April 1, 2004
Mother Italy
An unintended pilgrimage
by Stephanie Hiller
Part one - "Io sono mia" -- I Am My Own Person
Stephanie with Lucia
Birnbaum in Italy
In February, I traveled to Italy with Lucian Chiavola Birnbaum as the guests of the Convenzione Contra La Guerra (Standing Convention Against War) to speak at a conference titled, Making Peace with the Earth. Ah, wrote Alexis Masters when I contacted her for travel information, so you are going to la belle paese! Looking through photos of that I region, I understood yes, I am going to a place that worships beauty. As indeed do I.
Two other themes suggested themselves as I made preparations to go.
One was the interesting relationship between Italy and the other country I had recently visited, Brazil. Porto Alegre was settled by Italians, who there became blended with the Afro-Brasilians and the native Indians. Brazil and Italy are known for their ecstatic Carnival festivals, and in both, women are powerful. I seemed to completing a triangle from San Francisco (with its Italian roots) to Brazil and now to the Motherland. (Would I be going next to West Africa?)
More personally was the sense that I was going with the blessing of my mother, that in some mystic way she would accompany me, and that I would come back with something she would have chosen for me. A suit, perhaps; a beautifully tailored Italian suit! How extravagant, and indeed unlikely. Yet I titled a page, A Suit for My Mother, ready and waiting for its story.
My mother had traveled twice to Italy during her emancipated years, between divorce and re-marriage, the turbulent and exciting 30s, when like so many New York intellectuals she had been a member of the communist party. It was an idealism born of her heart's yearning for a just and decent world -- and it was also fun, a community of lively and like minded people whose company she, an outsider all her life, enjoyed. When many years later she finally understood what the Soviets had made of Marxist theory, I think she never recovered from it.
She died in 1986, but she had been gone years before, submerged in the mire of mindlessness then identified as Alzheimer's, and I had lost her years before that. It was not until after her death, as I was turning 50, that I recovered my relationship with her, saw how profoundly she had influenced me, and how much I am of her.
The person who actually accompanied me, Lucia Birnbaum, is a professor in the Women's Spirituality Program at the California Institute of Intergral Studies in San Francisco, and author of three books about Italian feminism and the collective unconscious memory of the ancient mother. I had read her last book, dark mother, where she traces the paths of black madonnas scattered throughout the Italian landscape and finds them aligned with the migration paths identified by Cavalli- Svorza, a geneticist who charted the genetic links back to the original dark mother in Africa. Lucia's book argued persuasively that the black madonnas had been carried there to Europe by migrating African ancestors, and that they held the collective memory of the original African mother from who we all evolved, a memory which surfaces in liberation and resistance movements reflecting her values of justice and peace.
Before leaving, I read her first book, liberazione della donne, where Lucia describes the various feminisms of Italy during the great era of the second wave. I was impressed with the gusto of these movements, the straightforward expression of women's cry for liberation from the chains of traditional marriage, catholic morality, and political silencing. Italian feminists accomplished more during their colorful heyday than other feminist movements, including America's: a divorce law, maternity and infant legislation, contraception, legal abortion, equal pay, state-funded childcare, and repeal of punitive law against unfaithful wives . Quite a great deal! I loved their slogans, especially, "io sono mia" -- "I am my own person!" I also appreciated that Italian women achieved their goals with the support and assistance of their men -- something we have yet to see here in the Puritan United States.
We arrived in Bari after some 20 hours of travel beginning in Berkeley at 5 in the morning, thence to San Francisco International Airport, where a cancelled flight caused us to be rerouted via Atlanta, and then straightaway across the great sea to Milan. We had just enough time to connect with the flight that would bring us into Bari on a cold, windy morning, only to find that two of our bags remained in Milan. The weathered airport seemed like some outpost in a less traveled land and reminded me of Porto Alegre, as did the city as we were driven to our hotel in the Centro by our hostess, Imma Barbarossa, in a little red Fiat much like the taxis in POA. Imma had been a professor at the University of Bari and also served as a deputy in the Italian Parliament. She was smart and compact in her mock fur coat, and with her curls, round wire rimmed eyeglasses and dimpled smile, she percolated with intelligence and a distinct sense of doing what must be done. She took us first to our rooms, and then across the street to a café, where we dazedly selected and consumed a light pranzo (lunch) before sinking gratefully into our beds for a nap.
Promptly at 8, Imma returned with a friend and former student, Eleonora Forenza, to drive us across town to another friend's house for the evening meal.
The flat was charming, tropical in its pastel décor -- the floor was a turquoise linoleum tile, the couches a soft shade of pink -- the walls adorned with lovely paintings. We sat at a small table for the antipasti -- local olives, cheeses, crackers and bread -- and a glass of wine, then adjourned to the dining table for a multi-course repast beautifully set and served, including a delicate pumpkin risotto that reminded Lucia of the colors of wheatfields in Sicily, a color we were to see all over Tuscany. Then came the sautéed bitter greens, rapeweed and dandelion -- salads, cheeses, sliced oranges with kiwi and a tray of delectable pastries, all accompanied by suitable wines with an excellent marsala for the finale. Amazingly, it was light as well as delicious. Contrary to the American stereotype of plump Italians stuffed with heavy food, the meals we enjoyed in Italy featured a felicitous order of tastes and very appropriate portions. And Italians, I noticed, are quite slim.
The convegno was to begin the following evening. That day we wandered about the downtown in search of a real breakfast (for me) -- quite impossible in Italy -- and a warmer coat for Lucia. We were both a little disoriented, and I took great pleasure in helping her find something that fit her needs.
Dinner at Abusuan -
Imma on right
The meeting was held in the Abusuan, an international cultural center provided and maintained by the Catholic Church, which also houses a fine restaurant run by a Palestinian émigré. The restaurant provided delightful meals for all of us, served at long tables percolating with lively talk. Abusuan was located in il vecchio, the old part of the city, and was approached through a wide piazza made of white stone. The interior, with its columns and arches, resembled a refurbished cave, or perhaps a former wine cellar. Lucia has captured the essence of the "debatito" that took place between a male professor, Franco Cassano, and a woman, Elettra Deiana, a deputy of Parliament (see Lucia's article for more about the conference) and of course it was all in Italian, which I do not know. But when the professor, rubbing his face sorrowfully, spoke of the tragedy of the patrimonio, it wasn't hard to figure out where he was coming from. As the dialectic intensified, I wanted to join the discussion, but held back. That night I wrote, "I understand that it's painful for men to see their privilege challenged, but they had their chance -- for 5000 years -- and what have they done with it?
"If anyone questions what is the difference between women and men, I would ask them to look at 5000 years of women's oppression and ask what is the difference?
"Ultimately it's not about men and women -- it's about patriarchy, and the silencing of half the human population, the women."
I was up late at the little desk with my laptop while Lucia slept, anxious about the talk I was giving the following morning, and I awoke early, verging on panic. I didn't want to read my talk -- I could see from the talks the night before that nobody did that -- but could I remember it? And what about the process of translation?
It was cold. We trundled along, escorted by Imma and two other women, down the broad Corso Cavour, across the wide white piazza, and into the narrow room of the Abusuan. We had met the night before Monica Lanfranco, whose publication, Marea, had co-sponsored the conference, and whose idea it had been to invite us. Her friend Maria di Rienzo had told her about Awakened Woman, and she was so interested in what she found at the site that she made frequent references to it in her book, Donne Disarmanti (Disarming Women -- a clever pun) which has just been published. A blonde genovese, her presence is expansive and energetic. She swept in announcing that wouldn't it be a good idea to meet in circle?
This thought had been much in my mind, and as soon as we moved the stiff wooden chairs into what was really more of an oval, I completely relaxed, seated firmly in what was now an open channel for whatever might emerge.
After the introductions (a man representing the city's department of culture droned on), Monica introduced her American guests -- and I was on.
But who would translate? A slender blonde woman had just come in, a friend of Genevieve Vaughan's who lives in Bari and who had come, on her suggestion, to meet us -- Susan Petrilli, an Australian, married to an Italian and raising two African children. She immediately offered to translate, and found a chair next to me.
I talked of American women's circles and organizations, and then of our government's new nuclear policy. I wound up with a brief plea for a global women's movement in which we practiced withdrawing all our support from the institutions of patriarchy.
Eleanora said, "I didn't know that feminists were bringing their spirituality into their politics." She found that very interesting.
At lunch, some of the women, saying "English speaking" motioned me to sit next to them. One, a woman named Simone, immediately leaned toward me with a smile and said, "When you say we should take our energy out of patriarchy, do you mean we shouldn't vote?!"
An excellent question! "I don't know," I said. "It's something we have to discuss. I wouldn't think so."
She then proceeded to tell me of recent legislation in Italy regarding artificial insemination, in which the fetus had been granted rights. The language reverberated with the same challenges we are facing here as a result of the law against late term abortion. Italy, a country with a long history of communist parties holding enormous influence on policy, is now run by Berlusconi, a proclaimed "self made man" of enormous wealth who is quite a buddy of George Bush, and who magnanimously sent Italian troops into Iraq, ignoring Italy's law vowing not to take military action against any country that has not invaded Italy.
I was to hear much about that legislation in Bologna, and Simone's question, too, followed me throughout my stay and even all the way home.
The rest of the talks were conducted, of course, in Italian. I struggled to listen, hoping to learn a bit of the language, but my head began to droop. Suddenly Monica was at my shoulder asking if I wanted to go for a walk? It seemed an Englishwoman, Valerie, a professor of literature at the University of Bari, had offered to take the English speakers -- me and Rita Souza from Pondicherry, India -- for a walking tour of the old city. Rita lives at the Mother's Ashram, founded by the sage Sri Aurobindo and his French companion,a nd had spoken about the ecological principles of that community. (see Lucia's article for more about her.)
Striding up the promenade along the sea and then into narrow cobbled streets all composed of that white stone, I knew I had indeed arrived in Italy. (Valerie did remind us to watch our purses as this area was known for its "unsavory characters." Indeed it had once been a stronghold of the Mafia, but in recent years the socialist government had made strides to clean them out of there.) The centerpiece of this maze of streets (purposely constructed in mysterious labyrinthian passages in order to confuse invaders to this seaside port) was of course the church, the church of San Nicolo -- yes, Saint Nicholas, the very one who, by one of those peculiar mythic transmigrations is now the bringer of Christmas gifts. Saint Nicholas' bones had been brought back from Ephesus and now lay in the crypt, where they are said to exude (to this day, 600 years after his death) a holy water that is bottled up and sold to the devout. People come here to be healed, Valerie explained. In fact she had seen one woman crawling on her knees to the altar, licking the stone floor as she went… Later Lucia told me that St. Nicholas was responsible for taking apart Diana's temple at Ephesus "brick by brick."
In the Greek Orthodox temple I found myself standing before a particularly agonizing crucified Jesus, and that was enough church for me. We headed back toward Abusuan through more crooked alleyways. In wooden trays outside doorways were rows of little "pig ears" -- the famous ear-shaped pasta of the region &endash; set out to dry, and within one open doorway we could see a woman sitting slicing the dough with her knife. I asked if we might come closer and Valerie addressed her in Italian. She was quite friendly, chatting while slicing away at a long snake of dough. The one room where she worked was also her living room, possibly her entire apartment, Valerie explained later. I could see one electric heater glowing against the wall, and above it, a little altar to the Virgin strung with little Christmas lights.
Rita was rapturous that the women can stay home earning their living by their craft in this Gandhian way, but I had another feeling about it that I cannot quite name.
At the corner, two youths stood talking with a couple of young women. They met our casual glance with flat stares. I felt like an intruder in someone's living room. Though it was the street, it seemed an extension of their personal apartments, and I imagined they had us pegged as rich white tourists. There was a sense of danger in the air, an exotic flavor. Perhaps the residents are the Romani (gypsies). For me, it was an epiphany of sorts, a doorway opening into a somewhat alien world.
Back at Abusuan, we enjoyed dinner and a concert featuring the tarantala, a spirited Italian dance. When we emerged, the night was clear and cold. The piazza was full of people walking in an informal sort of processional. That's the passegiatta, Lucia told me. All over Italy, people, especially the young, put on their finest and prance about in the city, meeting friends. Against the background of white stone, this elegant walkabout was quite impressive. We made our way on crowded streets back to the hotel. We were leaving in the morning for Florence.