Non Ho Capito: Connecting with your Italian relatives

On a Friday afternoon in mid-June, if all goes to plan, I will step off a small regional train outside the southern Italian town of Ferrandina, a world away from the Eternal City and the closest rail stop to my destination:

Pomarico, the tiny Basilicata hill town where my grandfather was born.

They will be there waiting for me, a clutch of distant relatives I have come to know and cherish. There will be long hugs, perhaps a peck on each cheek or a long penetrating gaze of assessment after such a long time (twenty-five years) away.

But there's one thing there will be missing: spoken English.

Out of 4,500 residents here, few will speak your native language.

Quasi nessuno. Almost no one, in fact.

Such is the challenge faced by Italian-Americans when they return to the Old Country in search of historic connections and a discovery of self. Especially in rural towns, most often in the agrarian south, there are few compelling reasons for residents to learn English. The older generation doesn’t speak it and while many younger Italians study English in school, they rarely get a chance to use it outside the classroom.

So you are left to your own devices, relying on the weeks and months of study in preparation for this moment. After all, this is your venture and the onus is on you to come equipped with enough Italian to get beyond saying Good Morning or Good Afternoon and be able to explore the lives of those who carry your family blood line on the far side of the world.

My younger brother, Frank, who lived in Rome years ago, has some sage advice: No matter how many online language classes you’ve taken, no matter how many hours you’ve spent poring over Italian grammar and vocabulary, the rubber only meets the road when you land at your destination and face total immersion. Open the door to your small apartment in the historic district in town and it will be all Italian, all the time, as it should be.

You’re Dorothy Gale and your ramshackle farm house has just crash-landed in a village somewhere within the County of Oz. Suddenly, black-and-white has burst into Technicolor.

Step outside, they’re waiting for you, to embark on that yellow brick road of good wine, memories and pasta to die for.

Got something to say? Well, you’re got no choice but to try to express your thoughts in Italian. Sure there are language apps that can help in a pinch, but for a natural conversation at the dinner table, or during a long walk around town, nothing beats one-on-one conversation without the crutch of technology.

I will arrive in Pomarico with hopes of a linguistic breakthrough. I have been here twice before, both many years distant, for brief stays after a couple of rushed weeks picking up what phrases I could. It’s all coming back to me know, furiously thumbing through my pocket dictionary, searching for the right word to continue a thought before the moment escapes me and the conversation moves on, usually to no avail.

I have nightmares about this: Being just plain clueless. Listening to relatives like my cousin namesake Giovanni Glionna and having no idea whatsoever what he is saying, groping for meaning as the words sail past my head, just out of reach. 

After all, real conversations are two-way streets. You can’t just blurt of rote phrases; you have to understand what is said in return.

But this time, I hope, will be different. I have studied hard for months, watched Italian movies and TV shows (albeit with the crutch of subtitles), listened to podcasts, read short stories, even dreamed in Italian.

My father didn’t speak Italian when he grew up, and only studied the language as an adult. The same goes for me. Things come harder as you age and learning a new language is pretty much at the top of the list. 

But, oh, the payoffs! My relatives will be overjoyed at my effort, no matter the results. In my nearly three months in town, I will no doubt rely on my language app at first, but slowly, I hope to put it away and live by my own energy and efforts.

And Giovanni, I know, is the most patient listener and teacher I have ever met. He, above anyone else, is my connection to the life my grandfather once lived here. Our journey will be taken in his language, the one my grandfather spoke, as it should be.

Still, I recall the day decades ago when Giovanni and I ran into another townie during the evening passeggiata and the man asked about my Italian. Giovanni knew I was trying, even though the results were not yet there.

He glanced at me and then told the other man, Sforza.

For years, I misinterpreted this phrase to mean “trying too hard” (and failing) but have of late gone a bit easier on myself. I now think he meant striving, making the effort, a concluding that’s far less judgmental. He saw someone trying to achieve something that did not come easy to him.

And so when I land in Pomarico that’s the word I will keep in mind, the word that will guide my days, some of them that will no doubt be lost amid a cloud of ambiguity.

Sforza.