Me? Loud?
Unpacking and resonating with pieces of internal, external, and ancestral landscapes
Perhaps you’ve noticed that Italians, and their global diasporic cousins, can be a bit dramatic. We are a people who are naturally passionate, excitable, and more direct in our communication than many other ethnic groups. We tend to have, dare I say it, a higher threshold for turning up the volume when we speak. We don’t generally notice that we are loud. We are animated and enthusiastic. If I am with an Italian-American friend we could literally be screaming in joyful banter and laughter. Our emotional tenor is usually thinly veiled, if veiled at all. Even if I knew how to play poker, my facial expressions would fail me every time; I cannot fake them. And the further south in Italy our DNA is traced from, the more spirited we seem to be. This landscape, dominated by several smoldering volcanoes, is reflected in the pathos of its people. These traits can sometimes land as unsettling with our non-Italian friends and acquaintances, and they may tend to misinterpret our quick, zero-to-sixty emotional acceleration. Bless their hearts. But more on that later.
My first time landing in Catania, Sicily, which was my first excursion south of Rome, my ears reverberated with the echoes of boisterous voices like those of relatives I recalled from childhood. Not that my relatives spoke Italian in front of me, by then they were speaking only English, but the tone and tenor of the conversations were essentially the same. They were louder and prouder, and where their demeanor could have been misconstrued as angry, actually, it was simply their sense of dynamism and conviction. I could liken it to listening to a Puccini opera, except that it was in a crowded airport with a cacophony of operas playing simultaneously. My first thought was, “why is everyone yelling?” But then, moments later, I said to myself, “This is incredible. I have finally found my PEOPLE!” I felt an instant recognition and deeper understanding of myself and my family’s heritage. They may have been talking about the most mundane topics, but they were fully engrossed, engaged and possibly even a little enraged.
Many years before this epiphany, as a young, new teacher, I had been told by an older “mentor” that I was too emotional, too fired up, and that I should probably dial it down to be successful. Wow, I thought, didn’t high schoolers crave a personality who could convey a sense of enthusiasm and who could motivate with her genuine interest in the subject matter? Who could hold an audience’s attention? Who could make a point compellingly and articulately? Who could inspire with some animated storytelling, ever-changing facial expressions, humor, and a fire in the belly? By the way, this particular self-proclaimed mentor was about the most tedious, insipid instructor to ever grace a classroom. But I digress. It was clear that it didn’t help my case that I was a woman with a strong persona and a powerful voice. I continued to forge ahead, being that Italian-American female professional who couldn’t really help but to tell you what she really thought and who definitely could not keep her hands in her pockets while explaining ideas to the class. These visual hand acrobatics absolutely assist in comprehension. I have even developed diplomacy while still maintaining my spicy gusto. I’m comfortable knowing that these inherited characteristics, some through nature and some through nurture, reveal my authentic self, and I consider myself very fortunate. Italians are known to have some of the longest lifespans on the planet, so maybe there is something important to being free with one’s emotions; they are released and the owner can let them go, retaining their health and inner homeostasis, rather than repressing them and letting their toxicity make her sick.
My mother’s maternal grandfather was born in Sicily, and her maternal grandmother in Puglia. But in recent years I have researched and rediscovered my Calabrese roots, which come from my father’s paternal grandparents. After a few generations of US assimilation, and fifty years since my grandfather last visited his parents’ hometown, this side of my family and its history had been forgotten and we had all lost touch with each other. When I found my father’s second cousins, now elderly ladies, I stunned them by presenting photos of them from when they were 17, and they still had photos of my now 80 year-old father from when he graduated high school. Yes, there were tears and an unspoken agreement that we would never allow our bond to be severed again. Calabria is the foot and toe of Italy’s boot, and as far as the various Italian regions’ inhabitants are concerned, the Calabrese are known to cook with their staple hot chili peppers or peperoncini, and to be rather obstinate folks. A generalization is that they are “testadura,” or hardheaded. I can definitely be stubborn in my beliefs and in attaining my desires, but it has served me well and led to the fulfillment of many a dream, especially those that this blog series will try to encapsulate.
However, the Calabrese with whom I have now deeply reconnected are also some of the kindest, most generous, most considerate, and most lively people I have ever encountered. They have huge hearts. Their language of hand gestures is epic and needs an accompanying glossary. They are proud and can be loud. They live with a truly spicy gusto. And they are, in fact, my people. Viva!
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