Other People's Issues -- the poem

Other People’s Issues

She doesn’t understand how this whole

thing got started, how it blew up from

nothing to such a big mess. She

certainly never intended any insult.

She’s not prejudiced against anyone—

that includes Italian-Americans—and

she knows bigotry is a hideous and

unseemly character flaw so she’s

always prided herself on her ability

to be sensitive around other people’s issues.

All her life she’s heard that Italians

are emotional. Is there something wrong

with a person who has emotions? Would

you rather be called cold and machine-

like? Is it completely unreasonable to

suggest that having emotions includes

having a temper? And if she doesn’t like

bad-tempered people who aren’t Italian,

why should she like bad-tempered people who

are Italian? Remember her exact words:

I don’t like these bad-tempered Italians.

Now, don’t misunderstand. She knows what

you’re thinking. But she’s lived on this

earth for thirty-seven years and has

always heard that Italians are emotional,

has always seen them portrayed that way

in books and movies, has never before even

seen one in person. What could there be

on earth or in heaven, or even in hell, to

make her stop

and think it might not be true? Certainly

not your own bad-tempered response to a

minor incident, to what’s really your own

misunderstanding of an innocent remark.

She’s really hurt by your hasty and

insensitive accusation of bigotry and your

unfriendly refusal to accept her good

intentions with humor and grace and

she thinks you owe her an apology.

(c) Rose Romano

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.

Racism in Italy

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?

knowledge is power and power comes from money

I went to academia.edu and saw that there are 15 recently uploaded papers that mention my name.

It also says on their site "Academia's mission is to make every scholarly and scientific paper available for free on the internet..."

When I click on "get started" (which is right below this "free" message) I'm shown a box in which I have to put my credit card information and pay them 79 euros before I can see these papers that are available for free.

I'm just a high school drop out. Are there any intellectuals out there who can tell me what "free" means in the academic community?

I looked on their site for a way to contact them but I can't find anything.

Another question, just out of curiosity, does everyone think that everyone who has access to the internet can afford all this stuff?

All my books are currently unavailable, but . . .

"You'll never have me like you want me," "Neither Seen nor Heard," and "Beyond the Leash" are unavailable right now, but they'll be back.

Great books finally in paper

PRESS RELEASE

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE: 30th JULY 2017
Anthony Valerio is proud to announce publication of the ...
First Print Edition of IMMIGRANTS, according to Anthony Valerio – Volumes I & II.
Discover and enjoy 36 stories of famous and not-so-famous men, women and canines and felines who found refuge in a place not their home. The author says: "...the individual pieces contained herein illustrate how in fact and imagination we all derive from one another, learn from one another, and share with one another."
Contributions from professional authors, critics and teachers such as Annie Gottlieb, Anthony Valerio, Rose Romano, and Edvige Giunta.

Critics are saying:
“This collection of portraits of immigrants includes migrations past and present that are loomed together in a great tapestry of stories. Like all great tapestries, not all the figures featured are human. That is why some of the immigrants are animals that have come to North America by way of many routes, some refugees of war. The lives brought together in IMMIGRANTS have much to teach us of “humanity” in many forms. --Professor E. Nerenberg, Wesleyan University
“Valerio writes with a light and deft touch, but what he recounts is heart-felt and very real.”—Professor Rebecca West, University of Chicago
“Valerio really knows both his history and his subject very well. No less important is the fact that he is a first-rate writer who can really tell a good story."--Bestsellers
"A wonderful read."--Larry King, USA Today
“The book has zest, high humor, madness, detached reflection, and pathos.” --Los Angeles Times
IMMIGRANTS – Volumes I &II is on sale wherever books are sold.

Beyond the Leash reviewed by a man who hates to write reviews.

A few words about Rose Romano’s new novel Beyond the Leash.
As I said, I cannot for the life of me or enough money write a book review.
Ever read a writer and feel close? I feel so close to Rose Romano’s prose work that they are the part of me that I can never have. Riotous, wise voice of a sister prosest who I meet only on her pages. Who has gone places I could not. To move to Italy from Brooklyn without a net. The bar is higher with Ms Romano.
I mean, I’m supposed to be a funny writer and practically nothing makes me laugh. Especially with Rose Romano’s latest, Beyond the Leash, I’m laughing all the time. Sometimes belly-laughing which exacerbates my arthritic condition. A smile of enjoyment and appreciation.
W.C. Fields, Charlie Chaplin, Abbot and Costello and Richard Pryor had nothing on Rose Romano!
The protagonist Alice’s kitty wants to go beyond her leash. In her last two novels, Ms. Romano has gone beyond the leash of subject matter, language, edginess of the Italian-American writers before her. Her new address, her new country carry with them her own singular, powerful, unsafe, universal voice.
In this work, Rose Romano is simultaneously on and beyond the leash.
I recall a book by Andy Warhol titled “A,” a long, tedious book about the humdrum of daily life. Downtime. Alice shares a modest apartment with housemates. Separate rooms, common kitchen. Their interactions are hysterical.
You find practical every device a writer can employ. Alice writes letters to her dead husband. The epistolary switches to omniscient Third Person. To First Person. A rich universe of angles.
The great comics often make mediocre films. Jackie Gleason, Richard Pryor come to mind. Rose Romano can do a great stand-up comic routine of two hundred pages.
But how can a diagnosis of cancer like Alice gets make you laugh? That’s the genius of genius. That’s what Beyond the Leash does.
As in her previous novel You can’t have me like you want me, the Virgin Mary is a character. She is Alice’s companion, confidante, her consigliere. Here’s a bit from the book:
The Virgin Mary was waiting on Alice’s bed waiting for her.
“Where have you been? You didn’t come to visit me once while I was in the hospital,” Alice said…
“We’ve already had this conversation. In fact, over the years, we’ve done different versions of this conversation 576 times. It’s not my fault if you didn’t see me.”
“But that’s when I need you most! When I don’t see you!”
In this novel, the Virgin Mary has more of a presence, a larger part, more lines, than in her previous appearance in Rose Romano’s previous novel. At this rate, god only knows, maybe one day the Virgin Mary will have her own book.
On second thought, that may not work. The Virgin Mary would be lost without Rose Romano.
I recall when teaching the review form--inform readers why they should see the film, the show, buy the book.
Here’s the link to this wonderful book:

Here’s the link to this wonderful book:

Beyond the Leash

The arsenic in the drinking water in the entire province of Viterbo is over the level permitted by the European Union, enough to cause serious health problems, including lymphoma, a type of cancer. There are about 1,000 different kinds of…

amazon.com

Gillan invents a new type of copyright infringement

The Wop Factor was published by malafemmina press and not by Lincoln Springs Press, as Maria Gillan claims. I was living in Italy when I published it and asked Gillan to hold the books in her garage. She agreed.
I've been finding listings of TWF on the internet, saying that it was published by LSP. I found an essay about me written by Fred Gardaphe with a bibliography of only two books that listed TWF as having been published by LSP. We were already exchanging emails and I wrote to ask why he listed LSP as the publisher. He said he had someone put together the bibliography and they put LSP because there was an address for LSP and there was no address for malafemmina press.
I asked Fred to scan the copyright page of his copy and send it to me as an attachment to an email. He did. And it said on his copyright page: “The Wop Factor is published by malafemmina press.”
I wrote to Fred and said that it says on the copyright page “The Wop Factor is published by malafemmina press.” I asked him whether that shouldn't take precedence over an address. Although he answered that email, he didn't answer that question.
All these years, Gillan has been telling people that the book was published by LSP and that I pulled the book from her press. As a consequence, no one reviewed it, no one ordered it, no one sold or bought it.
I sent Gillan a PM on fb asking her why she was telling people she had published The Wop Factor. She said she did publish The Wop Factor but if I wanted to think that malafemmina press published it, that wasn't a problem for her.
I asked her to send me a copy of the publishing agreement. That was about a week ago. [That is, a week before I put this post on Facebook, which was a few months ago.] Her only response was to delete my fb friendship.
Every copy of the book says, on the copyright page “The Wop Factor is published by malafemmina press.” Why would it say that if it was published by LSP?
Gillan admits that she gave me the whole edition—publishers do not give authors the whole edition of a book, unless they pay for it. She would only have given me those books if I had published them, which I did and at my own expense.
Did she print another edition? If so, what happened to the books? Did she sell them? If she sold them, why didn't she pay me royalties? We were in touch for three years when I got back from Italy—plenty of time to send me a royalty check. I was her friend on fb from May to a week ago—plenty of time to send a royalty check.
Did she print this “ghost” edition and then just throw all the books away? Or did they just vanish?
Nothing she says makes sense. She contradicts herself and lies. She seems to think she can determine reality and people will just believe what she says.

I think she needs help.

excerpt from "Beyond the Leash"

I told Kathy about the baby, about Mirella, about Mirella’s mother and how she had found the courage to go all the way to Genoa, leaving her little town in Sicily for the first time in her life.

I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting it, but Kathy made a little negative face.

“That’s so sad,” she said. “How could somebody be afraid to leave their town?”

“That’s what they’re taught all their lives. That’s what the culture is like. Everyone around them says it’s normal. She’s never even had a job.”

“But it’s not normal. My mother went to Torino by herself. Then she went to the United States. She had a job. What’s the big deal about getting a job?”

“That’s just exactly the point,” I said. “This is what American feminists don’t understand. Okay, it’s unfortunate that she’s afraid. But the point is, she is afraid. She was terrified. But she did it any-way. That took guts. I’d like to know how many American feminists would have the nerve to do something they’re terrified of doing, something that everybody always told them was bad, just because they think it’s the right thing to do. Getting a job in a culture that encourages you to get a job, and tells you you’re inferior if you don’t have a job, is not exactly an extraordinary accomplishment that requires a great deal of courage.”

Kathy looked thoughtful for a minute.

“That’s true,” she said.

“I mean,” I said, “if you can’t resist the temptation to judge somebody, you should at least judge them in their context, not in your own.”

Kathy thought about that.

“You know what?” she said. “You should be a writer. You can see things like you’re other people.”

“I couldn’t be a writer.”

“Why not?” Kathy insisted. “All you have to do is write and you’re a writer.”

“But I have nothing to say.”

“So? Lots of writers have nothing to say.”

I told Kathy about the baby, about Mirella, about Mirella’s mother and how she had found the courage to go all the way to Genoa, leaving her little town in Sicily for the first time in her life.

I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting it, but Kathy made a little negative face.

“That’s so sad,” she said. “How could somebody be afraid to leave their town?”

“That’s what they’re taught all their lives. That’s what the culture is like. Everyone around them says it’s normal. She’s never even had a job.”

“But it’s not normal. My mother went to Torino by herself. Then she went to the United States. She had a job. What’s the big deal about getting a job?”

“That’s just exactly the point,” I said. “This is what American feminists don’t understand. Okay, it’s unfortunate that she’s afraid. But the point is, she is afraid. She was terrified. But she did it any-way. That took guts. I’d like to know how many American feminists would have the nerve to do something they’re terrified of doing, something that everybody always told them was bad, just because they think it’s the right thing to do. Getting a job in a culture that encourages you to get a job, and tells you you’re inferior if you don’t have a job, is not exactly an extraordinary accomplishment that requires a great deal of courage.”

Kathy looked thoughtful for a minute.

“That’s true,” she said.

“I mean,” I said, “if you can’t resist the temptation to judge somebody, you should at least judge them in their context, not in your own.”

Kathy thought about that.

“You know what?” she said. “You should be a writer. You can see things like you’re other people.”

“I couldn’t be a writer.”

“Why not?” Kathy insisted. “All you have to do is write and you’re a writer.”

“But I have nothing to say.”

“So? Lots of writers have nothing to say.”

I smiled. But that wasn’t really what I meant. It’s just that my life has been so ordinary that nothing I’ve experienced would be interesting to write about. I’d have to do research, research about history, about wars, about other cities and countries, about laws, about terrible diseases, about life-threatening illnesses, about different cultures, about psychology and maybe even religion. All I really know is what’s happened right in front of my face and none of that is worth writing down.

The Poetry of Rose Romano

The following is from an article called “Italian American Poetry Today: An Appreciation in Progress” by George Guida. You can find the whole article on the internet.

“. . . one whose work I place at the center of Italian American poetry, is Rose Romano. . . .she is one of the least visible Italian American poets, but is, at her best, one of the most indispensable. Her Italian American poems, most of which appear in the nearly forgotten 1994 collection The Wop Factor,* cover nearly all facets of Italian American culture and life, especially of life for Italian American women. Poems like “Dago Street” and “Breaking Legs” register the injustice of anti-Italian discrimination in America, as well as Italian Americans’ continuing lament over the depiction of Italian Americans in the media. Other poems like “Ethnic Woman” and “There is Nothing in This World as Wonderful as an Italian American Lesbian” celebrate Italian (and all) ethnicity, as well as its inflections in contemporary gender roles and non-traditional public gender roles and sexual orientation. Perhaps her most important contribution to Italian American poetry is a long poem entitled “Wop Talk,” which explores the consciousness of ethnic identity in contemporary America, a theme I see at the heart of Italian American art, studies and life today.

The range of the poem, and of Romano’s Italian American poetry in general, is remarkable, as is her skill (especially with line breaks in this poem), honesty, and uncanny insight into the negotiation between Italian Americans and “Americans.”

*The Wop Factor is available as part of the collection Neither Seen nor Heard. If you're interested, write to me at malafemmina.press@yahoo.com.

List Price: $15.00 Add to Cart

Beyond the Leash   Authored by Rose Romano Edition: 1 The arsenic in the drinking water in the entire province of Viterbo is over the level permitted by the European Union, enough to cause serious health problems, including lymphoma, a type of cancer. There are about 1,000 different kinds of lymphoma, divided into three groups. People  in the first group can be cured. People in the second group, if they get the proper treatment, can expect to live almost as long as people who don't have lymphoma. People in the third group are going to die pretty quickly no matter what they do. Alice thinks she's in the third group. Maybe she is. But that doesn't justify what she did.

TO PURCHASE PLEASE GO TO: www.createspace.com/6975650

                                                                                                                                                                                                              

      

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List Price: $18.00 Add to Cart       Neither Seen nor Heard   Authored by Rose Romano Edition: 1 Neither Seen nor Heard, Romano's third book of poetry, includes all the poems from Vendetta and The Wop Factor (both published by malafemmina press), plus many poems published in various literary journals and a few published here for the first time. The poems focus on the situation of Italian-Americans and protest without apology. TO PURCHASE, PLEASE GO TO: www.createspace.com/6266104

A new book by Rose Romano

The arsenic in the drinking water in the entire province of Viterbo is over the level permitted by the European Union, enough to cause serious health problems, including lymphoma, a type of cancer. There are about 1,000 different kinds of lymphoma, divided into three groups. People in the first group can be cured. People in the second group, if they get the proper treatment, can expect to live almost as long as people who don’t have lymphoma. People in the third group are going to die pretty quickly no matter what they do.

Alice thinks she’s in the third group. Maybe she is. But that doesn’t justify what she did.

Beyond the Leash

a novel by Rose Romano

From the back cover:

“I just had this paranoid idea that after I die and people come to look through my stuff, someone who reads English and had a loved one who died of cancer, will see all the stupid things I’ve written in these notebooks and will be hurt, angry, and offended. But I really don’t mean to belittle the pain and fear of others. I just want to belittle my own.”

Rose Romano is an Italian-American living in Italy for too many years. In the United States, she published a literary journal, la bella figura, and founded malafemmina press, publishing only the work of Italian-Americans. Her books of poetry (Vendetta and The Wop Factor) and her anthology (La bella figura: a choice), all published by malafemmina press, are included in the collections of many public and university libraries. Her work has been taught at universities in the United States and Canada. She has organized and participated in poetry readings and book presentations in the United States, Canada, and Italy.

She was diagnosed with cancer in December 2010. Since her last chemotherapy/immunotherapy treatments in May 2012, she’s been in complete remission and total denial.

Beyond the Leash is available from Amazon and other online stores.

ISBN: 979-12-200-1763-3

Another review of You'll never have me like you want me

I found this on Goodreads.

You’ll never have me like you want me, a novel by Rose Romano

Contrary to popular belief, not every book written by an Italian-American living in Italy, about an Italian-American living in Italy, is about going back to Italy to look for heritage.
In this novel, written in the form of a journal kept by Emilia, Emilia goes to live in Italy because, as she says, she wants to live in the only country in the world where it’s normal to be Italian. Why does she want to live in the only country in the world where it’s normal to be Italian? There are a lot of Italians who don’t want to live in the only country in the world where it’s normal to be Italian.

Emilia wants to be wanted and that’s all she wants and all she’s ever wanted. No one has ever wanted her, not even her parents. I guess she figured that, as an Italian-American, she might have a better chance of fitting in in Italy. After all, Italian is what you are and American is just where you live. And fitting in means you’re wanted.

But Italy doesn’t want her, either. Most of the Italians she meets keep insisting that her name has to be Emily, and not Emilia. By not allowing her an Italian name, they’re telling her she must be American, which means she’s not Italian, which means they don’t want her.

Her social workers don’t want her, her psychiatrist doesn’t want her, potential bosses don’t want her, potential friends don’t want her, her roommates don’t want her, the volunteers who work with the crazy people don’t want her. It doesn’t take long before her boyfriend doesn’t want her.

But she gets what she wants in the end. If the ending of this novel really happened in real life, I’d say it was a horrible, terrible thing to happen. But, in this novel, I’d say it’s a happy ending.

Romano does a lot of little things in this book that I like, such as the names of the characters. Maybe Silvio was named after Berlusconi—that would suit his character. Or maybe I’m just getting carried away—maybe Romano just wanted a name that starts with the letter S. Mrs. Spigliato was her first social worker; her name means self-confident, self-possessed. (I’d call her arrogant and unfeeling.) One day, Emilia, tired of Mrs. Spigliato always calling her Emily, makes a mistake and calls her social worker Mrs. Spigoloso, which means angular (furniture), difficult (person). Emilia says, “Mrs. Spigliato, because her appearance was neither here nor there, was a little difficult to describe. I have no idea how to describe Mrs. Mordimi because she’s invisible.” Mrs. Mordimi is her second social worker and she really is invisible. She’s never seen—she’s never there when Emilia needs her, not in the way Emilia needs her, and her name means: bite me.

Another little thing is that most of the characters are described as animals. Roberto is a wolf. Mrs. Spigliato is a horse. Doctor Bologni is a penguin. Silvio, a former member of ′Ndrangheta, is an eagle. Sandra, the most unreal character, is a teddy bear.

The Virgin Mary, one of the characters, likes to wear t-shirts and sweatshirts with slogans on them. Of course, she’s got a t-shirt that says: You’ll never have me like you want me. My favorite is her sweatshirt that says: The truth doesn’t give a flying fuck whether you believe it or not.

Emilia, who doesn’t understand much about Italian politics, explains Italian politics to us. Usually when people explain something they don’t understand, they make it sound boring, but Emilia makes it sound as ridiculous as it really is.

Emilia gives some of the reasons that it’s cheaper and easier to live in the United States than it is to live in Italy. For example, if you quit going to the university before you get your degree, and then “. . . you decide, five years later, ten years later, twenty years later, that you want to go back to the university and finish up your degree—Surprise! In order to get back into the university, you have to pay all the taxes and fees you would have been paying if you had been attending the university for those five, ten or twenty years. In other words, you have to pay thousands of euros and you get absolutely nothing for it.” Public grammar schools and high schools don’t lend the students textbooks for free; the parents have to buy them. And Italy is the only country in the world where you have to pay, maybe even more than 200 euros, to close a bank account. (I found out somewhere else that closing a bank account can take as long as two weeks.)

The Italian-American flag, used in the cover illustration, and flown upside down as a distress signal, is an original design created by Rose Romano.

It’s an unusual little book and I think it needs to be read.

Mafia

The Mafia in Italian Lives and Literature by Robin Pickering-Iazzi

Pickering-Iazzi has written an insightful book that lights up a dark area that very often is treated superficially, in fiction, in movies, in bigotry.

Although not exaggerated as the main selling point of the book, Pickering-Iazzi focuses on the women, and the young people, involved in the mafia, as active members and as family members, and as anti-mafia activists. But it’s not feminist in the strident sense. It’s feminist only in the self-respect sense. If Sicilian men are expected to keep their mouths shut, Sicilian women are expected not only to keep their mouths shut, but to be invisible.

This book makes Sicilian women visible.

Have you ever wondered how mafiosi see themselves, live with themselves, create their contexts, explain to themselves their motivations, justifications, reasoning and involvement?

What does a mafiosa tell herself, as she’s falling asleep at night, about the time her brothers killed her son because he was an anti-mafia activist? What does she remember of the stories her grandmother told her of those men of honor, creating a fairy tale that the average child never hears? What goes on in her mind as she’s approaching, often in spite of herself, the conclusion that the only way to fight injustice is to kill the unjust and the only way to eliminate oppression is to eliminate the oppressor?

I found Rita Atria’s story particularly moving. A seventeen-year-old girl who served as a witness in anti-mafia prosecutions, breaking omertà and violating the mafia codes of behavior she’d been taught as a child, the discussion of her experiences and internal agony include excerpts from her diary, excerpts that show Rita to be, not only a young girl, but an old woman.

Written in the kind of academic style I appreciate the most—uncomplicated but insightful, reader-friendly but elegant, unambiguous but profound, decorous but not squeamish—it’s a good book for intelligent people who want to get at the essence without having to plow through a lot of useless clutter.

Besides the information itself that it provides, and the writing style, I like the way the book is constructed. The first four chapters each present a novel, written by a woman, which is given its context, and the fifth chapter tells us about Rita Atria, often in her own words. There’s overlap, but there’s no repetition. It just has all those maneuvers, highs and lows, flowings and jarrings, and a crushing and defiant conclusion that settles the matter while reaching out to the future with hope, kind of like a symphony.

If you’re a person of normal intelligence and sensibility, if you’ve ever found yourself wondering what psychology or philosophy, what emotional and intellectual beliefs, could possibly pass for justification of mafia murders and terror, but you just don’t have the strength to read dozens of books about the mafia or Sicilian culture in general, this is the book you want.

A review of "You'll never have me like you want me"

Anthony Valerio is an important and long-time established writer in Italian-American literature. His books include:

The Mediterranean Runs Through Brooklyn; Valentino & the Great Italians; Conversation with Johnny; BART, a Life of A. Bartlett Giamatti; Anita Garibaldi, a Biography; Toni Cade Bambara's One Sicilian Night, a Memoir; The Little Sailor, a Romantic Thriller; John Dante's Inferno, a Playboy's Life; Dante in Love.

He had this to say about my novel You’ll never have me like you want me:

Learned about 15 yrs ago when asked by a major newspaper to write a book
review that I cannot do it. So here I am recommending a new novel. I’d
thought that Household Saints by Francine Prose was at a zenith. This
novel, for me, ranks as high. Ms. Prose had Madame Butterfly. Ms. Romano
has the Virgin Mary. I can say of her novel published this year that it’s as
close to me as a work of mine that I could never write. It is by a writer
I used to know who at least in this work goes places I have not. It takes
me by the hand. I bought my copy of You’ll never have me like you want me
by Rose Romano on Amazon.

 

Thanks, Anthony!

 

"You'll never have me like you want me" is available on amazon and other online stores.