Where does Rome hide its bugs? I muse, then mind an itch on my leg, only to find the swelling pink welt of a Tiger mosquito's last feeding.Now, this is irony.
Tonight I gave my first lesson to a group of young Italian girls, A1 level on the European Global Scale. Critiques from my senior teacher concerned simplifying my language and not relying on my knowledge of Italian to help the students understand. "As an ESL teacher, you won't always know the native language. Try to practice working without that knowledge," she said. Good advice, for my "only English in the classroom" rule was undermined as soon as the girls realized I understood their Italian. This bridge in communication, although helpful when explaining instructions, actually hindered my ability to teach effectively. Instead of reworking my vocabulary or approach, I cut corners by translating. However, recognizing and confirming utterances in their mother tongue helped build rapport with the students.
And we continue to tip the scales...
There are pains I must let go, crosses and tombstones I can no longer carry just for the sake of remembering. The weight is not a gift. To this moment, it has always been a curse. Italo Calvino tried to rid his literature of weight, championing instead la leggerezza- the lightness. He must have seen a different Rome. Mine is crushing under a very tangible heaviness, shoulders on every person hunched over, knees shaking beneath the daily pressure to exist. If la bella figura is the beautiful side of this city, then I will write the ugly side, no longer under the spell of romanticized Roman notions spun in gypsy globes around Trastevere.
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