I
spent the first half century of my life in the US.
I
always wondered how it feels to be an Afro-American. How do you deal
with the racism?
Where
do you get the strength to walk into an employment agency, knowing
that you’re qualified for the job, knowing that you have
experience, knowing that you’re an intelligent person, knowing that
you have a good education, knowing that you make a good impression
regarding your personal appearance and the way you speak, and knowing
that you might not be given a job because the creep who interviews
you is a racist?
How
does it feel to browse around in a store with the salesclerk
following you because he thinks you’re going to steal something?
How
does it feel to know that you may be
insulted or killed, at any moment, because the next person you
encounter is a racist?
How
does it feel to be trustworthy, responsible, dependable, clean,
quiet, knowing that you may be denied an apartment whose rent you can
easily afford, because the landlord is a racist?
I
remember years ago looking for an apartment for myself and my late
husband in the US. I went alone to the rental agency. As the rental
agency people drove me to an apartment, the lady was telling her
husband that they had had a problem with the last person because he
was Italian. Who wants to rent an apartment to a Mafioso?
My
name was Sorrentino then. I had told them
my name. What the fuck kind of a name did those idiots think
Sorrentino is?
I
liked the apartment. I went back with my then
fiance. When the landlady saw that my
fiance was an Afro-American, she smiled politely, went
upstairs and came back in less than three minutes saying that her
daughter had just called and said she was getting married and wanted
the apartment, so we couldn’t have it.
And
even then I didn’t understand the feeling.
After
14 years of being treated like shit in Italy, I understand the
feeling.
I
called the police once. They heard my accent and refused to help me.
I called for an ambulance once. They heard my accent and delayed so
long in coming I was afraid I’d drop dead before they arrived. I’ve
walked into employment agencies where I was told that no one wanted
foreigners. I’ve called ads for
apartments where I was told they didn’t want foreigners.
I
think I’ve also finally figured out why my grandparents left Italy.
I wrote a poem once talking about not knowing why they left Italy. My
paternal grandparents were from Naples. They were a count and
countess and knew the king personally. When I read that poem to
audiences, the audience would laugh. That always pissed me off. It’s
not a lie. It’s the truth. Kings are human beings who have
relatives, friends, and personal obligations. My grandfather was a
ward of the king.
So
why did my grandparents leave Italy? Because Italy is not user
friendly. You need permission from the government to do anything. It
would take a whole essay to explain what you have to do, and how much
you have to pay, just to start a little poetry magazine. When I tell
Italians that anyone in the US can start a magazine any time, without
fees or permissions, from one day to the next, they’re shocked and
they don’t believe me.
I
write. I don’t know what else to do. That’s even why I started
writing when I was eight years old. My mother had just died and I
didn’t know what else to do.
But
writing doesn’t find you an apartment. Half the time, it doesn’t
even get you any respect.
I
feel like screaming to all of them: Look at me, you assholes. Are you
really too stupid to figure out that I’m a human being? Or are you
just insane?
I’m
writing this at home. I just received a certified letter from my
landlady’s lawyer. She wants to take me to court. My own lawyer
doesn’t answer his phone and doesn’t have an answering machine.
So
what do I do now?
