My arsenic post from Facebook

Does your children’s school serve lunches that provide the minimum daily requirement of arsenic?

I’ve been seeing a lot of posts on fb lately, talking about the nutritious school lunches that are served to children in Europe. Mostly, these posts are just pictures.

The water in the entire province of Viterbo has arsenic in it at levels so high that just drinking the water from your tap or washing in the water can cause life-threatening health problems. I’ve got lymphoma, a type of cancer, because I drank the water from my tap and used it to wash.

There are about one thousand different types of lymphoma, divided into three main groups: one-third that will kill you quickly; one-third that can be cured; one-third that, with the proper treatment, will just shorten your life. I lucked out; I’ve got the kind that will just shorten your life.

The governments of the province of Viterbo and the European Union have known about this problem for more than twenty years but they don’t care enough to do anything about it. The allowable levels of arsenic go up, the deadline for meeting the level requirements are extended, and people are dropping dead.

If you don’t believe me, search for Viterbo water arsenic.

I wouldn’t be surprised if this problem is present in other parts of Europe.

There are filters that can be installed but they’re considered too expensive—although they’re probably not as expensive as chemotherapy and immunotherapy treatments which, I was told by a fellow patient when I was undergoing therapy at the day hospital, cost €20,000 for one treatment. Multiply that by the nine I’ve had so far and it adds up.

That same arsenic water is used in the preparation of school lunches. No matter how nutritious those lunches may be, using water that can give those children cancer, heart problems, and other deadly health conditions, is not to be considered an indication of the superiority of European school lunches over those in the United States and is not something to be boasting about.

Eating nutritious meals is not going to do those children much good if they end up dying of a heart attack at the age of forty when, if they hadn’t drunk that water, they might have lived to be eighty-five.

Those of us who are going to die before our time because we drank the water in Viterbo know that plastering fb with appetizing pictures of nutritious food isn’t going to do anybody any good.

I think it might be more helpful to post pictures of nine-year-old children who are dying of cancer.

More Personal Stuff about Me

I started writing novels just after my mother died because I decided I didn’t like the world anymore and I’d just make up one of my own.

I know that it was against cultural norms among poor people in Italy. But I also know that going from a description of a culture to the implied belief that every member of a culture lives by its norms, is just describing stereotypes. Insisting, in spite of proof to the contrary, that those stereotypes are true of every member of a culture, is bigotry.

My mother was raised by Sicilians, a people not known for being literary (This idea comes from ignorance—there has been a highly respected Sicilian literature, in the Sicilian language, since at least the 1200’s.), but she gave me my love of reading and writing.

The summer I turned six, just before I started school, my mother taught me how to write my name. It was pretty long—Rose Sorrentino. I spent the whole day writing my name over and over again. I said “Let there be Rose Sorrentino.” I wrote it and there I was—I existed. I still consider it the most exciting day of my life—and my life hasn’t been boring.

Every Saturday night, my mother gave me and my brother our Saturday night bath and washed our hair. We put on fresh pajamas and the sheets were all fresh. We were allowed to stay up late, until my father came back from the corner candy store at midnight with a copy of the Sunday newspaper. He gave the funnies to my mother and we all sat in the big bed, me on one side of my mother and my brother on the other side, while she read us the funnies, including the sound effects. It was total paradise and I learned then to associate reading with feeling good.

She also made sure I had a library card, before I started school, and that I used it.

After my mother died, my Neapolitan family, who didn’t read and didn’t see why anyone else should, while they didn’t encourage my reading, they didn’t really seem to me to disapprove of it. In any case, I had long since concluded that adults should be seen and not heard. So when I walked into a room with my book in my hand, and found the aunts talking, and they would all turn to me and say, disdainfully, “And this one here, always with her nose in a book,” I just ignored them. Besides, I was allowed to have a membership in a children’s book club, one of the few things I was allowed to have even though it cost money.

I started writing poetry when I was fourteen years old. I was trying to figure out what to do with my life and I had no reason to trust the adults around me to give me any useful advice. I’d write up something, read it, think about it, and toss it into the trash. I’ve always loved language and I tried to make what I wrote as good as I was able. Pretty soon, I noticed that I was writing poetry, so I decided that, as long as I was already writing poetry, I might as well do that with my life, and I started keeping the poems.

I first came across Emily Dickinson when I was about ten years old. The nuns had given us a little book of poetry for children which included Dickinson’s poem that begins, “I like to see it lap the miles, / And lick the valleys up,” which I thought was a really dumb poem. Who cares about a stupid train? And she used the word Boanerges, which sent me to the dictionary where I discovered that it’s a kind of horse. So why didn’t she say horse, like a normal person?

I’ve read that Italian-Americans, belonging to a culture that doesn’t value literature, have to go to school to learn to appreciate reading. For me, it was the other way around. And there are a lot of people who feel that many schools discourage a real love of learning and literature.

When I was sixteen years old, one evening at the Brooklyn Public Library, I was desperate for something to read. I just couldn’t find anything I wanted. Finally, I heard, over the loudspeaker, “Ping, ping, ping. The library will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please bring your books up to the checkout counter.” I panicked and grabbed the first book I could reach, which happened to be a book of poems by Emily Dickinson, and ran with it to the checkout counter.

When I got home, I just tossed the book onto a shelf and went back to working on a poem which I had been trying to write for days, but just couldn’t get it right. All I knew was that I wanted to write about the light on winter afternoons and I all I could think of to say was that the light was slanted.

Frustrated, I put the my poem aside and took down the book of Emily Dickinson’s poems and began to read. I decided that some of them were okay, but I wasn’t really impressed so much. Then I read a poem that totally blew me away. It begins “There’s a certain slant of light / On winter afternoons.” I was astonished and in love because that was the poem I had been trying to write.

When I read her poem that begins “Unto my books so good to turn / Far ends of tired days; / It half endears the abstinence, / And pain is missed in praise.”, all I could think was, How does she know so much about me?

The first line of the last stanza of this poem is “I thank these kinsmen of the shelf,” and that was when I decided to try to get my poetry published. I wanted to be kinsmen of the shelf with Emily Dickinson.

In other words, I had been writing for eight years before it even entered my head to try to publish anything.

I’ve heard of people who write because they want to be published. I don’t. Although I like being published and I appreciate it when people, who know how to read, like my work, that’s not why I’m writing. I write to be writing because writing gives me the energy I need to live. I always feel like crap if I haven’t written for a long time. When I’m not writing, little problems become big and big problems become hell. When I’m writing, the little problems melt away and the big problems get little.

I learned too late that Dickinson, after having a few things published, decided it wasn’t worth it and that she should write but not publish. By the time I read that, I’d had a few things published and I was hooked. At this point, seeing what some people have written about my work and me, I sometimes think that Dickinson was right. But I love being published. If I never published again it would be a big disappointment, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Not writing anymore would be the end of the world.

Just a little Background Information

I’ve been reading “critiques of my work.” I put that in quotes because they’re not critiques of my work; they’re mini biographies about me supposedly based on my work, most of which is misinterpreted just to fit in with what the critic wants to say. One critic told me that literary critics aren’t required to do research. Apparently, he doesn’t realize that all that really means is that a literary critic doesn’t have to know what he’s talking about and can just make up stuff.

So if there’s anyone out there who wants to be a responsible literary critic, here are a few facts that you might be interested in knowing.

I was born in Brooklyn on May 20, 1951. Contrary to popular belief, I’m still alive—at least as of this writing.

My paternal grandparents were from the province of Naples, my grandmother from Procida and my grandfather from Castellammare di Stabia. They were nobility, a count and countess, and knew King Vittorio Emanuele II personally. Not all the immigrants left Italy because they were poor. Some had other reasons, usually political, or maybe they just had a sense of adventure.

My maternal grandparents came from Alcamo, a small city in Sicily. They were probably poor, although they’re not poor now. I know that because I visited with them, living for a year and three months in Alcamo.

Although I’m half Neapolitan and half Sicilian, I have always identified as Neapolitan. When my mother died a month before my eight birthday, my father brought me and my brother to live with his mother, who had arrived in Brooklyn with my grandfather (I don’t think they were married.) when she was seventeen years old. Although my brother and I were pretty much neglected, my grandmother was a big influence on me. I watched her and I listened to her and I learned to be Neapolitan and proud of it. Sicilians, in spite of the fact that my mother also had a big influence on me, were always seen by me as foreigners. I was just too little when she died.

malafemmina press is up and running again

malafemmina press

is up and running again

You’ll never have me like you want me,

a novel by Rose Romano, is back in print,

thanks to the help of Emanuele Paris,

a neighbor who runs a small press of his own:

Edizioni Sette Città (www.settecitta.eu)

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’s completely unprepared. She doesn’t speak Italian well and isn’t familiar with her rights and obligations. Although she has Italian citizenship, she finds it almost impossible to get real help from her psychologist and 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 too many years. In the United States, she published a literary journal, la bella figura, and founded malafemmina press, the first to publish 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.

You’ll never have me like you want me

can be ordered from:

www.libreriafernandez.it

info@libreriafernandez.it

tel 0761.304967

fax 0761.303020

via Mazzini, 87

01100 Viterbo (VT)

Italia

(If you’re outside of Italy and learning Italian, this is a great store to get Italian books. They not only have a huge selection of books in Italian, but also some other stuff in English and other languages.)

she's not bad looking for someone that old

Donna Fanciullo, a novel by R. M. Kelleher

available on amazon

Donna is the Italian word for woman. Fanciullo is the Italian word for child; used in the masculine here, it would be translated into English as boy. Matt, Irish-American, is a boy (Actually, he's 16 years old, so don't tell him I called him a boy.), who is accused of stealing from his slightly off-center father. Donna, Italian-American, is the woman, 35 years old (Although, according to Matt, she's not bad looking for someone that old.), who takes him in when his father kicks him out. Most of the novel is spent exploring their relationship. It's a complicated relationship; it doesn't take too long before they begin to find each other attractive, although they barely have the guts to admit this to themselves, never mind to each other.

Donna's pretty good at understanding herself. Matt does his damnedest to keep up. They both go through real life, sometimes together and sometimes separately. Donna goes on a few dates with a real jerk. Matt ends up getting a ride home with a stop-off at the driver's home, which is filled with young women and older men who are on drugs, where he’s taken advantage of. They both grow, they both learn, they're both extremely real. Kelleher really knows how to make you care about a fictional character. In fact, I blame Kelleher's able writing as my excuse for thinking through most of the novel: So, are they going to do it, or what?

Every scene blends italianità with the rest of Donna and there’s the way Kelleher throws in objections to bigotry and sexism and the way she speaks out against stereotypes, but only enough to make her point, not enough to interrupt the story or be a pain in the neck. And although they’re both catholic, neither one of them is limited by their religion.

It's just the way their ethnicity, for both of them, fits so easily into their souls that gets to me. There's nothing artificial about it; it's not something outside of them; their identification doesn’t depend on a few predictable words; they don't have neon signs over their heads saying Italian or Irish. They just are and it goes very deep.

It’s a good story, well written with real people. Read it for that and, while you’re at it, notice how you can make a fictional character a real Italian-American without making her a stereotype.

How the Mediterranean arrived in Brooklyn

The Mediterranean Runs Through Brooklyn by Anthony Valerio

an e-book available on Amazon

In spite of his university education, Valerio writes like a real person sitting there telling you what happened. Maybe he’s making some of it up, but so what?

He isn’t rigid about anything. All his stories start with what’s announced in the contents. But all his stories, with little warning, go galloping off in all directions. Those are the circles, Italian circles, because they always come back again. He’s not afraid of anything. He’s not intent on sounding like a university person who wants to write a brilliant novel, just like his professors taught him to do, just like most of those classics do. You’re never given the feeling that he consulted a dictionary, a thesaurus, and God knows what all else. He just goes ahead and writes a brilliant novel. Or are they brilliant stories? Maybe brilliant poetry? Well, it’s brilliant stuff, anyway. And it’s the brilliant part that’s important.

Everything is floating around like real life; you don’t have to read the pieces in order. Things don’t always go together but they always fit together. It’s a mystery that I want to explore even if I don’t understand it. It’s like real life—you just keep rolling it around in your head whether you understand it or not and the thoughts feel good in your mind.

It’s easy to find something to say, like being at a party and everybody’s stoned, so whatever you say makes sense, even if it doesn’t. It’s like you dive into the book and take a tour of Valerio’s family, which would be just like a tour of your own family, like wandering around in a museum with great stuff all over the place. Valerio’s family is fascinating and you want to be a part of it, no matter what they do, and before you’re even half way through the book you know you’re going to want to read the book again because you know you’re going to miss these people when you’re finished the book.

It even echoes stuff from his other work and repeats stuff in this book and it all circles around you until you feel like a constellation right in the middle of Brooklyn.

Valerio has a great talent for description using a few simple words. He knows that little words say a hell of a lot more than big words. “On my first day home after being born, I stopped in at Mary’s and peed on her lap.” His first day of school: “By the time I was torn from the banister leading to my mother and father, it was eight-fifteen.” “Valentino’s penis was likely uncircumcised, but there is no evidence he ever used it.” “While Mr. Bernstein was reading my story, I looked around the cafeteria and felt that it was a sacred place reserved for writers and editors of the first rank. Mr. Bernstein was editor-in-chief of a line of soft-core pornographic books. After he read my story, he offered me a job answering the telephone.”

There’s a touching story about his father and how he died. But it’s not told touchingly; there are hardly any emotional words. The words he uses are almost cold, straight-forward, no-nonsense, and matter-of-fact, which is how it touches you. When words go straight from the author’s pen to your heart, they’re not watered down the way words are when they go from the author’s pen and pass through the author’s heart before going to the reader’s.

The story I can relate to the most, as a writer and the proud owner of an HB pencil, is “Lament of the Cheap Pentel Pencil.” He searches for a new Number 2 pencil, the best, and the cheapest, that Pentel makes, all meanderings included in the price. One meandering describes how he first learned about masturbation. It starts like this: “One day while my friend Albee and I were writing on the street, he told me about a wonderful discovery he had just made.”—in case you want to search for it and read it first.

It comes pretty much in the middle of the book but, as I said, you don’t have to read this book in order. You just have to read this book.

Damn, you just have to read this book.

Wikipedia and the lynching of Sicilian-Americans

I always say to anyone who will listen that Wikipedia is a useful site, but . . . But whatever you’re doing research on, you can’t rely on only one source. And unlike any other encyclopedia, Wikipedia is not written by experts. It’s written by anyone who cares to contribute. And some people contribute their own ignorance based on their own prejudices.

The people who “run” Wikipedia try to make sure that the people who contribute are at least responsible enough to cite sources for their information. But it should be obvious to anyone that they don’t try hard enough.

There’s a discussion going on now on Wikipedia about a listing for the lynching of Sicilian-Americans in New Orleans in 1891. The bigots don’t like this listing because it “claims,” after careful and responsible research, that this lynching of Sicilian-Americans is considered the worst lynching ever to have occurred in the entire history of the United States. None of these ignorant bigots would object to this statement if a lynching of Afro-Americans were listed as the worst lynching ever to have occurred in the entire history of the United States. The ignorant bigots just go on about the difference between a massacre and a lynching—which is a bullshit waste of time.

They denigrate Richard Gambino for his book Vendetta, a book extremely painful to read, because it describes this lynching in detail. They don’t care that Gambino is a respected scholar who wouldn’t waste his time on a not-entirely trustworthy site like Wikipedia. Instead, they object to his “claim” that this was the worst lynching. They don’t even give a shit that the NAACP, an organization that has done extensive research about lynchings, considers this lynching to be the worst lynching in the United States. And don’t try to tell them that there were Afro-Americans among the people doing the lynching because they’ll just call you a racist. Like any other bigots, they don’t like the truth.

I tried for many years to speak out against the prejudice against Italian-Americans. I’ve gotten no support from Italian-Americans. In fact, I’m been ridiculed, insulted, and ostracized by my own people for trying to improve our situation.

This goes a long way in explaining why Italian-Americans are still treated like crap.