"Me (Never) Talk Pretty (In Italian) One Day"

 

    Sedaris' "Me Talk Pretty One Day" was not at all what I was expecting, yet I was pleasantly surprised. This chapter of the novel did not appear to be a humorous retell of Sedaris' time spent taking a french class. Rather, I had visions of it being a chapter dedicated to physical attractiveness. However, not only was this chapter unique and different from the usual memoir accounts I have read, but it was also extremely relatable. The fall of my junior year I spent the semester study abroad in Rome. While I could go on and tell you about the millions of stories I have about my travels, all the pasta I ate, and my prison-cell like apartment on the outskirts of Trastevere, Sedaris' account of his french class brings me back to my Italian class. 

    In short, my professor was horrid. She had very little tolerance for our class filled with American students who spoke not a lick of Italian. While my family is from Calabria and Modena, and my grandparents' speak the language fluently, I was never able to pick it up due to their use of outdated dialect. So, I was stranded in Rome with a professor who kept yelling at me to remember all the verb tenses. When Sedaris talks about his struggle to comprehend why inanimate objects are assigned genders, I burst out laughing. All throughout my horrible Spanish classes at Loyola, and then my Italian class abroad, I could not understand why objects have preferred pronouns. I've heard before that learning to speak Spanish or Italian is much easier than learning English, but after attempting to learn both of those languages, I refuse to believe that. From what I can remember, five-year-old Julia had no problem picking up basic English grammar in kindergarten. Quite frankly, my back-to-back language classes have left me with loads of embarrassment and discontent. Maybe that's why I'm an English major, because I despise learning other languages thus my loyalties only lie with English. Sedaris' piece also proves my point that most language professors are all the same–mean. I'm not being dramatic when I say I have never EVER had a nice language professor. I don't think they exist. They all seem to have no interest in teaching language so I'm not sure why they chose that profession. The voice of my Italian professor, Rosa Napoli, haunts me to this day. Growing up, I was never the student reprimanded in class. I now like to think I am quite loved by my college professors, as much as I love them, so it was extremely upsetting to be yelled at by some Italian lady because I couldn't describe my day to her in the past tense. "My fear and discomfort crept beyond the borders of the classroom and accompanied me out onto the wide boulevards. Stopping for a coffee, asking directions..." (Sedaris 67). These nerves Sedaris describes, is exactly how I felt. My traumatic time spent in Italian class prohibited me from being confident and even attempting to speak Italian. When ordering my daily latte and croissant stuffed with custard, I'd whisper and stumble all over to the annoyed cashier. When getting in a taxi I'd ask the driver, " tu parle ingles?" in order to avoid having to produce a choppy and pathetic description as to where I live. 

    I was embarrassed, flustered, and frustrated with myself that I could never perfect my Italian. Yet, I will never forget sitting in that class watching a girl next to me crying over the midterm from hell, or when my professor called all Americans lazy. So yes, this class was chaotic and I absorbed basically next to nothing, but I did find the humor in all of it, hence I am here writing about it today. My grandma is the most important Italian in my life, and she told me it's okay that I can't speak Italian so that's all the validation I need. I've now been back from Italy for about a year now but I surprise myself when I am sitting in my grandparents kitchen and can pick up on my grandparents' conversation a little bit more. "Ricky I need you to go to the basement and get me pasta" or, "Brenda what time are we eating?". Yes, all my family cares about is food, but the point is I can understand. "Understanding doesn't mean that you can suddenly speak the language. Far from it. It's a small step, nothing more, yet its rewards are intoxicating and deceptive" (Sedaris 68). Sedaris is right, there is an important difference in speaking and listening. While I will probably never gain the ability to have a full-blown conversation with a handsome Italian man and ask him to take me for a ride on his vespa, I am more than okay than listening to my grandparents fight about how long to cook the chicken for Sunday dinner. Language works in two ways: speaking and listening, and when I think about the realities of today, now more than ever am I grateful for the chance to listen to others rather than to speak. We shouldn't dismiss listening in favor of speaking, rather embrace the chance to hear, and then accept it.