I'm a Monkey-American.

All these years I thought I was an Italian-American and now it turns out I'm a Monkey-American.

I found out by getting into an argument with a raving, ignorant, stupid bigot who thinks that stereotypes and cultures are the same thing and, to him, it's logical that, if you accept a positive stereotype, you MUST (his caps--apparently he's one of those people who think that caps make it true) accept the negative stereotype.

For example, if someone compliments a French person on French cuisine, the French person MUST accept the fact that the French drive like maniacs.

The same goes for the rest of us. If I want to accept a compliment on Italian cooking, I MUST accept responsability for the Mafia.

He calls these rules and, he says, rules can't be changed. I guess he hasn't noticed that rules are changed all the time. He calls these facts. But, while cultures may be facts, a stereotype is an opinion--and it's an opinion formed by stupid people who don't know all the facts and are making guesses convenient to them based on a brief experience with one or two members of a group.

And, since these are the rules and the facts, he thinks he has the right to tell everyone what they are and what they can and can not do. You know, sort of like God.

Well, speaking of Italian cooking, I can't cook worth a damn. But that's just one reason I'm not allowed to be Italian-American.

Here's the other reason. Did you know that the garbage pails of Italians (I think he meant Italian-Americans but I don't think he knows the difference) reek of garlic? In all the years I've been trying to tell bigots how stupid and ignorant they are, I really never knew that the garbage pails of Italian-Americans reek of garlic. Of course, when speaking of the smell of garlic, I would prefer the word perfume, and maybe that's part of the reason.

The point here is that my garbage doesn't waft the delicious scent of garlic.

You know those cramps you sometimes get in your legs in the middle of the night? Well, a friend told me they're caused by not getting enough potassium. So I started eating bananas.

Now my garbage pail reeks of banana peels.

So, like I said, I'm not really Italian-American. I'm Monkey-American.

A couple of poems from Neither Seen nor Heard

Mutt Bitch

It’s not easy being an angry poet
when you come from a culture
whose most profound statement of anger
is silence.
No one knows
what you’re talking about.
No one knows
what your problem is.
No one believes you.
A poem needs a lot of explaining
but refuses to do it itself.
It expects the culture
to back it up.
If I have no culture
I can say nothing;
therefore, if I
say nothing,
I have no culture.

I’m Neapolitan

on my father’s side,
Sicilian on my
mother’s side.
After my mother died,
when I was eight years
old, my mother’s people
slowly faded away.
I grew up
in a Neapolitan family,
always silently
defending Sicilians.
(Sicilians were
my sainted mother.)
If I misbehaved
or did something
stupid, it was because
I’m Sicilian.
I don’t remember
ever doing anything
that got me called
Italian. I grew up
thinking Naples
is in Northern Italy.

Sicilians don’t want

me, either.
The few words
of Italian I know
are all Neapolitan.
I’m not serious
enough. I’m not
oppressed enough. I
haven’t been conquered
enough. I’m not Olive
enough. I may as well
be Italian. Don’t say
Neapolitan–say
Italian. Remember
the Renaissance. Remember
how Italy saved Europe
by inventing art
and science. (Don’t say
Florence.) But my guts—
what do I do with my guts?
 
Non-Italians don’t know
what I’m talking about.
They think I’m weird.
They think the only
difference, if
there is any, between
Italians and Sicilians,
is that, unlike Italians
(who aren’t too bright,
either), Sicilians make pizza
the way morons make
wheels.
 
So much for that problem.
Now, maybe I’ve had
some inconveniences
as an Italian,
but if I changed
my name, dropped
the vowel, the barriers
would fall with it.
I’d have nothing
to lose.
If I ever felt
lonely, I could
go to the supermarket
and fill my cart
with cans of
spaghetti and meatballs
and no one would
suspect a thing.
 
Maybe it’s time to take inventory.
I’m a woman.
I’m a contessa
on my father’s side,
contadina on my
mother’s side.
I’ve got a
high school equivalency diploma
and an associate’s degree
in liberal arts.
I’m a skilled blue collar worker.
I’m a published poet.
I’ve got a Brooklyn accent
with Italian gestures.
I’m a dyke.
I’m a single working mother.
All this stuff doesn’t add up to
just
one
person.

Fuck it.

++++++++++

The Fly

Giovanni de’Medici,

the first of the branch
of the Medici family
that produced Lorenzo
who almost single-handedly
produced the renaissance
in Florence,
advised his descendants—
“Be as inconspicuous as possible.”

This guy sounds like my father.

The first 16 years of my life,
I learned only two Neapolitan phrases—
assiettete
and statte zitte.
I’m standing now and I’m speaking.

Lesbians are not womanly enough,

not Madonna or puttana enough,
to be recognized by the Italian-
American community.
Italians are not Olive enough,
not light or dark enough,
to be recognized by the American
Lesbian community.
I’m standing now and I’m speaking
yet I am neither seen nor heard.

I’m a Sicilian-Italian-American Lesbian,

the scum of the scum of the scum,
forgotten by those who scream
in protest because they are
forgotten,
and I am neither seen nor heard.

Sicilians tell their children—
“A fly doesn’t enter a closed mouth.”
I’m standing now and I’m
telling the Sicilians,
the Italians,
and the Lesbians—
You can’t spit a fly
out of a closed mouth.

Neither Seen nor Heard is now available

malafemmina press announces her second book:

Neither Seen nor Heard, poetry by Rose Romano




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.

Rose Romano is an Italian-American living in Italy for several 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, also 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 organized and participated in poetry readings and book presentations in the United States, Canada, and Italy.

A copy can be purchased by clicking on:

www.createspace.com/6266104

 

Three books from Maria Pallotta-Chiarolli

Tapestry
This is Maria's exploration of the tapestry embroidered from five generations of women and men in her family, from the turn of the twentieth century to its final years, from the poor villages of Italy to the cities of Australia, and back to a nineties Italy that is both alien and home.

Someone you know: A friend’s farewell
A semi-autobiographical book, Someone You Know (Adelaide: Wakefield Press, 1991; new edition 2002) was Australia's first AIDS biography. All royalties donated to Bobby Goldsmith Foundation for People Living With AIDS.
Love you two
Pina's friends think she's lucky. How many families get along the way hers does - how many parents are as free-spirited and happy as hers? But sometimes Pina wonders who the grown-up is - her or her mother. Then a chance glimpse at an email unravels what Pina thought she knew about life and love. Can her family survive what she has discovered? And what does it all mean for Pina's own life? Two siblings, two boys, two cities, three generations, four friends. How many versions of the truth?

+ + +

Dr. Maria Pallotta-Chiarolli has gained national and international recognition as a writer, researcher, lecturer and consultant in the issues of cultural diversity, gender diversity, sexual diversity, family diversity, HIV/AIDS, and social diversity in health and education, with a specific focu on adolescence and young people.

+ + +

If you’re one of those people (which would be all of us) who belong to more than one category, you’ll find recognition, understanding, and confirmation in Maria’s work.

All three books, and others, are available on Amazon.

You'll never have me like you want me -- is now available

You'll never have me like you want me

by Rose Romano

(ISBN-13: 979-1220009928)

is now available. To purchase a copy, just go to

www.createspace.com/6117360

All the information is there.

CreateSpace, a part of Amazon.com, is the printer/distributor. malafemmina press is the publisher.

From the back cover:

 

When Emilia realizes what Italy means, she decides to keep a journal.

As an Italian-American who lived all her life in Brooklyn, Emilia goes to Italy because she wants to live in the only place in the world where it's normal to be Italian. She doesn't speak Italian well and isn't familiar with the laws. Although she has Italian citizenship, she can't get real help from her psychologist or her social worker. Her life gets smaller and smaller. Her chances get slimmer and slimmer.

The solution to all her problems appears in an unexpected flash.

 

Rose Romano is an Italian-American living in Italy for several 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) 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.

 

The next book (Neither Seen nor Heard) is expected in July.

Struggles in Italy

strugglesinitaly.wordpress.com

 

is a blog dedicated to making available to people, mostly outside Italy, information about “what else” goes on in Italy. The following is from their blog.

 

In recent times, a specific repertoire of images on Italy has dominated international media, presenting a selective, partial and limited image of the country. Examples of this are the controversial views on Italian justice that emerged in the Knox trial, the downgrading of Italian public assets by Standard and Poors and by Moody’s (always presented from the impersonal perspective of the “market”), the despicable image of women fostered by the Italian political class, and, of course, the everlasting pizza, spaghetti, and mafia. However, there is much more going on in Italy, much more that should be getting adequate coverage.

 

In the past two decades Italy has witnessed an increase in social conflict prompted by a variety of political subjects. Trade unions, students, migrants, precarious workers, environmental activists have voiced their right to the future, often giving birth to productive synergies.

However, these movements rarely if ever receive international coverage. We believe that the reasons for this silence are many, and have to do with linguistic limitations, the Italo-centric perspective of some movements, and the biased perspective of mainstream media.

For all these reasons, we decided to initiate Struggles in Italy, a grassroots self-education and information project in languages other than Italian. The project is entirely volunteer-run. We are precarious workers, translators, IT workers, students, researchers, environmentally conscious people, activists, and much more. We come from a variety of backgrounds, in geographical, personal, and political terms. In short, we are active citizens committed to improve the world we live in, and more specifically Italy, our country of residence or of origin.

Struggles in Italy’s blog is a dictionary of Italian struggles, a place that hosts news and deeper reflections. We cover political activism, education, culture, the environment, workers’ and community struggles, the mafia, the media and mainstream politics. Struggles is also a collective of volunteer writers, a transnational community of workers, students and researchers living in different parts of the world. We all share the aim to show Italian reality, made of struggling people. We’ve made local struggles much more visible so they can be studied and sense can be made of them. Our perspective is indipendent from mainstream media. We have the blog, a Twitter account and a Pinterest board. Our main language is English, but we wrote also in French, German, Portuguese and Spanish. We’re keen to expand our output beyond English. We’re looking for new people to work on writing or editing articles, translating them into other languages, reporting from the field and much more. Enthusiasm and expertise are both appreciated – in any language. Join us, share our message and spread the voice about the project.

Our email is strugglesinitaly@gmail.com

The Family Dialect

Here's one of the poems that will be in my new book, Neither Seen nor Heard.
I'm hoping the book will be available at Amazon.com and other online stores by July 2016.


The Family Dialect


1962
Skinny, big-eyed girl, long
black braids and a face
that always looked unclean,
backed into a corner by
the popular girls. Columbus
didn’t discover America,
their fingers in her chest
and their wisdom in her eyes.
Only Italians would be
stupid enough to go west to
get east and discover a
country already discovered—
must be where the expression
ass backwards comes from.
Nowadays, everybody knows
Leif Ericson discovered America.

1972

Times change.

Time markers change

with the times.
Everyone’s singing
their unsung heroes.
Everyone’s got a button
but me. I picked a fine
time to be Italian—it was
either Columbus or Al Capone.
I should have picked Capone.

1982

The immigrant Northern Italian
lesbian is not Italian-American.
She’s a real Italian, not like
third-generation Southern Italians
and Sicilians, who remain savages
to this day, who never developed
beyond dialect to language.
The American lesbians sympathize
with me—I lost my culture
when my family made me speak

English because they were

ashamed of the family dialect.

The politically correct lesbians share

their Columbus poems, never dreaming

of the tortured logic of ignorance and

bigotry that made Columbus a hero
to Southern Italian/Sicilian-
Americans, torture I bring to
bed with me every night.

1992

Now they’re reading their

Columbus poems at women-only
dances, to raise consciousness,
boldly proclaiming the truth,
not afraid to call Columbus
an oppressor even though
he wasn’t a wasp, because
this isn’t about wop bashing,
because they’re organizing
dances to help indigenous peoples
not to condemn wops, and if I
don’t understand how it helps
they can’t explain it, and even
a question becomes an accusation,
because they’re not about to give
up the land of opportunity bought
for them by the blood shed by
Columbus’ followers, not about
to go back to the countries their
own grandparents were starving in.
I tell them I don’t follow Columbus,
don’t follow a Northerner with his hands
in his pockets—nothing to say
and money to hide—and they remind
me that Italian-Americans are the only
people in America to be presented
honestly in the history books they
read in school, remind me I should
accept my share of the guilt, proud
to be able to admit their bigotry,
their greatest achievement, dancing
on the graves of indigenous peoples,
and just when being Italian-American
wasn’t so embarrassing anymore, it got
embarrassing again.

October

Does it matter to anyone here that
Columbus was a Northerner at
a time when there was no Italy?
Does it matter to anyone here
that Northerners have oppressed
Southerners and Sicilians in Italy,
in the United States, then, now
and forever? Does it matter to
anyone here that the overwhelming
majority of Italian-Americans are
Southerners and Sicilians?

They tell me not to explain things
in my poems. But without
an explanation they won’t
know. Without an explanation,
they don’t have to know.

 Now I’ve gotten a petition in

the mail to protest the quincentennial
celebrations signed by Italian
name after Italian name after
Italian name.

Does it matter to anyone here

that Columbus was Jewish?

Does it matter to anyone here

that Jews aren’t running to
apologize the way Italian-
Americans are? Does it matter
to anyone here that Italian-
Americans are so easy to shame
while others have too much
self-respect to fall for such
crap?

Now I’ve gotten an invitation
in the mail to a glittery
dinner and dance celebrating
someone whose gall and
insensitivity made him the
focal point of irrational and
misplaced pride at $150 a plate.

Does it matter to anyone here

that I come from a culture
as old as the beginning of the
world? Does it matter to anyone
here that I come from a culture
stolen by people who don’t know
what it’s worth? Does it matter
to anyone here that my best chance
of ethnic pride is to rip off my
skin and roll in salt?

Santa Rosalia, more over.

I’m coming to join you.

At least until the end

of the month.