Other People's Issues

Years ago I wrote a poem called “Other People’s Issues.” Now I’m thinking, what other people? Aren’t we all the same people and don’t we have all the same issues? I’m not talking on a surface level—I know the details are different for different people. I’m talking about deep in our guts.

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, again and again, 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 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, excused herself, 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. 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, 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 or a job. 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?

When I posted this to a group for Italian-Americans on Facebook, the post was deleted and I was informed that racism is politics and politics leads to disagreement. They want to hear only about the happy stuff, mostly cooking and eating.

But racism is only politics to the racist. To the victim, racism is hell.

I was told by some to stop whining, that I’m bitter, that they’re praying for me, that I should read some Italian history and then I might understand why Italians are so afraid of foreigners.

The praying one also said I should put down my pen and take action. But writing is how a writer takes action. Telling a writer to put down her pen is pretty much the same thing as telling her to drop dead. The praying one also said she pities me and prays for me. She says she prays for everyone in the world. Is this her action? Does she think that whispering magic words to God is going to save the world? And when is he going to get around to doing it?

These people don’t know me. Why are they assuming I know nothing about Italian history? Why are they calling me an ignorant person who’s stupid enough to have opinions about something she knows nothing about?

There was no whining in my post. There was complaining. Every change for the better, every resolution of a problem, every improvement in human relationships and in the conditions of oppressed peoples, begins with a complaint.

I’m not bitter. I’m pissed. There’s a big difference. Bitter means it’s over. Pissed means you’re still standing.

And why do people pity others? Because they feel superior to them. The praying lady, who only knows that I don’t see things the way she does, pities me because I’m not like her.

I know a little something about Italian history. I know a little something about the waves and waves of conquerors. I know what conquerors are. They’re hordes of men who arrive with weapons ready to slaughter anyone who stands in their way. I can understand the cultural mentality in the feelings of Italians who are afraid of foreigners.

But there’s a difference between feelings and behavior and a history of being conquered doesn’t justify what some Italians do to foreigners.

And that African immigrant who arrives in Italy, owning only the rags on his back, who do they think he’s going to conquer?

But many Italians treat foreigners the way many Americans treat Italian-Americans. And the Italian-Americans tell me to stop whining because their grandparents suffered from prejudice and never complained.

They tell me to forget it all, to be happy and eat, to be glad that nowadays things are okay for Italian-Americans.

Things are not okay nowadays for Italian-Americans. Italian-Americans are still mistreated because our grandparents never complained.