This Race Thing: Italy

NOTE: I write quite a bit in my journals and what not and some of it I post to my blog and some of it doesn’t make it (too raunchy, too sad, mom vetoed it, wouldn’t be able to run for public office, etc). I placed this one in the “too sensitive, possibly on some Bill Cosby stuff” category and was prepared to keep it for myself, but changed my mind because... well… I gotta get it off my chest! So let’s chat.

An American physician I met on the ferry from Croatia to Italy suggested that I read “Three Cups of Tea.” “Is that the book about the guy who builds the schools in Afghanistan,” I asked. “Yes,” he exclaimed, excited that I had some reference to build upon. He began telling me more about the book and suggested that the most important thing he grasped from the story was the need to educate girls. He went on to explain that when you teach a girl something you essentially teach a community. An educated female will spread her knowledge by teaching her offspring, her friends, and younger siblings and they, in turn, will teach theirs. I had heard of this concept before and mentioned that this educational model had been applied both positively and negatively throughout our history. “What do you mean,” he asked. “Well, look at the Willie Lynch for example. His methodology was used to educate an entire race,” I replied. I was met with a blank face, so I gave him some background about Willie Lynch, the southern slave owner, who essentially wrote the “how-to” book on creating slaves out of men.

Rome...

There are many, many facets of old Willie’s theory, but one of  his “breaking” philosophy is that if you take the strongest male slave and beat, maim, and/or kill him in front of all of your female slaves, then the female slaves will teach their children, both male and female, to fear the master and they, in turn, will teach their children. Willie believed that this type of psychological terror would have long lasting effects; essentially creating a slave mentally for many generations to come and teaching an entire race to fear.

 

Fontana di Trevi

After a deep breath, the physician said, “Let me ask you something… Do you think that we [Americans] will ever really get passed this race thing?”

“Someday,” I responded with an awkward laugh.

As we caught a train and made our way to Rome, we switched topics and easily continued our banter.

An hour into our train ride, a screaming match broke out at the end of the cart. The conductor had found a passenger, without a ticket, hiding in the restroom and the situation was clearly getting out of hand. Although this was an express train with no scheduled stops, it stopped at the next station and the police boarded.  The passenger, a middle aged, male, African immigrant, was not going without a fight and began shouting and pushing the police. While the melee progressed, I looked around at the other passenger’s faces and instead of looking alarmed, they looked bored and inconvenienced. Irritated whispering and demands for the police to hurry continued around me and then the lady behind me said, “tipico.” At that very moment, I understood her comment and being the only other dark skin person on the train, I became very uneasy; guilt by association.



Reminds me of my car back home.

Whether it’s living with the Roma population, the Muslim community, or African immigrants, Italy, like many countries in Europe, is struggling with issues arising from immigration and nationalism. So, while traveling through Europe, I had become accustomed to people first assuming that I was from Africa. Sadly, I had also gotten use to the occasional shifting of purses, the guarding of children, and the exasperated sighs when I was seated in their section. What I hadn’t become accustomed to was the reactions from those same people after they heard me speak or noticed my passport. “Oh! Americana! What part are you from,” they’d begin and hands that once clutched bags are now reaching out in handshakes and pats on the back. Not being able to switch that quickly, I find myself stuck somewhere between pissed and relieved.

Colosseum

This is one of the pitfalls of traveling with black skin and an American passport; it’s a double edged sword. A part of you wants to embrace your cultural roots by standing firm alongside all black skinned individuals. Yet, another part of you understands that the term “African American” doesn’t apply to you when you are overseas; Obama is African American, you are simply a Black American. Even now, it’s difficult to express how torn I felt on that train. Part of me wanted to turn to that lady and haughtily say, “That isn’t typical! We are both black and I don’t steal train fare!” Yet, another part of me knew that nationality and color aren’t the same things in these parts and as soon as I opened my mouth, my “American accent” would quickly disassociate me from that man at the end of the train. So I sat quietly, hoping that I was setting an example of how “we” act by having the most intellectual conversation I could muster with that doctor. Funny, but that line in Martin Niemöller’s speech: “And then they came for me,” kept running through my head the entire time.

Beautiful Churches Abound!

The man was eventually taken off of the train by force and we continued onto Rome, where I was blown away.

Rome is essentially a living museum. Aside from the big tourist attractions like the Colosseum, Pantheon, Forum, and the Vatican, there are countless basilicas, piazzas, and churches to visit. I nearly cried after entering San Pietro in Vincoli, which is breathtaking, and I would have slept on the cold concrete in front of Fontana di Trevi just to keep looking at it. Out of all of the countries I’ve been to and all of the sites I’ve seen, hands down, Rome is the most impressive thus far. I won’t even mention the food… My God!  If it wasn’t considered impolite, I would have picked up the plate on a few occasions and spit shined it. MAGNIFICIENT! And the Gelato! No words… I ate Gelato every single day I was there. Everyday!

At nights after I wound down and had a minute to process my day, I still couldn’t help thinking about that man on the train. I realized that I was still a bit angry, but this time for a different reason. I wanted to kick myself for thinking that my skin color was reason enough to associate myself with that man and that I needed to “counter act” his actions. I've probably been doing this on some level my entire life. On a rare ocassion i'll watch the news and the newscaster will say something horrible happened. "Two men beat an old lady and stole her purse. We wil have the full story after this break." I will sit there through the entire break thinking, "please don't be black people, please don't black..." As if their wrongs, if they are black, are a reflection on me. We may have the same skin color, but we are not the same!

I understand that many people see blacks as one big conscious thought; what the black man does uptown, surely affects how another black man is being perceived downtown. However, when we see ourselves as one monolithic person, instead of individuals, and began changing our actions to coincide, it can limit our personal choices. “’We” don’t do that’, ‘We’ don’t eat that,’ ‘We don’t wear that,’ and ‘we’ don’t go there” are all funny statements when the comedian uses them for kicks; not so funny when “we” use them as a crutch. When “we” solely allow our skin color to determine how we will vote, what music we will listen to, what religion or church we will attend, and where we will travel, then we are truly missing the point of being free.

Colosseum

If there are any throw back, cultural lessons I want to unlearn it’s this: color associations. I want to learn to disassociate. Not disassociate from other black folks like I’m not one, but disassociate from a mind-set that declares that because of my skin color, I must carry the sins and shortcomings of my brother on my back like a burden or allow my sking to determine my behavior. I also want to disassociate from a mind-set that assigns characteristics to skin color (e.g. All white people do that, all black people do that). In one of the very first posts I wrote, "Grey Matter", I said that I identified with my race first, my gender second, and my nationality third. If this trip has pushed me to do anything, it has pushed me to just identify as Davita, first and foremost.


So, will we ever really get over this race thing? I don’t know, but I’m going to try.

I got next!

I wish the Romans had invented elevators! BUNS OF STEEL!

Souvenirs = Junk!

The Vittorio Emanuele Memorial on the Piazza Venezia

The Forum

Independence Day in front of the Tomb of the unknown Soldier



Moses with horns @ Basilica di San Pietro in Vincoli