Learning to Speak Italian ...the Hard Way

Who needs Duolingo when you have The Stairs??

Today, in our frazione of Schito, there are 20 or so houses and a handful of full-time residents. Most people only visit in August, including Deb and I.

However, in 1964, our quiet little frazione was bustling with children. When they heard that “the Americans have arrived,” it was a call to assemble. Each day they came to the tiny courtyard in front of my grandmother’s house. They had heard so many things about America and wanted to learn more. They looked at me with such great curiosity and asked all kinds of questions. Unfortunately, I had no idea what they were saying…none. I just stood there mute and repeated “scusa non parlo italiano” over and over again.

You would think that having grown up in a first-generation Italian household, I would have learned to speak Italian. Not me. My mother decided that since we live in America, we should be American. Here are some of our family names: Luciana, Rosella, Danielle, Simonetta. Piero, Fabio, Mara, and Alessandra…all beautiful Italian names. Mine…not so much.

Since we spoke only English at home, I arrived in Italy with not one word of Italian language (except the swear words, but that would come later). After a few days of shaking my head, I decided to take matters into my own hands. My mother spoke both languages. I would ask her to be my translator!

There was no Duolingo……there was only the stairs.

The stairs to my childhood home in Italy

My journey into the beauty of the Italian language went something like this. One of the kids would ask a question: “vuoi giocare a calcio?” I would keep repeating the phrase to myself over and over again as I ascended the three flights of stairs. I would burst into the kitchen and say…Mom they asked “vuoi giocare a calcio?” What does that mean? “Do you want to play soccer?” Mom, what do I say? You say “Si certo…andiamo.” (Of course, let’s go!)

I would start repeating the response back to myself as I dashed down the stairs. Halfway down the stairs, I would often forget what I was supposed to say and back up the stairs I went. The Italian children must have thought I was insane…up and down and up and down the stairs. I must have climbed those stairs a thousand times that summer. I wish I had a Fitbit!

Those days that summer were full of simple pleasures. We didn’t have a soccer field with nets and lines, circles, and stands for spectators. We had a community piece of grass behind my Nonno’s old house, which was mowed every week (mostly to keep us away the highly poisonous vipers). We didn’t have a playground with jungle gyms, all kinds of equipment, and rubberized flooring. Nope, we had a piece of wood tied with a homemade rope to the tallest tree in our village. We all had nothing but each other, and were perfectly content.

Feeding the animals was a ritual that I particularly enjoyed. I had so much fun putting lettuce in the rabbit cage, giving feed to the chickens and bringing all of the food scraps to the neighborhood pig. Of course, the adults did leave out the part about what would happen to these animals in the fall. “Hey, where did all of that bacon, sausage and prosciutto come from?”

Mostly I remember always having people around…always. My mother’s sister, Delfina, lived with her husband Zio Franco and their five children downstairs. We would eat almost every meal together. Frequently friends, family and neighbors would drop by. Sometimes to share the bounty from their garden, or some cheese or prosciutto that they made. Nonna would go upstairs, grab some plates and we would dig in.

Often, around lunch or dinner time, people would drop by. My Nonna would invite them to stay for dinner…they would always reply “No,No…” A spirited discussion would then ensue. “Stay…No, Stay…No.” The thing I learned very early on was that if you went up against Nonna, you would not prevail. She always got her way. So, another two plates would be set, and they stayed. My Nonna would always say “ Two more, two less, it doesn’t matter. Whatever we have we’ll just stretch it.”

The summer ended and we packed our car for the journey back to Rome and the goodbye feast at Zio Baldo’s house. Hugs, kisses, and lots of tears would follow. We went to the airport that next morning and endured an even longer plane ride home.

I remember wondering “when will be the next time that I return to this very special place?”

Thankfully, it would not be long.