I would welcome your feed back on my submission of a segment of my text; To live first and then to write.
I might be without the benefit of endless years of specialized study in the topic of Italian women in literature, but like the women I am writing about, they too have simply written from life. My research does prompt me, to applaud those of you who have the endless strength to dissect, analyze, reanalyze and compare author to author, political and social influences, the metaphorical implications, the subtleties … that only a scholar recognizes.
At a recent event, I confessed my concern about this, and said, “I can’t help it when I write, I write from the heart and I don’t hear the words, I see them”. This professor then replied, “Ah but then you are not a writer… but a poet”.
To live first and then to write. I had not really given much thought to writing until I realized I had something to write about. I was challenged to seek answers to conflicts that I thought at one time to be simple choices and wishes that were desires yet to be fulfilled. Disturbing life-altering upheavals. Bicoastal moves. Unemployment. Second careers, whether I wanted them or not. Marriage. A son. Divorce From the energized boost of city living to the anesthic numbness of the suburbs. Some of these changes were meant to meet intentional desires others simply hardcore demands. Desire and conflict. Stretching them to the breaking point, so tight the band almost became invisible.
To live first and then to write. The words of an Italian novelist and poet Sibilla Aleramo, who wrote to show the world what it was to be a modern woman. A woman I would never meet yet a writer who would change my life.
This presentation is quite personal. It chronicles a journey of self-discovery through t
the influence of women protagonists in Italian literature, a yearn to reconnect with
home grown traditions, and a revelation to how and why the pen has become the best part of me.
The power of the pen is extraordinary. For me it is life’s most valuable tool. It records. It confirms a declaration. It nourishes a memory. It provides a voice to a thought that might never had been heard. The pen gives shape to an idea and its ink feeds its growth. It conveys comfort. It captures a moment that willfully allows the imagination, to take control. It gives a future to our intentions. It gives hope to our desire. It speaks the language of the heart. At first it was not the love of the written word that launched me on this journey, but the love of a place.
Uncertainty, skeptism and a curiosity plague some, and wonder why this obsessive attraction. But like those who have been kissed by the sweetness of her breath, seduced by her beauty and moved to a state of weakened surrender by the strength her intoxicating power, I too have succumb to all that is called Italy.
My love affair with Italy is rather public though there are times when a hidden seductive yearn can overwhelm me. I find myself smiling without meaning to. Somehow like an unattainable love, it would slip in and out of my life. Reminding me of the possibilities yet to be savored.
My Italy came to me via New York City. Or as my father would prefer to say via the blood of the Caesars’. Its warmth revealed itself through the smiles of my great grandparents. With a need to hold on to a sense of tradition, my great grandmother Philmena had filled their cord secured suitcases with their most precious treasures of the old country.
A woman with an aristocratic flare she smiled and nodded when welcomed by that other woman of style and substance, who graces New York Harbor. She was determined to reestablish the maternal dynasty of the Corona family. Ever so carefully she unwrapped the elegance of Italy that would radiate from the tenement windows on Mulberry Street. Thinking more like a member of the House of Di Medici, then the southern villager that she was, she filled the lower Manhattan railroad flat with Fine Art, literature, crystal chandeliers, mahogany buffets and fine fabrics. Rich with pride she stated, “we are not immigrants . . . we are Italians!”
Established and thriving, Francesco and Philomena as well as Maria and Giovanni Freda, though eager to begin a new life, were mindful of where they came from. Passing their legacy on to a new generation, Italy’s history was brought to life, as they told stories, while sitting under the same night sky as those with whom we shared our names, our heritage and the common thread that binds, il tre colori, an ocean away.
Raised in Brooklyn, the center of the universe. I believed in my heart that I was a part of a special society. My family, my neighborhood. All of us, glued to tradition, within a homogenous environment. This allowed all of us to know what the other was thinking, doing. What Christmas Eve really meant, that it’s really all about the fish and where we each would be on Sundays at 2:00. On those mornings a welcoming aroma cloaked the brick faced stoops and shared front yards on the way to buying bread that would be passed around a table for twelve, sometimes more.
A United Nations of one, with delegates from Naples, Calabria, Bari, Parlermo, Positano, Potenza and Rome assured a constant and melodic blend of dialects. Attached houses made the open door, open porch, policy a right of passage. Your privacy was everybody’s business. Neighborly acts of kindness were not an option it was a lifestyle. Summer, especially tested your patience and creativity. Whether it was eating, playing, building everybody was involved. Like a scene from a B rated horror movie about a giant squid, lengths of hose from all around, filled the above ground backyard pool. Trays of food passed over one hurricane fence to the other. Smoke from BBQ’s provided a floating curtain of privacy, separating the grass carpeted dining rooms.
Hibernating hospitality burrowed in winter. Snow and shoveling made you aware of property lines. You just didn’t put your snow anywhere it needed to be strategically placed, or else you hear, “Hey" followed by the hand and the look. But all would be forgotten when the holiday lights were turned on. A dazzling glow outlined the houses in an array of color with thematic schemes. But the true source of light came from within, like it did from those tenement windows in Little Italy.
Years have passed. Neighborhoods have changed. Traditions have faded but my allegiance to my ancestry remains strong. Its not the untold stories that have peaked my interest but the unknown ones.
So now here I am. Instead of the bustling streets of Manhattan, I walk pass the quiet walls of ivy, that are bulging with all that is yet to be revealed. With all that is yet to be learned. But why here? Women like British novelist Muriel Spark found her inspiration in Venice, where she wrote; it is a city not to inspire thoughts but sensations. Elizabeth von Arnim, who penned, Enchanted April, wrote, “It is the landscape of Portofino that inspired an emotional thaw. For me. It was Yale? Yes a mecca for thought provoking inspiration. but? New Haven? …. Already I knew this was going to be different.
Then I remembered a wise man once said to me there is no such thing as coincidence, everything happens for a reason.
And so it went that a collection of past coincidences seemed to be part of a plan as well. Throughout my professional career, repeated occasions to work and play with Italians sparked me to have a reunion of sorts with my cultural family tree. Trips to Italy, working with the Tourism board of Umbria, Hosting a contessa and her historic collection of Italian aircraft, coordinating visits of the Italian Navy and the glorious tall ship Amerigo Vespucci and most recently, collaborating with Italians with connections to a higher power… the Vatican. And with each of these occasions came the questions. You’re Italian? Yes … You must be from Northern Italy? No. Ah …. Avelino, then you must speak Italian? … No … been to Italy? … yes ,,,,,Did you study there? … No.
Questions from others only made me ask more questions of myself. Where had I really come from? I knew that I had changed but where was I going. And then I realized that fate was feeding my destiny.
So with fantasies of my arms around wrapped around Fabio, zipping through the balcony laced narrow streets of Sienna … in my mind, with the desire to speak with the tantalizing flair of Sophia… in my soul, and with an aching nostalgia for everything my education had denied me, I decided to learn to speak Italian.
I made the attempt. Enamored by la dolce vita, I became “noisio”. I was getting bored with my Italian repertoire of familiar phrases. Somehow I needed to get beyond, “Si, parle Italiano ma mi dispiace, ( dee spee aicha) ho bisogno molto pratica.
Then a supportive and patient friend who would cringe, and then smile at every mispronunciation suggested that I not speak, Italian but read Italian. She gave me a copy of Susana Tamaro’s “Va’dove ti porta il Coeur”, about a young girl and her relationship with her grandmother . . . with her reassurance that this would help . . . because it was simple reading. I would become familiar seeing phrases repeated in the book’s dialogue and would be able to use them in conversation. Brava! … but life got in the way of my risorgimento.
Feeling frustrated and yet still having this desire to be a part of the Italian literati. I sought more advice, and selected the English version of Sibilla Aleramo’s Una Donna, A Woman.
Her words were the utterance of the soul. A poet of instinct she used verse as a means of self-expression. Assertive and simple. For the longest time my thoughts had laid stagnant, blocked by an inability to express them. Suddenly there was life to them. I had found my voice. I had found my passion … a writer who wrote the truth because the truth is wild and dangerous. It was a though she handed me a pen.
Fascinated by the unknown I became consumed by words that lifted off the page. Forming them into a vision it molded itself into a figure. Distorted at first but the more I read, the more was learned the more clear the image became. The page transformed itself into a mirror and within its reflection was blending of the senses, the emotion, despair, the hope, the words of a woman became the image of everywhere woman.
At a recent event, I confessed my concern about this, and said, “I can’t help it when I write, I write from the heart and I don’t hear the words, I see them”. This professor then replied, “Ah but then you are not a writer… but a poet”.
To live first and then to write. I had not really given much thought to writing until I realized I had something to write about. I was challenged to seek answers to conflicts that I thought at one time to be simple choices and wishes that were desires yet to be fulfilled. Disturbing life-altering upheavals. Bicoastal moves. Unemployment. Second careers, whether I wanted them or not. Marriage. A son. Divorce From the energized boost of city living to the anesthic numbness of the suburbs. Some of these changes were meant to meet intentional desires others simply hardcore demands. Desire and conflict. Stretching them to the breaking point, so tight the band almost became invisible.
To live first and then to write. The words of an Italian novelist and poet Sibilla Aleramo, who wrote to show the world what it was to be a modern woman. A woman I would never meet yet a writer who would change my life.
This presentation is quite personal. It chronicles a journey of self-discovery through t
the influence of women protagonists in Italian literature, a yearn to reconnect with
home grown traditions, and a revelation to how and why the pen has become the best part of me.
The power of the pen is extraordinary. For me it is life’s most valuable tool. It records. It confirms a declaration. It nourishes a memory. It provides a voice to a thought that might never had been heard. The pen gives shape to an idea and its ink feeds its growth. It conveys comfort. It captures a moment that willfully allows the imagination, to take control. It gives a future to our intentions. It gives hope to our desire. It speaks the language of the heart. At first it was not the love of the written word that launched me on this journey, but the love of a place.
Uncertainty, skeptism and a curiosity plague some, and wonder why this obsessive attraction. But like those who have been kissed by the sweetness of her breath, seduced by her beauty and moved to a state of weakened surrender by the strength her intoxicating power, I too have succumb to all that is called Italy.
My love affair with Italy is rather public though there are times when a hidden seductive yearn can overwhelm me. I find myself smiling without meaning to. Somehow like an unattainable love, it would slip in and out of my life. Reminding me of the possibilities yet to be savored.
My Italy came to me via New York City. Or as my father would prefer to say via the blood of the Caesars’. Its warmth revealed itself through the smiles of my great grandparents. With a need to hold on to a sense of tradition, my great grandmother Philmena had filled their cord secured suitcases with their most precious treasures of the old country.
A woman with an aristocratic flare she smiled and nodded when welcomed by that other woman of style and substance, who graces New York Harbor. She was determined to reestablish the maternal dynasty of the Corona family. Ever so carefully she unwrapped the elegance of Italy that would radiate from the tenement windows on Mulberry Street. Thinking more like a member of the House of Di Medici, then the southern villager that she was, she filled the lower Manhattan railroad flat with Fine Art, literature, crystal chandeliers, mahogany buffets and fine fabrics. Rich with pride she stated, “we are not immigrants . . . we are Italians!”
Established and thriving, Francesco and Philomena as well as Maria and Giovanni Freda, though eager to begin a new life, were mindful of where they came from. Passing their legacy on to a new generation, Italy’s history was brought to life, as they told stories, while sitting under the same night sky as those with whom we shared our names, our heritage and the common thread that binds, il tre colori, an ocean away.
Raised in Brooklyn, the center of the universe. I believed in my heart that I was a part of a special society. My family, my neighborhood. All of us, glued to tradition, within a homogenous environment. This allowed all of us to know what the other was thinking, doing. What Christmas Eve really meant, that it’s really all about the fish and where we each would be on Sundays at 2:00. On those mornings a welcoming aroma cloaked the brick faced stoops and shared front yards on the way to buying bread that would be passed around a table for twelve, sometimes more.
A United Nations of one, with delegates from Naples, Calabria, Bari, Parlermo, Positano, Potenza and Rome assured a constant and melodic blend of dialects. Attached houses made the open door, open porch, policy a right of passage. Your privacy was everybody’s business. Neighborly acts of kindness were not an option it was a lifestyle. Summer, especially tested your patience and creativity. Whether it was eating, playing, building everybody was involved. Like a scene from a B rated horror movie about a giant squid, lengths of hose from all around, filled the above ground backyard pool. Trays of food passed over one hurricane fence to the other. Smoke from BBQ’s provided a floating curtain of privacy, separating the grass carpeted dining rooms.
Hibernating hospitality burrowed in winter. Snow and shoveling made you aware of property lines. You just didn’t put your snow anywhere it needed to be strategically placed, or else you hear, “Hey" followed by the hand and the look. But all would be forgotten when the holiday lights were turned on. A dazzling glow outlined the houses in an array of color with thematic schemes. But the true source of light came from within, like it did from those tenement windows in Little Italy.
Years have passed. Neighborhoods have changed. Traditions have faded but my allegiance to my ancestry remains strong. Its not the untold stories that have peaked my interest but the unknown ones.
So now here I am. Instead of the bustling streets of Manhattan, I walk pass the quiet walls of ivy, that are bulging with all that is yet to be revealed. With all that is yet to be learned. But why here? Women like British novelist Muriel Spark found her inspiration in Venice, where she wrote; it is a city not to inspire thoughts but sensations. Elizabeth von Arnim, who penned, Enchanted April, wrote, “It is the landscape of Portofino that inspired an emotional thaw. For me. It was Yale? Yes a mecca for thought provoking inspiration. but? New Haven? …. Already I knew this was going to be different.
Then I remembered a wise man once said to me there is no such thing as coincidence, everything happens for a reason.
And so it went that a collection of past coincidences seemed to be part of a plan as well. Throughout my professional career, repeated occasions to work and play with Italians sparked me to have a reunion of sorts with my cultural family tree. Trips to Italy, working with the Tourism board of Umbria, Hosting a contessa and her historic collection of Italian aircraft, coordinating visits of the Italian Navy and the glorious tall ship Amerigo Vespucci and most recently, collaborating with Italians with connections to a higher power… the Vatican. And with each of these occasions came the questions. You’re Italian? Yes … You must be from Northern Italy? No. Ah …. Avelino, then you must speak Italian? … No … been to Italy? … yes ,,,,,Did you study there? … No.
Questions from others only made me ask more questions of myself. Where had I really come from? I knew that I had changed but where was I going. And then I realized that fate was feeding my destiny.
So with fantasies of my arms around wrapped around Fabio, zipping through the balcony laced narrow streets of Sienna … in my mind, with the desire to speak with the tantalizing flair of Sophia… in my soul, and with an aching nostalgia for everything my education had denied me, I decided to learn to speak Italian.
I made the attempt. Enamored by la dolce vita, I became “noisio”. I was getting bored with my Italian repertoire of familiar phrases. Somehow I needed to get beyond, “Si, parle Italiano ma mi dispiace, ( dee spee aicha) ho bisogno molto pratica.
Then a supportive and patient friend who would cringe, and then smile at every mispronunciation suggested that I not speak, Italian but read Italian. She gave me a copy of Susana Tamaro’s “Va’dove ti porta il Coeur”, about a young girl and her relationship with her grandmother . . . with her reassurance that this would help . . . because it was simple reading. I would become familiar seeing phrases repeated in the book’s dialogue and would be able to use them in conversation. Brava! … but life got in the way of my risorgimento.
Feeling frustrated and yet still having this desire to be a part of the Italian literati. I sought more advice, and selected the English version of Sibilla Aleramo’s Una Donna, A Woman.
Her words were the utterance of the soul. A poet of instinct she used verse as a means of self-expression. Assertive and simple. For the longest time my thoughts had laid stagnant, blocked by an inability to express them. Suddenly there was life to them. I had found my voice. I had found my passion … a writer who wrote the truth because the truth is wild and dangerous. It was a though she handed me a pen.
Fascinated by the unknown I became consumed by words that lifted off the page. Forming them into a vision it molded itself into a figure. Distorted at first but the more I read, the more was learned the more clear the image became. The page transformed itself into a mirror and within its reflection was blending of the senses, the emotion, despair, the hope, the words of a woman became the image of everywhere woman.
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