“A different language is a different version of life.”
Federico Fellini
Today marks the end of my third week at my Italian language school, Torre di Babele. The program is an immersion-based school with classes five days a week. The only permissible language to speak is Italian. Discussions in other languages are actively discouraged: English, Spanish, Portuguese, Mandarin, Russian, German, Igbo, or Japanese, all are off the table. I reference those languages because they represent the “mother tongues” of the students who joined me those first few weeks.
Before I started at the school, I was concerned about how many native English speakers there would be and whether they would slow my learning. That was not the case. Students came to Roma from all over the world to learn Italian. They were a diverse group of people with their own backgrounds and stories to tell, and that my friends was pure magic for me. However, as in life, even pure magic sputters sometimes, and in my third week, my language school took an abrupt swipe at my educational nirvana when a reminder from my past showed up and challenged my perfect learning environment.
The first few weeks consisted of eight other students representing: Nigeria, Russia, Japan, Switzerland, China, Peru, Taiwan, and Brazil. When I saw this group, I was thrilled. It was exactly what I wanted. I relished being the only American there and I enjoyed the diversity. However, come week three, a new student joined us. He looked remarkably like Eugene Levy, facial expressions and all, and proudly introduced himself as, “Dave from Orange County, California.”
When “Dave from Orange County” rolled off his lips, I felt the gut-punch of an angry Alanis Morissette song. It could be any one of her classical rage-instilled hits, but this felt most like an “Ironic” moment:
“Well, life has a funny way of sneaking up on you when you think everything’s okay and everything’s going right.”
With that simple introduction, I found myself suddenly thinking about my former life in California, LA traffic, earthquakes, wildfires, and my yearning for good Mexican food. I thought, “Shit, why is life popping my perfect bliss bubble?” Dave’s simple introduction threw me into a tailspin.
When class ended, “Dave from Orange County” said goodbye to me using his best Italian. I returned the same in Italian. Then “Dave from Orange County” promptly corrected and admonished me for mispronouncing a few words. He said, “If you cannot pronounce it correctly here, you’ll never get it right.” If this was anyone else, I would have thanked them and not been offended, but no, not “Dave from Orange County.” I smelled a challenge. So I said, “Dave from Orange County, how long have you been in Italy?”, which he replied, “about four years.” Well, that was all I needed to hear to unravel a year’s worth of work on Zen-based love and compassion for all.
I said to Dave, “After four years you should be singing like an Italian canary, and yet we’re at the same language level. I’ve been here two weeks. What’s your excuse?” Obviously, this put him on the defense, which is exactly where I wanted him. He mentioned something about work being busy, and I responded with a disinterested, “oh…ok.”
I left school and had to think about what “Dave from Orange County” triggered in me. I had not felt this way with any other student. I enjoyed all of them. I had wonderful afternoon walks with fellow classmates, Olga and Maria. Olga gave me perspective on life in Russia. We discussed what makes us different and what unites us. Maria and I strolled around ancient Roma. We visited the Forum, Palatine Hill and the Colosseum. This was Maria’s first visit, and experiencing it with her was a joy. Maria talked about her journey from Nigeria to Italy and her Catholic faith. I talked about my journey from America to Italy and my Spiritualism.
These experiences with Olga and Maria fit the romantic vision I had in my head. I would be surrounded by individuals from all over the world with their own unique stories to tell. We would talk language, art and culture. I would remain in a state of cultural bliss as part of my own reinvention. I would be a “European-in-the-making” blending in seamlessly with those that occupy this amazing continent. California’s painful events over the last 24-months would be far away and not come crashing back from the likes of “Dave from Orange County”.
After some thinking, I believe I understand my reaction. Dave was a victim of circumstance. I do believe his “made in America” tongue, may have been a bit too liberal for my burgeoning “made from the roots of Italy” desire. He obviously had no idea of the Pandora’s box of emotions he released when he introduced himself and reminded me of the past I wanted to forget and then challenged me at the deepest level.
His comment hit me in two ways. First, Dave used “never”. I detest words like, “never”, “you can’t”, “it’s not possible”, “that will never work”. They are terribly dangerous words for anyone to use. They set upper limits and boundaries on what a person can accomplish. I have lived my life trying to avoid upper limits, and this entire journey is all about destination unknown. The fact that Dave attempted to limit me was his first mistake. Secondly, his comments landed as an invalidation of my efforts. Sure, learning a new language is difficult, and absolutely terrifying at times. However, I was sensing my progress after those first few weeks. His simple comment hit my belief system and my ego head-on, and that is always a dangerous place to land with a stranger.
After much thought, I realize that if I want to smell the roses, I have to accept the thorns. My thorns are not Dave, but the memories, emotions and beliefs that cohabitate within me. I need to deal with the occasional Dave that will appear in my life and bring with them the painful memories of California and the conflict with my values. They will remind me that not everyone has tested their upper limits and found they are usually self-imposed and movable. I have a responsibility to show people what’s possible when they eliminate their barriers. These thorns are milestones on my road. The opportunity is mine to explore.
Despite this emotional rest stop, the program is incredible. Silvano, our instructor, is brilliant at what he does. We do not learn Italian by translating it into English or any other language. Silvano uses actions and expressions to associate a word or phrase with a subject or activity, similar to how children learn to talk.
After three weeks, I have reached a level of competency somewhere between a babbling two-year-old in diapers, and a rambunctious four-year-old that just discovered kitties make good throw toys. I can understand what the teacher is asking me, and when responding back, my responses are more refined and accurate, and I become a bit more confident each time.
As far as Dave goes, my Alanis Morrisette tributes will come and go. There will be more Daves in my life and more thorns to be exposed. That is what I signed up for with this journey. This is why I am here.
The Italians use an expression that I remind myself of when I have doubt or impatience: “Hai voluto la bicicletta? Allora, pedala!” It means, “Did you want the bicycle? Now, pedal!” Yes, I asked for this bicycle, and I’m going to pedal at my own pace and enjoy the journey along the way.
Thank you for your comments. I would love to hear about the times when you recognized your “thorns” and what you learned from them. I appreciate your interest and for following The Spaghetti Diaries. Grazie mille!
