200. Italy and Back- Part 1
I am neither blind nor deaf to the plight of immigrants in Italy for I too once, was one.
Here’s my story.
Italy and Back
1956 Arrival in Britain
When I first woke up and looked through the window of one of those endless anonymous terrace houses in Wolverhampton, I got the shock of my life. It may well have been January back in 1956 when pollution was no one’s concern, but I had never seen such a mortified sky before. It was cramped with greyness, heavy with a mournful curtain of drabness. Any sign of light was immediately dampened, no brilliance could ever flicker through. The ground was no better, covered with an equal greyness of slabs and miles of lifeless concrete. This was Britain, my new world. For me, it meant being dragged away from the bright days of my childhood shimmering in the generous light of Italian skies- had they put me in a dungeon cell- I would have fared better.
Who would have believed that in the short space of a year, the musical sounds of my native Italian were to be replaced by the tones and patterns of which up to then had been incomprehensible utterances? Or believe that these new sounds would become such an integral part of me that to live without them would mean being condemned to a world of silence... that the initial repugnance for the grey skies would be replaced by a melancholy nostalgia characteristic of the British mood? Who could have imagined then that once back in my native land I would long for the drizzle of cool rain on grey slabs of concrete with houses all in a row; ache for the sight of the tumulus clouds and yearn for the sounds of English utterances? Because that is precisely what happened.
1976 Return to Italy
The year was 1976. In spite that in twenty years my palette had changed preferences and the desire for spaghetti with tomato sauce emanating the fresh perfume of basilico was replaced by mashed potatoes topped with thick gravy, I had not totally forgotten the land of my Fathers- Italy- and enticed by a sense of curiosity, I returned. I was suddenly bombarded by intense light and more light; by chatter and gaiety, cries, noise and laughter; smells of roasting meats, fresh ground coffee, newly baked bread, vanilla ice-cream, and melons oozing out their perfume on market stalls. For a while I bathed and soaked into my pores all this generous well being turning the grey skies of England into a faded memory.
It was not until I started catching buses and trains, waited at the bread shop to be served, took my turn at any counter that it seemed I had suddenly become transparent, I ceased to exist, I was totally ignored. No one served me, someone was always pushing me aside and getting served first- these barbarians, I thought had never heard of queues! Of course, not to mention trying to get any kind of certificate from any office or official- a nightmare is only a mild description of what I had to go through. I considered this quite a strange phenomena. Until a few weeks ago, I knew who I was, I knew my identity, I knew where to go if I had to make any kind of request or application. Here, in an amazing city, Vicenza, famed for its Palladian beauty one could not make applications for a job, for a house, for a license, for a car, for a tax form without a mountain high amount of paperwork- how on earth was it possible to invent all that red-tape- even buying a television (so as to watch the only two National channels available) was a problem...
I spent literally days and days and days with an abundance of frustrating tears trying to assert that I was who I was- and that was just the beginning. I thought of Britain. I had travelled up and down that country, taken up one teaching post after another, rented accommodation wherever I went without batting an eyelid. I didn’t need an accountant to make out my tax form, nor did I have to produce my own birth certificate, those of my parents, their marriage license, an authenticated statement, from my last employer, residence... the list was endless! It’s a wonder they didn’t want the particulars of my brothers, sisters, cousins and aunts. In my misery I smiled ironically to think that to prove I existed in England all I had to produce was an envelope of my electricity bill! My paradise, here in Italy, I concluded, was definitely lost.
Continues...
Related Articles:
Related Articles:
WestBow
Comments