despite catching every red light (which is only a suggestion to stop...) despite getting stuck behind not just one but TWO buses on narrow streets, We made it home before digestive armageddon.. just..

Twenty minutes later...

As I sat exhausted on the couch, the cold sweat and spasms receding, I reflected on the night’s events.

“I really wish I had another ciambella right now ”