June 11 Part II: Europride featuring Lady Gaga

[Author's note: due to popular demand I have re-posted this entry after a brief hiatus]

And suddenly, there I stood. Surrounded by, immersed in, a haze, a sea, a fog of bodies marching, singing, dancing, cheering; Rainbow banners, Rainbow colors, male thongs, men in dresses, lumberjacks, policemen, balloons of penises wearing tuxedos; whips, pearls, boas, scarves, gender no longer a relevant distinction; Spice Girls, Ricky Martin, party buses, an endless crowd; lips meeting, shutters clicking, and I just wanted to cross the street.

Like so many of Rome’s monuments, the scale of this spectacle registered on the cosmic level: A tidal wave of riotous rainbow semi-trucks and demonstrators on foot. Some groups organized with coordinating outfits led by LGBT club banners--I couldn’t help but reminisce on days gone by when my Cub Scout troupe marched in similar fashion in my hometown’s Veteran’s Day parade--but otherwise there seemed to be no order at all, just perpetual waves of passing faces supporting the cause.

I stood on the curb amongst the cheering throng. Waiting for the end of the parade was hopeless, it could be hours. With no other option, I discreetly slipped into the passing tide and worked my way across the street.

Yes, you heard correctly, I marched in the 2011 Roma Europride Parade.

Back in my apartment:

“Hey man, you wanna see Lady Gaga tonight at the Circus Maximus? We’re leaving in like 5.”

“Mm—depends if I finish dinner in time.” I fully intended to go. But I wasn’t quite ready to admit it.

Now it was his turn to cover up: “I mean, you know, Lady Gaga’s not my thing, like at all. I just wanna go so I can say I did. Plus it’s free, I’d never pay money to see her.”

“Oh no, of course not, I totally agree, we’ll see if I even go.” I downed my bowl of pasta in one swift swallow. “Look at that, finished in time, guess I might as well tag along.”

Stretched as a parade, the true scale of the demonstration was shrouded. But here, sprawling across the legendary Circus Maximus, it’s overwhelming; electricity pulsating through an eternal mass. My roommates and I plunge forward, deeper and deeper into the sea of bodies pressed against each other, the sweet smells of sweat and marijuana mingling in the twilight.

Ciao, Roma. When I first embarked on my artistic and musical journey as a young Italian-American woman, I did not know yet the passion and the fervor for equality, for social justice that would grow so deeply inside of me.

Finally we’ve wriggled, jostled, shoved, forced our way to the center near the stage. But, as I mention to my roommate, I'm not a tall guy and I can't see a thing. The man in front of me, in makeup and a tight sleeveless gay-themed shirt, overhears, turns seeming concerned, and suggests I join a few girls sitting on a fence a few feet away. ‘No, really…” I begin, but he’s already asked them for permission and suddenly I have a perfect view of the stage still empty except a grand piano and flashing words projected onto the backdrop, “PARTY; ROMA; PRIDE; EUPHORIA...” to the accompaniment of an electronic beat.

 As I become closer to each and every one of you through music, dance, art, and fashion, my greater mission to is to be part of the joyous mobilization of the LGBT community worldwide. We fight for freedom. We beckon for compassion. And above all we want full equality NOW.

And suddenly there she is, the famous Lady herself. I was expecting a more dramatic entrance, a more absurd outfit. But she has entered the stage quite casually sporting aquamarine hair, giant sunglasses, and a dress that only breaks maybe one rule of fashion; she approaches the podium. Her voice almost seems detached it is so calm, monotone except for a key word once or twice accentuated in a guttural yell. Only later do I realize how very 20th century it is of me to scribble notes on the back of my map when the whole thing will be posted on YouTube later that night.

We are here to proclaim our strength, our steadfastness, and our intelligence; we will not be treated as anything less than human. It is not just about one law or one example. These laws that have yet to be passed, they set a precedent, and so many young people are being affected: suicide, self-loathing, isolation, inability to find work or integrate based on fear. Modern social issues are real. They are serious. The precedent set by the government is so influential, and that is why we are here; because it regards that some of us, LGBTs, will not have an equal seat at the table--but we will. Let us come together and synthesize our histories into today. Let us be revolutionaries of love and use our human powers to save lives and encourage unity around the world.

I can’t help but reflect on her words in the context of the scene around me. An accepted, acknowledged place in this convoluted web of society, with all of the institutions and benefits that go with it, that’s what the LGBT community longs for. To not be relegated to the fringes, to live openly without facing disapproval and scorn. Which is almost odd in a way to me because I more often find myself trying to escape the inevitability that deeply rooted societal traditions bring. Our lives are mapped out for us: school, college, work, marriage, kids, retirement. Our beliefs: Liberty, Justice, Democracy, Capitalism. We carry out entire conversations of accepted social phrases without really saying anything: ‘Hey, what’s up?’ ‘Nothing, you?’ ‘Just living the dream.’ ‘Keep on keeping on, right?’ ‘For sure.’

For the security social acceptance brings we forfeit the freedom to say, to do whatever we want whenever without having to worry about offending anyone. We become perfect facades that never would dream of a taboo thought or feeling, and authenticity too often becomes something of a guessing game. It seems there would almost be a strange liberation in being totally rejected by society. Suddenly you would be free to completely ignore all of the rules, to live however you pleased; you would never worry about offending anyone because you already had.

LGBTs very well may attain the social acceptance they fight for, but at what cost? Will that man over there still be able to roam the streets in nothing but lime green briefs, stilettos, and a string of pearls? Will the man I saw in a blue dress still wear a lampshade on his head just because he can? Will so many in the crowd still have the liberty to stroll freely in public with balloons of their smiling sexual organ of choice? Maybe. Maybe not.

It’s a sad comedy, me ranting about the downsides of this social acceptance readily available to me while the LGBT community fights so hard for every inch of it they can manage. I don’t mean to downplay the injustice of anti-gay violence and discrimination, especially in countries where homosexuality is a crime. But as for integration into mainstream society, the LGBT community may find it’s not quite so liberating as they had hoped. In the meantime I am investigating real estate on hermit-friendly deserted islands.

Dinner in Rome (or The Plight of an English Major)

But what was most shocking to me was that you didn’t have to do anything. Light the stove (with a lighter, none of this electric nonsense). Throw in some sausage, some peppers, mushrooms, onions; soon the tantalizing scent is billowing from the popping, sizzling pan, filling the room. Meanwhile you have some tomato sauce heating on the stove (ingredients: tomato, water), dump in the vegetables and sausage once they’ve reached golden-brown perfection. Spices--whatever is in the cabinet. Can’t read the Italian labels? Doesn’t matter, everything goes in. Now things are heating up, let the sauce simmer, salt water on the stove, wait till it’s boiling, in goes fresh pasta, out it comes again, onto plates, pour on the sauce, slice of bread, glass of wine--what more could a hungry stomach, a yearning palate ask? But the three of us crowding, jostling over these bubbling pots and pans (each much more confidant in his own cooking prowess than that of the others), we were only observers in this fantastic transformation, this synthesis of delicacy from bare raw materials.

It was with glee that I shoveled ingredients around the frying pan, watching in wonder as the peppers slowly shed their awkward stiffness and opened up, the onions relinquished their caustic, impersonal disposition, the sausage pulled itself together into something you could sit across the table from and have a conversation. This was greater than mere food preparation, I was witnessing a movement of social cohesion. These were the kindergarteners who clung fiercely to their mothers before the first day of school only to refuse the once anticipated return home at 3 o’clock, the high school freshmen afraid they wouldn’t fit in who find themselves in tears to leave their dearest friends at graduation, so many shy crushes which blossom into passionate lovers--this was us, the study abroad, a smattering of students smeared across Rome which somehow morphed into coherent, relevant social clans.

At first there were no words, we could only ravenously scoop this manna from heaven into our mouths and question what we had done to deserve this celestial meal. But as our hunger gave way, conversation slowly filled the gaps. Cam, to my right, was, at over 6 foot, an imposing figure. More than ten years older than us, he was a bit aloof, often out who knew where until who knew when in the morning. I knew that he was already a longtime bachelor and had military experience, but other than a shared love for Maxwell, I could not begin to probe at the void of time between his high school graduation and today. Matt, across the table, was my age. A self-proclaimed “bro”, earlier I had heard him mention, regarding the United States, “What I miss most is sitting at home watching Sports Center drinking a Coors.” Right now he was lamenting that he couldn’t decide what to bring home for his family as souvenirs from Rome. Suddenly the answer was in my hands, I cut in:

“You should bring back food as souvenirs for everyone--It could be a metaphor for the temporary nature of existence: just as the sites we visited once were complete and functional and beautiful but have been eaten away by millions of years until now all that remains is an empty shell, the food will start out complete and delicious but it will be slowly eaten until all that remains is the empty container!”

Pause.

“Yeah, no.”

“You’re talking to a finance and a health major. We don’t think like that.”

The plight of an English major.                

The Tate Britain: Commentaries and Criticisms

Foolishly, in retrospect almost absurdly, I thought that I would be able to resist including further art criticism among this catalogue of literary sketch. But, after a 5 week whirlwind through Greece, Rome, and Florence studying Classical, Renaissance, and Christian art, could anyone expect me not to cave upon my return to London, the Mecca of art plundered from every major culture around the world? So for my readers who have grown weary of academic commentary on monumental pieces of art in some of the world’s most renowned museums and were hoping for lighter reading, I advise you to perhaps indulge in a rousing round of Farmville and tune back in for my next piece.

The museum planned for this evening was certainly to be a good one. No, I would not be drifting through pieces commandeered from around the world, tonight’s destination was Tate Britain, a collection of art that is actually from Britain (unlikely though it may seem to visitors of The British Museum). As good Providence would have it, the first exhibit I encountered featured British Romantic paintings, a style with which I was not familiar. Naturally, I was delighted.

As I read the signs on the wall I learned that the Romantics were tormented artists passionately obsessed with experiencing, examining, and portraying human emotions, the human condition. Gazing from piece to piece it was clearly apparent why:

What tragic lives these men led--I can only begin to imagine the hardship, the burden of living with such poor eyesight! If this is how the world looked to me I certainly would be be upset as well.

From British Romantics I moved to an exhibit of selections from the 20th century. I especially enjoyed this graceful piece constructed of steel and vinyl, “Art For Other People #24”, an uplifting celebration of the joy the artist feels in having the profound opportunity to share an intimate glimpse into his own psyche through artistic expression:

Here’s another piece I found inspiring:

Now I know, you may be feeling a bit baffled, as was I when first I saw it. But have faith, this artist has not left us to wander in a cold dark abyss, all is revealed by the insightful title: “Car Door, Ironing Board and Twin-Tub with North American Indian Head-Dress”. Silly me trying to read some sort of angsty interpretation regarding the conquest of Native-American culture by the cold, impersonal materialism of modern America when in reality it’s just about a car door, ironing board, twin-tub, and headdress!

Another gem I discovered was not a piece but this wise quote by John Craxton from 1946:

But why explain pictures? No meal can be made more exciting by a running commentary analysis of the flavours. Everyone has a different tongue. Pictures need no literary introduction. What they always need are open eyes and minds free from preconceived ideas.

With this in mind, I will refrain from comment and allow the most profound piece at the exhibit, the piece which elicited by far the deepest emotional reaction, to speak for itself. The title is “Oak Tree”, the media: glass, water, paper, and ink.

Stazione di Firenze Santa Maria Novella

The moment I saw her I knew I was in love. So beautiful, so pristine, so classy, this was the woman I never knew I had been looking for--how could I know that something so perfect existed? Suddenly I felt strangely self-conscious, I tried to look cool, strut, lean jauntily against a wall. It seemed strange, ridiculous that I wasn't wearing a suit, a tie, a fedora, carrying a pocket watch on a chain. It seemed strange that everyone wasn't; why weren’t the masses milling by dressed in their absolute sharpest, dressed to kill? Anything less was an insult to the immeasurable beauty of this goddess that I had just discovered.

On Friday I purchased from her two train tickets. Saturday I returned, having rethought my choice to travel at 4 am Sunday, to return them. For her I waited an hour only to discover the computers were down, I must return on the morrow after all. For her I rose at three Sunday morning, I came to her but she had cancelled my train. Back I came that afternoon but the ticket office was not open. Monday morning came, and early so did I to pay homage to her once more, I waited forty minutes before I was forced to give up my place in line, other obligations dragging me away. That afternoon I returned once more, this time determined to have my love. But she would not yield so easily, I had not brought my passport--no she hadn’t told me I’d need it but of course I should’ve known, for her I would’ve, should’ve brought anything, everything. Straightaway I ran home and back to retrieve the desired document.

Finally, after leading me around on a leash and insulting me when I was vulnerable, finally she gave me what I needed and I knew then that she loved me too and from then until the end of time everything would be alright. I pressed my face to the glass, a cool gentle breeze slowly drifting through the round speaking hole. My love, personified in the woman behind the desk: her girlish figure, her boyish hair, her deep dark eyes, her clear fair skin, her ridiculous uniform which she carried with such grace. Carelessly, thoughtlessly she recited aloud as she typed. There was no passion, no regard to the syllables, yet even in her indifference her voice was olive oil dripping over bread, running over, leaving your fingers glazed, slick.

“ScoLAH-ro; Ben-jaMEEN; REE-in.” My name--my name had just passed through those delicate Italian lips! I was already in a state of Nirvana before she moved on to my passport number--poetry.

“cinque, tre, diciannove…”

By the time my information was entered into the computer knew I had found all I could ever dream of--I knew I must ask for her hand in marriage, even through the invisible, impenetrable glass sheet cutting between us, this was too urgent to put off! But, like a bashful schoolboy, my decisive move was thwarted by the paralyzing fear which suddenly and totally consumed me; all I could muster as I collected my refund, before I backed slowly away, was a “grazie mille” from the furthest depths of my heart. She did not return my gaze. She had already left.

What can I say? I’m in love.

 

June 11 Part III: Gregory's

“Hey baby, been a little while, huh?”

“Little while? Boy, you ain’t know da first thang bout treatin a woman right.”

“Hey, girl, you know I been thinking about you all the time”

“Mm-hm? I ain’t got no phone calls. I ain’t seen you fah a month! And now you tryin a come in here like everythang’s OK? I got news fah you, boy!”

“Come on, baby, you know—“

“An don’t you go callin me ‘baby’ like you knows me!”

“I woulda given anything to see you, you know I was busy! I’m here now, at the first chance I could.”

“Yeah, I don think so. You come to da wrong place, boy!”

Conversation over. I reluctantly back away from her irresistible curves, the deepest shade of ebony, and leave the piano store defeated; she, all 88 keys so seductive, indifferent to my exit.

The façade is not imposing, if you weren’t looking for it you would miss the discreet sign, “Gregory’s” next to the front door. Inside is a cramped room, a menagerie of bottles seemingly every shape and color crowding for space behind the bar. The familiar sizzling of cymbals and honking of a saxophone waft down the spiral staircase. Captivated by this sound, I find myself compelled helplessly, mindlessly onward until I awake sitting on a couch in the dark loft, a small classy room, wood floor and ceiling, soft yellow lights on the quartet: bari sax, grand piano, upright bass, drum set. A glass of Chardonnay appears in my right hand.

I’m in Rome but it feels like 1940s Chicago. The lead man--tall, thin, massive bari sax--sits, stands, squints, honks, growls, digs in to bluesy riffs, explodes into a torrent of notes which meets the crowd’s applause like the bow of a ship meeting the sea. I approach him at the break hoping to finagle my way into sitting it for a song or two.

“Scuzzi—I really enjoyed your playing, excellent!”

“Thank you!” A thick accent, he only speaks a handful of English.

“Yeah, I’m an American jazz pianist--”

“American? You wanna jam? Play a couple tunes?”

That was easier than I had anticipated. We finish our conversation and I start back to my seat.

“Well now, you sound like you must be from the West.”

She’s big. And she’s black. Quite comfortably reclined in the front row. Her short hair dyed blond, her lips, bright red. Her laugh is a hoarse cackle. Between her two front teeth is room for another.

“Uh, yeah…I’m from Arizona.”

“Arizona? I was in Phoenix once. I’m from New York.”

She had been a lawyer trying to make it big as a singer in the big apple. With no break in sight, she moved to Rome and has been singing here ever since. The next set opens with her leading the band on vocals. Onstage she is a caricature of the jazz singer—the nasally voice, pained expressions, emotive gestures, melodramatic scoops, bends, wails.

And then I’m on.

He hadn’t even asked my name, a mike is shoved in my face and I awkwardly introduce myself. I sit down at the piano, unsure of how she’ll respond: “Come on, girl, let’s just forget about what happened earlier today, huh?” Hoping for the best, I count off the first tune: “No Greater Love”, bright, uptempo, swingin.

“Woah, now, you movin too fast, boy, you on ya own!” Not what I want to hear. At all. My beloved keys are distant from me, they close off, my insistence creates nothing but an awkward situation. The backgrounds behind the sax I can manage on my own, but when he turns to me to play the melody on the bridge I can only fumble around a bit. A few bars later, my solo quickly becomes a haphazard pastiche of blues riffs as I desperately try to pull myself together.

As quickly as it begins the song is over and suddenly it’s my turn to start the next. I pause, gather the pieces of myself strewn across the floor. Slowly, solemnly I lay down the opening to “Georgia on My Mind”. And finally she yields to my touch. There are no words. The boundary between me and the world begins to slowly unravel. The drums and bass kick in, the blaring sax, and the entire room starts to melt until we’re completely submerged, suspended in space, here a cymbal drifting by, there a saxophone. In words I can only struggle to communicate with these men, but here we are speaking the same language and nothing is lost in translation. And then, suddenly, I don’t feel quite so anonymous, the world doesn’t seem such a strange, foreign place.