Corsi e Ricorsi Storici - Occurrences and Recurrences

The other day Tronk got stuck in a toy box. The box was too tight. His legs were trapped inside. Tronk was crying and was begging us to get him out. 

What did I do? I  ran to go help him. What did John do? He took this photo.

Aiuto! Ho male! - Help! I am in pain!

He then calmly removed Tronk from the box. John told me that his mother did the same thing to him when he was a little boy. John's reaction? A bit different.

Are you going to get me out of here?

Who is to blame? - Di chi e' la colpa?

I wanted to write a post on spring and our decision to plant tomatoes but no, I couldn't help it. I had to write this post instead. Last night I read this letter written by an American mother, who is irritated about the fact that Abercrombie & Fitch does not carry sizes larger than ten.

This is the reason the CEO of A&F gave in 2006: "In every school there are the cool and popular kids, and then there are the not-so-cool kids... Candidly, we go after the cool kids. We go after the attractive all-American kid with a great attitude and a lot of friends. A lot of people don't belong [in our clothes], and they can't belong. Are we exclusionary? Absolutely. Those companies that are in trouble are trying to target everybody: young, old, fat, skinny. But then you become totally vanilla. You don't alienate anybody, but you don't excite anybody, either."

Why not me?

Mr. Jeffries could have not expressed his marketing strategy in better words. The target group and lifestyle description above makes A&F competitive and this is all it matters to Abercrombie & Fitch. Marketing is war. You put together a strategy and you implement it to destroy your competitor. So, well done Mr. Jeffries for doing such good job in creating an aspirational brand.

Absolutely, I totally agree with the fact that no one should be discriminated against. However, I don't think we should go the opposite way of accepting and encouraging unhealthy behavior with the excuse that we all live in a free country that makes us identical. Since I arrived in the US, I have been faced with politically correct statements and a huge amount of euphemism regarding the issue of large sizes. All this is ridiculous and it gets on my nerves. I believe it is as wrong to encourage people to be skinny top models as it is wrong to constantly forgive people for eating unhealthy food and for believing that being obese is not a problem and that it does not at all mean "being unhealthy".

I come across obese people here in Boston on daily basis. I often look at what they are eating or purchasing and guess what? The healthiest thing I ever saw in front of them is a salad filled with bacon and blue cheese. Is anybody wondering who is going to help these people learn how to eat? No.

In Italy, it is ok to say to children that if they eat fast-food, snacks and sweets or sugary drinks  instead of lunch, they will become as FAT as a pig (yes FAT in capital letters). And I often say this to my child. In Italy, we believe that it is important to point this out, CLEARLY and LOUDLY to everyone. And we believe IT IS NOT OK to ask society to make obese people feel good about themselves and believe they are healthy. It is hypocritical and it is not helping the obese people acknowledge that they have a problem that needs addressing and that they should do something about it, for themselves and for their children.

Considering the appalling state of the diet in the American schools, I believe it would make more sense to blame the schools and the restaurants for teaching future Americans how to become obese than to blame a clothing store that, in order to be competitive, has to tailor its clothes for a specific target group.

Final thought. Instead of asking the clothing companies to carry larger sizes why don't we invite them to join the campaign "Let's teach America how to eat"? Just a thought.

Pina's Visit from The Boston Bombers - I Bombers di Boston a Casa di Pina

It is surreal and frightening. The Boston Marathon bombings horror is not over. It all just happened outside Tronk's babysitter, zia Pina's house in Watertown, at twelve thirty last night. 

Apparently, the Boston Marathon bombers, who are Cambridge residents,  shot a policeman outside the MIT campus, then stole a car at the nearest gas station and then managed to drive, with two cars, all the way to her house in Watertown. 

"The shooting started in Nichols Avenue, where a big troupe of policemen arrived on big trucks", said Pina. "There was first the horrible sound of a bomb exploding in the street. I thought there could be fireworks outside". 

Whoever went out to find out, soon realized he was in a machine gun shooting scene and that the blood coming out was real.

"The shooting happened right in front of my house. After the bombings in Copley Square and an anonymous phone call, at the back of my mind I kept fearing that the terrorists would come to my house... They did!  One of the two bombers parked his truck in front of my house".

Looking for the suspects

Her story continued:"I kept hearing so much machine gun noise. I was terrified at some point, I started screaming out of my window. They shot the first suspect, then they tried to shoot the second one. The one who parked the truck in front of my house died. The second one managed to run away, after leaving blood on our street. Dogs and ambulances arrived. Then, all of a sudden, they rang our door bell. My son opened the door. I was shaking. They told us to immediately run out of the house and to go in the back yard, to protect ourselves from the explosion of a bomb. They thought it might be hidden in the truck parked in front of our house. We have been up since last night, waiting for this nightmare to end, in terror. It has still not ended. Outside our window, we continue to see ambulances and police trucks coming towards us."

Here in Boston we can no longer distinguish between reality and fiction. 

Contaminated Food in the American Schools - Cibo Contaminato nelle Scuole Americane

Healthy Option in the American Schools Menu

John says that food is my number one obsession. He is right. Here in the US, there isn't a single day that goes by without me thinking about food problems and this is not the first time I write a post to complain about the American food (see what's wrong with the American cooking and my mom's cooking advice). 

Here is my latest disappointment. I was so sad (and angry) to read this story. And I strongly support this mom, with all my heart, in her efforts to change the questionable eating habits of the Americans.

I lived in England for twelve years. I must confess, although I was aware of the growth in obesity in the US, I really could not imagine that the US is so far behind in food matters, compared to England and to every other country I have visited (e.g., Thailand, China, India). Most Americans either don't cook, eat processed food, skip lunch or cook using pre-packaged ready made ingredients. They might claim they are organic and feel good about using them even if they don't taste like the real ingredients. Outside the house, they either eat greasy burgers, together with fries (or potato chips), or salads filled with unhealthy ingredients (blue cheese and bacon, to give an idea to the Italian readers), or snacks filled with sugar. Others follow the rabbit diet (e.g., two raw carrots and two raw broccoli, without condiments). I might later see these people entering the nearest Dunkin Donuts, in order to purchase their daily half a liter sugary drink and make up for the missing calories. 

Here in the US I met people who told me they grew up eating sandwiches filled with ketchup, mustard or peanut butter. Real food like meat and vegetables? Maybe twice a year (e.g., on Thanksgiving). I recently met a waitress who was impressed that my son was eating broccoli and who confessed she grew up eating half-and-half cooking cream directly from the fridge. No kidding. I bump into people with bad eating habits here on a daily basis, in restaurants, in birthday parties, in the subway. I once sat next to a guy, probably a Professor, who had a dirty spoon in his pocket, together with a bunch of pens. He took an opened can of meatballs from his backpack and started eating, straight from the can. The view of that man, who was previously working on his computer, and therefore I assume was not homeless, made me sick. No wonder Tronk has only one friend who knows how to sit at the table and eat. I met two adults who told me they didn't know how to eat until they went to Europe... So I am no longer surprised to hear "WOW" when Tronk asks for fresh fruit in a restaurant.

So I find it bizarre when the Italian parents complain about the quality of their child's school meal. Here is the typical menu: 

• http://www.istituto-sangiuseppe.it/documenti/menuAut2012-13.pdf . 

Yes, Italian children in school are served ragu', gnocchi, artichoke risotto and other delicious meals people (adults included) can only dream of at lunchtime, here in the US. And fruit at the end of each meal. They are given healthy, complete and balanced meals, which strictly follow the rules of what many research studies have called the healthier diet in the world. Yet many Italian parents regularly go to taste the food in the schools, to make sure it tastes as good and fresh as what they cook at home. Still, they complain.

Now, I can only imagine how a mother can feel after realizing that her son got seriously sick because he was given chicken  by his school, contaminated with antibiotic-resistant bacteria. Anger, fear, despair, resentment, revenge, lack of trust, lack of hope... I don't know.

I have come to realize that the US is a third world country when it comes to food. And I don't think this will change, unless the federal lawmakers acknowledge (1) that children should be taught to have a balanced and varied diet at school (the pyramid) in order to grow strong and healthy, (2) that children should spend enough time sat at the table (not 20 minutes), every day, discovering and getting used to a variety of different tastes (e.g., acid, bitter, meat with different sauces on top), so that the new generation of Americans can learn to eat (3) and, above all, acknowledge that pizza with pepperoni (cheap sausages) does not contain vegetables and therefore cannot be listed as a vegetable in the school menu. 

Until these changes happen, I am better off waking up early to put real vegetables in Tronk's lunch box.

Odio et Amo - I hate and I love

Is this what is left of my country?

Odi et amo quare id faciam fortasse requiris, wrote Catullo in one of his poems, which, in English, translates into: I hate and I love it. Why I do this you may ask.

The Italian elections are over. The results are not promising. The PD, strongly advertised to the Italians living abroad, has yet to decide whether to form a "government" with Beppe Grillo, mmm, yes, the dorky comedian/accountant who used to make the housewives laugh in the 80s. When I last saw his face shouting in my hotel room in Turin, I imagined the audience he was talking to - people sitting with blankets on their legs in old people's houses. Yeah, not the kind of candidate you would expect to lead a country... The alternative for the PD is to govern with, ahem, I know it is embarrassing, but the Italians voted him again. Yes, him, the man who forced Italy to become a whore and who is now proposing to come back to take care of her. I will not write his name.

So the Italians I know on Facebook either want to emigrate or to have their country taken over by zombies. I know what you are thinking, dear English friend: "not having a government is better than having one - funny, thanks" And I know what you are thinking, dear American friend, "but why is Italy in such bad situation?"

Why? Because I think optimism, care for others, sense of respect, duty and responsibility, things which are essential to keep a country together, have been steadily going downhill in my country ever since I left it, in 1996.

So there is a country on the other side of the Atlantic which I obsessively love, belong to and miss with all my heart. No other country in the world can make me so feel so at home, laugh, chat, dream, shout, scream and bring tears of joy to my face when I visit it. And I can't think of a different country where I would like to retire and die. Yet I have a strong feeling of hate and resentment towards it.

When I was living in England, my choice was to forget that I was Italian and to have nothing to do with Italy, except for when I had to choose where to spend my holidays.

One day, I had to go to the Italian Consulate in London to get my passport stamped (and to pay for it, I'll better specify). I remember the shock when I saw a bunch of sad Italians, sat in a waiting room, with a number in their hands. Many of them had been waiting to see a clerk who could stamp their passport all morning. Others were engaged in a loud verbal fight with the social services woman, who was not able to get simple points across to them. Then there was a girl who was trying to persuade a clerk, with melodramatic tone, to give her money to travel back to Italy. That place was in London, yet it was so out of place, so messy and so back-worth. At some point, I remember thinking that I would rather remain unemployed than go back to look for work in Italy.

A few years later, after that rainy day in 1996 when I packed my two suitcases and left Italy, I went back home to visit my family. I remember thinking, aha, here they are. These are the same creepy old men I used to watch on TV. They are still there, having the same disrespectful conversations about politics while they are making racist comments and jokes with sexual innuendo to the partially dressed prost..., let's call them "women", smiling at them. Over the course of the 12 years I lived in England, these are the only changes I spotted: the increased number of swear words and disrespectful remarks uttered in a ten minute discussion by highly educated people, the louder shouting across classes and regional dialects and, finally, an increase in the number of intimate female parts shown on the screen. Sadly, the Italians sitting next to me, who were watching such a degrading image of their country, were not at all annoyed. On the contrary, they were adding swear words and disrespectful remarks (guarda che bella mignotta), while laughing, and they were calling me "puritan". I  was feeling like the tourist who is visiting a country that has been left behind and who is looking forward to going home (at the time, home for me was England, not Italy).

Yet, on the other hand, I could not fail to appreciate, with a bit of pride, the many things that the British always celebrated, at times with envy, at times with sarcasm, about my dear country. First of all, the culture, together with the class, the sense of beauty and the passion that characterize all things Italian, starting from the art, to then go to the architecture, the design, the craftsmanship, the fashion, not to mention the food.

And I grew tired (not to say resentful) of hearing that we, Italians, are known for being emotional, in particular for the melodrama that characterize our way of expressing ourselves; our way of over emphasizing everything and of acting out of irrationality in every situation. Well, the truth is that, whether we like it or not, we do have these weaknesses and we have others as well.

We are saccenti and bacchettoni (we are people who think they know it all, preach others and seek recognition for the smallest thing we say or do), we preach using quotes from the Latins and from the Ancient Greeks and then practice the opposite. We set complicated rules for others to follow, which we hardly ever follow ourselves. We are litigious, contentious, we make vague but grandiose promises of loyalty and commitment but are only able to be loyal to our family and sometimes to our friends. We defend our family with passion even when they are wrong and it doesn't make sense. We are able to create alliances with few people only - we don't trust anybody else. We give the least we can possibly give to others as we believe we will not receive anything in return. I see this in the Italian community here in Boston. Most Italians who live here stick to small groups - usually, their friends - and they are only worried about defending their interests and need of competing against others for power. Just like Italian teenagers in high-school. The ex President of one of the most prestigious Italian-American organizations told me to stay away from the Italians because of these reasons. Sad.

It is not by chance that this year we celebrate Italy, here in Boston, with three types of events: literature symposiums for fine educated minds (you don't speak Latin? Your problem!), art exhibitions with a bunch of our treasures (you know, we like to show off) and performances of a Pinocchio play, the story about bad behavior and deception that has made us famous.

I cannot help thinking that the results of every single Italian election since I left Italy in 1994 has been the logical consequence of all this.

There is a joke about Sicily worth mentioning here as I think it can be easily extended to Italy as a whole. That's how it goes. While God was making Italy, he decided to put loads of nice things in it: a beautiful sunshine, mountains, lakes, rivers, the greatest monuments, the most exquisite collection of art pieces, the most amazing cuisine and wine, WAIT, WAIT, BUT THAT CANNOT BE ON THE EARTH, somebody must have said. "Don't worry", God replied with confidence: "I'll put the Italians". And I know there are Italians who would laugh at this, almost as to enjoy the sinister role they have in history.

So, dear countrymen, our problem is not the politicians, it is not your Facebook friends who want to emigrate, it is not the people like me, who left the country long time ago. You can blame whoever you want, but at the end, I am afraid you'll have to come to terms with this fact: the problem is us: the Italians. Full stop.

Conversations and Speeches - Conversazioni e Discorsi

It used to be us the ones who had to tell Tronk about the world. It is now often the case when Tronk is the one in charge of telling us (and everybody else) how things work.

Breakfast. Dad ready to Go to Work.

Dad: Ciao, sii buono, ok? (Bye bye, be good, ok?)

Tronk: e tu sii cattivo! (be bad!)

Dad: vuoi che io sia cattivo? (do you want me to be bad?)

Tronk: si', ma quando vieni a casa smetti di essere cattivo (yes, but when you come home, stop being bad)

Tronk: Mi dai un regalo? (Can you give me a present?)

Mom:  Vuoi un regalo? (Do you want a gift?)

Mom: Ti regalo... (I am going to give you...)

Tronk: Cosa? (What?)

Mom: ... un sorriso! (... a smile!)

Tronk: oh, sei troppo generosa! (oh, you are too generous!)

Mom: Scusa devo andare in cucina. Sta bruciando tutto! (sorry, I have got to go to the kitchen. It it is all burning!)

Tronk comes to the kitchen. He sees the pan with the oil burning. 

Tronk: Ma mamma e' l'ora di mettere il sugo dentro, se non lo metti brucia! (but mom, it is time to pour the sugo in the pan, if not, it will burn!)

Mom: Forse e' meglio se prima finisci di colorare il coccodrillo (Perhaps it's better if you color the crocodile first)
Tronk: Mamma, vai a fare la doccia, vai! (Mom, go take your shower, go!)

 Finally, a lecture on "the effect of temperature on water":

Hugs Are Banned in America - Le Coccole Sono Vietate in America

Here in the US, if your children are craving a hug, they are more likely to get a sticker or a high-five instead, as reported in this Education Week blog posting.

I heard this a few times. Teachers, here in America, cannot touch the children. The Pennsylvania State Education Association offered the following guidelines on the use of touch: (1) consider the age, sex, and perception (maturity) of the child, (2) use touch only to praise or comfort, (3) ensure there is another adult present, and (4) briefly touch only the shoulder or arm. I assumed, when I read this, that number four only applied to the older children attending elementary school classes. More recently, I heard from a mother that the teachers are banned from touching younger children as well.

Get that? A younger child is crying, is desperately in need of comfort (which meets guideline number two). But the co-teacher is out on the playground with a few other children (number three isn't possible!), so you hesitate and then tentatively pat the child on the shoulder (wow, number four applied!). The child isn't remotely comforted, but you can rest your mind as you've followed the guidelines and nobody will be able to sue you for child abuse.

I am often reminded that I live in the land of the puritans but please, "a hug", a simple hug, how can you possibly deny affection to a five year old who is in search for its own identity? Beside, what is wrong with those potentially sexually disturbed teachers that many of you pay the insane amount of $1800 or maybe $2000 per month? Can these expensive teachers not be carefully screened and trusted to give warmth and affection to your children?

It is not just the snuggling that is banned here in the US but any kind of child "touching". At the playground near our house, last summer I was stopped by a mother while I was trying to save her boy from falling from the slide! She was more concerned about me touching her child that about his safety!

But isn't this child abuse? According to Frances Carlson, the author of Essential Touch, Meeting the Needs of Young Children,, "physical contact can be more important to sustaining life than food and water!"

In Italy, private pre-schools charge parents between 400 and 500 euros per month, which is the equivalent of not more than 670 US dollars. The teachers might not know what a reward sticker is but they DO make sure they express warmth and affection, throughout the day to every child they have. I remember looking at Tronk from the transparent glass window in the reception of the Centro Mary Poppins, the Italian daycare he was attending when he was a baby, several times. There, the teachers looked like warm, calm, affectionate, compassionate mothers, rocking their children while gently rubbing their back (not like detached researchers, like in the US). And I saw a teacher behaving in a similar way with a much older child at La Scuola Montessori, the pre-k/elementary school Tronk attended last year in Turin.

So let me get this straight, if most American children are in daycare three to five days per week, full-time, where people are scared to touch them, where do these children get a hug? At home? I am not so sure.

I once got an answer similar to this from an American mother: Well, we used to snuggle when she was a baby. These days, not so much. One day I came home, exhausted from work. I begged her for a hug, I don't do that often but she didn't want to give me one. I begged her a few times but she refused. I didn't get one. At the end, I resigned to the idea that she is a big girl now. I am sure there will be times when she'll need one.

Did she say times in the future when she'll need one? What's this thing about the child making all the decisions even when it is the mother who wants the hug? Is the hug a one way thing that only the child is allowed to ask? What about the mother? Isn't she allowed to have a hug? Should Isis Parenting setup a "Touch your Child, A Two Way Approach" class and charge the parents $300 for teaching them how to touch their children, starting from birth? They already teach a class on how to give massages to infants!...

Like in many other things in America, fear of extreme behaviors, leads to other extreme behaviors: students protesting against hugs bans, a variety of "free hugs Facebook pages", and even to special "hugs your kids" days, challenging the parents to hug their children at least once a day!

Being raised with the "touching parenting model" (le coccole), - and by the way, can I give it this name without getting into trouble with the guidelines? - I cannot imagine how I could possibly see my child for the first time in the morning and not hug him, how I could see him finish a puzzle, all by himself, and not give him a squeeze, how I could see him eating all the food I cooked for him and not pat him on the head, how I could see him put his jacket on by himself, and not give him a kiss, you get my point.

John said that if I could he thinks I would have Tronk permanently attached to my body so I can give him a big, long, tight hug and kisses all day long.

He's probably right. And by the way, when I was in first grade, I remember hugging the teacher every time after receiving a dieci e lode (ten out of ten cum laude) and receiving a smile in return. And I grew up with Topo Gigio, the Italian mouse who used to constantly sing "strapazzami di coccole!" (literally, crash me with hugs!)

And now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to give a few hugs to my boy. I hope you don't think I am a pervert.