Golden Moments: Italy

Picture this. Montelone Sabino. 2011…

(I’ve always wanted to start a story like Sophia from the Golden Girls!)

Having missed the grape harvesting season, I still felt compelled to roll around in leaves and bask in the fresh air of the Italian country side. It was olive picking season, so I searched high and low for opportunities on someone’s farm. I considered “WWOOFing” it, but I didn’t have a week to devote to farming. So, I checked Couch Surfing for activities in the area and found the Ozu Cultural Center. Their post offered the opportunity to pick olives, make olive oil, and learn to cook with it during a weekend in Montelone Sabino. It was a 3 for 1 type of deal so I signed up and scheduled a pick up at Rome’s airport.



Good Morning, Sunshine! - Ozu in the morning.

When we met at the airport and I realized it would be all women, I knew I was in for a treat. One of the ladies, a writer from England and mother of young children, has taken the weekend to de-stress and do some research for her next project. Another woman, a land conservationist and empty nester from Washington state, has taken three months to explore Europe and forget about work. The last, Paola, is Ozu Cultural Center’s director. She and her husband set out to build an artist’s retreat in the absolute middle of nowhere. We drove for two hours, telling stories, laughing, and getting to know each other. When we finally make it to Ozu I get out of the car, take a deep refreshing breath and smile, knowing that this will be a weekend to remember.

Getting our water for lunch!

See... something happens when women get together. I think this is one of the reasons why the Golden Girls stayed on the air as long as it did. People recognize the complexity, drama and absolute comedy that can occur when women come together and it strikes a chord. They remember sitting around the table while mom was cooking and talking to her girlfriends. Or they remember sitting in a salon and laughing their heads off at some off the wall story. Coming from a large family of mostly women, it definitely strikes a chord with me.

I understood early the power of women working together. As a child, I recognized the solidarity and the capacity to both build and destroy. As an adult I acknowledged that when mature women get together, we harness the ability to restore ourselves, while simultaneously nurturing each other. Beyonce understands this concept; Oprah understands it; and the Golden Girls definitely understood it. So now, when I get involved in group activities and notice that there are going to be a lot of women, I get excited because I know I’m in for moments to cherish and an opportunity to learn. This time, however, I was surrounded by married women, which made me take an even deeper breath and send up a silent thanks.

Olives almost look like grapes...

You see… During the planning phase of my trip, most of the responses I heard from people were that “married women aren’t supposed to do these types of things.” I really became discouraged at one point, but thankfully, while shopping with a friend in a second hand store, she noticed a book entitled "The Marriage Sabbatical: The Journey that Brings You Home.” “You have got to get this,” she exclaimed handing it to me. I read it and the timing couldn’t have been any more perfect.

The Marriage Sabbatical by Cheryl Jarvis is about women who leave their families for a period of time to explore their dreams, rejuvenate themselves, and simply take time. For some of the women interviewed in the book this time of exploration consists of taking a weekend course in another state, going on vacation solo, or taking an extended trip away. There are many examples of how women are taking marriage sabbaticals; however, the point of the book is that women, especially married women, must take opportunities to go and rediscover who they are.

The author’s theory is that, adhering to all of the cultural mores attached to being a “married woman” can create a lot of pressure and cause women to lose themselves to the responsibility of upholding their role. So instead of being a person with personal dreams and goals, you simply become Mrs. So and so and the family’s dreams and goals eclipse that of your own. Layer on the added pressure of working, raising children, taking care of extended family and trying to stay sane, and now you are Mom, Cook, Cleaning Woman, Geriatric Caretaker, and Therapist.  The author acknowledges that many of these jobs are a labor of love and she does not refute the importance of the role and responsibility of wife. She does, however, discuss the issues that occur even in a happy marriage. These are the things no one else wants to talk about: depression, weight gain, feelings of being loss, etc.



Tired? Olive picking is hard work!

The book is a good read and I enjoyed it, but the thing I got out of it the most was when the author discussed how our society has a tendency to reinforce the view that married women shouldn’t leave their homes or families and vacation alone. In the books, the author says that when married men leave home for an extended period of time, it is deemed acceptable; they are working, hunting or doing whatever it is that men do. No one bats an eyelash. When women leave, however, red flags go up. To highlight her point, the author points to movies like Thelma and Louis. Two women vacationing without their husbands will most definitely end up in trouble and have to commit suicide. Nothing good can come from it! There are very few if any positive examples of women leaving their families, going way to take me time and then coming back rejuvenated and whole. This example, this concept, really helped me understand what I was up against in terms of resistance and it helped thicken my skin and reinforce my mindset. “I’m going to go!”



You missed a spot!

Like finding that book, there have been all of these moments throughout my journey where I wanted to step back and say, “Hey God, I don’t want to remind you how to do your job, but you’re supposed to work in mysterious ways.  All of these outright lessons, directions, and blessings are really starting to scare me.” Meeting all of these married women, who were essentially doing the same thing I was, was also one of these moments. I hadn’t met many married women who were traveling while I was out and I was starting to feel like a unicorn. Where are all these women taking marriage sabbaticals?!

The answer is that they are picking olives at an artist’s refuge in Montelone Sabino!



Enrico can burn!!

Walking into Ozu we were wowed by all of the “stuff”, so Paola offered a tour and presentation. What is now Ozu Cultural Center use to be an abandoned candy warehouse before her and her husband, Enrico, “pimped” the space out. Now it consists of several very large studio spaces equipped with tools for every type artists: painters, photographers, videography, ceramist, dancers and writers. The place is also filled with computers, records, magazines and art books from every generation used as inspirational resources for the artist. Sleeping accommodations on sight include a dorm, two private bedrooms, as well as the family’s living quarters. With all of this space, it’s interesting that the nucleus of the entire place is still the kitchen. The kitchen… wow! Enrico can cook his butt off and his kitchen is designed for this purpose alone. Large pots, homemade wines, olive oils, and jams line the open cupboards and an enormous dining table repurposed from old wood sits on wheels in the middle of the kitchen waiting for large groups of people.

Someone tell the baby that he's not going anywhere.

Then they started to come…

After getting acclimated and comfortable, Paola mentioned that she didn’t get enough volunteers to help with this season’s first olive picking, so she invited friends. Over the next few hours, many more people started arriving. Families, some with children, begin filling the place and English, Italian, French and Hungarian could be heard all around. It was a very homey feeling and at some point I kicked off my shoes and really settled in. Of course the women congregated in the kitchen around the table and we ate, we talked, and enjoyed each other’s spirit immensely.



Eat and talk! Eat and talk!

Over the course of the next few days, this same feeling and scenario would be played out over and over again. The women talked incessantly while picking olives and laughed openly when people fell, rolling down the hill.  We gabbed during breakfast over cereal, toast and homemade marmalade. We shared deeper stories during hikes along the lake and gushed while cracking walnuts for homemade pies. Most importantly, we actively listened and nurtured each other’s soul in between big forkful’s of our first and second courses of dinner. Something happens when women get together…

I left Ozu one day earlier than everyone else because I needed to see the Vatican before continuing on my journey. However, I will always remember this period as a golden time when women of all ages, races, and nationalities got together and communicated words of encouragement and inspiration in a language only we could hear.

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