Escaping the Rat Race

I'm working as an English teacher. Ok so it's not a career move in the forward direction, but I'm in Italy and jobs are not easy to come by here. To be honest, I actually really like this job. I've always loved teaching. My classes usually consist of one or two people so I get a chance to talk to and learn about people from all walks of life. Everyone has a different story.

Yesterday, my students were from Ecuador and Moldova. I'm always curious what brings people here, so they began to talk about their experiences as immigrants in Rome. The woman from Ecuador came here illegally in the 90's to escape the political situation there. She lived for three years without papers, going from job to job, working under the table. She had to move around a lot because she often couldn't afford the rent. The Moldavian woman moved here to pursue academics, she completed her University degree in her early 30's while working at a pizzeria. Years later, here they are, learning their third language, in the hopes that by knowing English, they will increase their chances for finding better jobs.

And then there's me. The Moldavian woman remarked that normally people immigrate to a new country to improve their economic situation, not the opposite. Here in Italy most people with degrees can't find work; the unemployment rate was at 6.7% in 2009. It's an epidemic. People with a Master's or PHD typically move abroad, and often to the U.S. So why did I leave my comfortable job to move here and make a third of what I used to earn? This wasn't a career move, that's for sure. It was an escape.

There is a universal quest by all people not born into rich families, to somehow find a way to win or make a substantial amount of money so that they don't have to work. Not working allows them the time to do what they want to do. That might include traveling, pursuing hobbies, turning hobbies into a profession without having to worry about money, or spending more time with family. If you don't win this substantial amount of money, then you are left to try and earn it. And by working to earn enough money to both live day to day and take the occasional trip, you have to find a job where you work many hours for a good rate of pay. When you work many hours, you have less time for the things you enjoy. You save up enough for a trip and your job only allows you two weeks vacation. So instead of going on vacation you decide it's better to spend the saved money on a new car to get you to work and back. Now you spend an hour in the car, you spend eight hours at work and you spend one hour each evening with your newborn son, giving him a bath before he goes to bed.

That was Lorenzo's life. For my life, replace the car drive with a plane ride, then insert 'spend the summer away from home' and 'never turn off your phone'. At some point in your adult life, you have to admit to yourself that this abundance of money will most likely not be won, and since no one in your family is rich, it will not be inherited. Which leaves you with one option, to get inside the wheel and run as fast as you can because it won't stop turning to let you off. And it's not really a race because if you run faster than the other little rodents, there's no prize to be won. You're only left with high blood pressure, insomnia and very little time for much else.

For us, Italy (and Lorenzo's mom) has provided us with the opportunity to live as if we had a lot of money because we can live without spending a lot of money. We are lucky to have the opportunity. We are lucky that Lorenzo was able to keep his American job. We are lucky that I'm American (Romans are ridiculously racist and anti-immigrant, but they accept Americans and offer them jobs). We are lucky that we have a house, family and friends. We are extremely lucky. And I'm not bragging, I'm appreciating. When I hear my student's stories, I commend them and their strength. It's not easy to start a new life in a new country. But they wanted something better and they weren't about to let their home country stop them from getting what they knew they deserved.

Well, America, I've stepped away from your race. The race to keep people from receiving free health care, the race to keep the military fighting, the race to keep everything private so that the rich can stay rich, the race to keep your borders closed to people from third world countries, the race to keep people who love each other but happen to share a gender, from getting married, the race to keep our kids ignorant by increasing classroom sizes without hiring new teachers or raising pay.

I've decided to see what happens if the wheel spins without me. I've stopped running; for now.

Weaning

Solid foods, quantities, breast milk, time between meals...I'm confused. Just like every stage, I can collect information, read and research, but ultimately I have to follow my instincts.

We waited until Luca was six months old before introducing solid foods. We managed not to succumb to the pressure that was being placed on us by various people, to introduce it sooner. The result? A kid who eats everything. He never pushed food out of his mouth because he didn't know how to eat, he never refuses a vegetable, he grabs the spoon out of my hand and feeds himself. The introduction of solid foods has been a smooth process.

But breastmilk? I would like to breastfeed until Luca is a year old. He needs milk and if I'm able, I would rather be the one to provide it than to give him formula. But there is a lot of confusion about what that means. Does "breastfeeding" mean every meal or can it mean just once or twice a day. I can't provide every meal anymore as my milk doesn't flow in the quantities that it once did. It's clear that more often than not, he's just pacifying himself rather than getting a proper meal out of me.

So I tried to take it slow, I replaced one breastfeeding with one solid food meal one at a time. Over the course of six weeks he went from all milk meals to two per day. Things seemed to be going smoothly until I crashed. My hormones took a nose dive. I cried. I laid in bed. I tried to fight the guilt.

I was simultaneously getting pressure from one side to give up breastfeeding altogether, and from the other side that I wasn't breastfeeding enough. That I wasn't practicing attachment parenting unless I breastfed him for at least two years and more than twice a day. During this stage I've realized more than ever before how much of parenting is ignoring the comments that can saturate you from the outside and dull your own instincts. Everyone has an opinion about how other people should raise their kids. But I have to do what I feel is right, what is right for Luca and what is right for all of us as a family. Because this is my family.

I do enjoy having more time. I remember how trapped I felt sitting on the couch those first few weeks feeding Luca, what seemed like, around the clock. I couldn't leave the house for fear that in moments Luca would start screaming to eat again. I didn't feel like there was much to life anymore except being a milk machine. Now I like that we can go on an adventure without me having to find a comfortable place to whip out the boob. We can sit down and have a playful meal, getting food all over ourselves, no matter where we are.

I am pretty happy with where we're at now. Luca is breastfed in the morning and at night, with healthy, organic meals and snacks in between. I still fight the guilt and sometimes I still get sad. And unfortunately, this is something that my husband can't empathize with. He won't ever know what it's like to go from being the center of your newborn's universe, to being just one of many stars.

Carnivale

Henry James wrote, "And yet do what you will you can't really elude the Carnival." That was in the late 1800's. Now it's hard to find any remnants of Carnivale. You have to search it out, and when you do, the events are primarily for kids. Being a person who loves this sort of thing, I went looking. Where to start? Just follow the kids in costume.

For two weeks you see kids dressed up all around Rome. When I asked Lorenzo where they were going, he said, "Nowhere, they just walk around like this." No trick or treating, no definitive destination, but at the ready to throw confetti at one another or engage in a silly string fight. Unlike Mardi Gras in New Orleans, there are no beads, no hangovers and no regrets. Here you'll only find marionettes, clowns and horses. The celebrations don't seem to have much to do with getting in that last taste of your vice before giving it up for lent. Back in James' day the confetti was thrown by women to attract the attention of their male counterparts. Although little girls may still throw confetti, the motivations are not the same.

I find it interesting that the Romans have toned down their Carnevale celebrations while the Americans have adopted them. James wrote, "An unsophisticated American is wonderstruck at the number of persons, of every age and various conditions, whom it costs nothing in the nature of an ingenuous blush to walk up and down the streets in the costume of a theatrical supernumerary....Our vices are certainly different; it takes those of the innocent sort to be so ridiculous." I don't know if it's innocence that encourages the crazy, out of handedness that takes place at Mardi Gras, but their is surely a lapse in self-consciousness. At least for the night, until the sun comes up again.

Sleep!

Sleep deprivation really takes a toll. It's incredible. Luca, just started sleeping through the night. The accumulation of seven months of sleep deprivation can make anyone moody. It's amazing how this little man can be a perfect angel during the day, not making as much as a single tear, while at night becoming a true Italian criminal. Sleep deprivation zaps your immune system, destroys any chance for creative thought, increases stress and sensitivity and can sometimes make one react with anger to things.

But then you get a good night's sleep and the world's possibilities open up to you. You remember who you are and the things you enjoy. You remember that those things still exist; that they didn't actually get sucked away into the black hole of parenthood. You remember that you love being a mom, that you love to play and make your little boy laugh. Because laughing makes everything better.

Yes, some days are hard, but some days are truly fun and inspiring. Last week I ventured out to meet some Americans for a wine tasting. I walked through Rome at night, all lit up, a bit of magic behind every corner. Rome's beauty is illuminated tenfold at night. I was alone, making my way through the narrow streets. I passed a group of American college students lugging backpacks to the nearest hostel, I dodged the lit cigarettes of old men talking passionately with their hands, I inched past a couple looking at a map. I walked past them all, remembering the streets to turn onto, recognizing the little restaurant that leads into Campo de Fiori, remembering that I live here.

No, I'm no longer the young, free traveler experiencing Italy for the first time. Stars in my eyes, waiting for traveler's kharma to lead me to some new place or new person or some crazy coincidental run-in that would make the whole trip worthwhile. But this life is still an adventure and this city still has a lot to teach me. And that night, at the wine tasting, the girl hosting it went to UC Santa Cruz, interesting coincidence...

Some Days Can be Hard

Overall I am loving it here. Sunshine, good food, beach trips, a grandma to take our little pierlinpino whenever we need, free rent, little work, lots of family time, new inspirations, becoming fluent in a foreign language. But character building doesn't come from sitting on the couch watching t.v., it comes from the struggles that life throws out. Some days can be a struggle.

I have a problem with dependence. I hate it. I need time alone, I need to do things my way, I need to feel like I have things under control. In Portland I knew how things worked. If I needed a plumber, I looked one up online and then asked for recommendations. If I had a question about Luca, I called my awesome pediatrician. If the phone rang, I would answer it. Marriage and parenting with someone is hard enough. Now Lorenzo is my crutches too.

We do surprisingly well; both working from home, taking care of Luca and spending time together. But there are days, when we both stubbornly think that what we want for Luca is what's best for him, when parenting discussions spiral into personal attacks. We try so hard to convince the other person why we're right and they're wrong, that we forget what we're really talking about. It's an interesting thing, trying to come to a middle ground in regards to parenting. I just assumed Lorenzo would have trusted my instincts and defaulted to my ideas. Before women's suffrage he would have let me decide everything. I guess this period is a period of men's suffrage. Now men get a vote.

Lorenzo has instincts too and strong ideas about parenting. That's why I love him, he cares, a lot. It doesn't always make things any easier though.

Everyday in a marriage you have the opportunity to learn and grow. As long as you recognize the opportunity to change and you don't let your stubbornness rule you. You HAVE to compromise, you have to find the middle ground and you have to have a short memory. You have to do it for that little person who can't speak up for themselves.

Immigration Part 2

When I left off in immigration part one, I had left the immigration office with a receipt. This receipt had a handwritten chicken scratch on the back with a date - January 27, or rather, 27/1/10. The guy at the office said, "when you come back you'll see a man in a military uniform outside. He will take you to get your fingerprints." Hmmm.

I showed up on the 27th, early, hoping to beat the crowd. I see three military guys behind a waist high fence. A crowd of immigrants is clustered in front of the fence. Again, no signage, no one obtaining information from the crowd, no line. Just a group of people waiting. For what, no one seemed to know. I watched the military guys deflect people's questions in between lighting cigarettes. The one closest to me obviously watched too many Vietnam movies. He was smoking by taking the cigarette out of his mouth with all of his fingers, instead of with the first two. He scowled as he blew out the smoke, trying to look tough. But it was hard to take him seriously with the waxed eyebrows and perfectly groomed sideburns.

After waiting about 15 minutes, I wondered why we hadn't asked this guy anything. When I say we, I mean Lorenzo. When one of the guys left his post behind the fence and ventured through the crowd, Lorenzo stopped him. This young lad was obviously surprised to hear a native speaker in a crowd of lower class, immigrants. He was polite but not too polite, he was direct and straightforward. "Do you have an appointment?" "We're not sure..." "Do you have an appointment?" "I have this piece of paper with today's date written on it." "Ok. You need to go in."

Yes, thank you. I was just waiting here for fun.

So this question prompted the guy in the crowd to nod to the groomed eyebrow man behind the fence. Finally he held up my receipt, "who has one of these?" People held up their receipts. He counted us off and opened the gate, careful not to let the other animals through. "Ok, you six come with me." The guy in the crowd told Lorenzo, "not you, just her." And so I went through the gate alone. Lorenzo is the Chavez of Rome; standing up for the people without a voice. And if he wasn't there? I'm pretty sure I would have stood there all day watching groomed eyebrow man smoke a million cigarettes.

I'm an Immigrant

I'm trying to figure out the routine thing. Luca's got one. He naps at the same time every day, eats at the same time. It's incredibly hard to fit in my own time in between his routine. But now that we've been in Rome for a week (post vacation) it's time to figure out how to split time with Lorenzo. Currently we are doing things at random. A little work here and there, at least one trip each day to some municipal office to put together a piece of the citizenship/residency puzzle, some shopping or a walk; all fit in between feedings and naps of course.

The residency puzzle has been an interesting eye opener to Italian bureaucracy. While in the states we had to complete some paperwork to transfer our marriage to Italy. We completed the packet and sent it off to the consulate in San Francisco. San Francisco then sent it to the municipal office here. We went to the office to check on the status of the paperwork. We stood outside of a door that said, "please for the privacy of others wait outside." But we didn't know if someone was inside. We saw another woman waiting and she told us there was one person inside. Good to know. Once that woman left, we entered the empty office. There was one desk by the door and a table by the window with a messy pile of papers stacked on top. We gave the woman our names. In Italy, since 1975, it has become illegal to take your husband's last name. This makes the name on my official documents a little complicated. They couldn't figure out which was my first name and which was my last.

Once we made it through the correction process the woman got up from the computer. She walked over to the table by the window. My jaw dropped as I saw her begin to dig through the pile of papers. I guess the whole idea of organized filing systems didn't make it to Italy. It will come into fashion just as paper finally makes it's exit in the states and everything becomes electronic. Luckily, since we had sent the paperwork in rather recently, she was able to find it close to the top of the pile. I hate to think about what would have happened if we didn't show up in person.

We are now officially married in Italy. That was just one piece. Now we have to go to the immigration office (an hours drive) and be prepared to wait in line with the other one hundred immigrants, to process the next chunk of paperwork.

I'm an immigrant. The minister of education decided that there are too many immigrant kids in the schools. They want to limit the number of immigrants to 30%. People don't like immigrants. Most have never been one. I wish they knew how isolating it could be. I wish they understood that some people have no choice. I dohave a choice. I can leave whenever I want.

So people, even if they don't speak your language, I implore you to be nice to immigrants. They might be pumping your gas, but that doesn't mean they don't also have a PHD. They might frustrate you when they hold up the grocery line because the cashier asks them a question they don't understand, but they don't like it either.

And after their embarrassment settles, they might even go home and write about it in a blog.