Ciao, Professore!

Living in Bologna, Italy and teaching at L’Università di Bologna is still one of my fondest memories. I had finally arrived on the scene, or so it felt like that. I will never forget being introduced by my Joycean mentor there, Rosa Maria Bosinelli, one of the greatest mentors of young Joyceans to have played the role. Always gracious to the nth degree, when I first visited the Forlì campus, which is where I would teach for a year and a half (commuting from Castiglione Fiorentino part of the time), she introduced me as “Professore Fulton.” Ciao!

It was a heady time. I had been teaching for several years prior at The University of Texas at Austin, my alma mater, but now I was teaching the alma mater studiorum. Not bad for a kid who had dropped out of college a bit more than a decade before. But, while at UT, I was not allowed to be called “professor,” because I was primarily hired as an Academic Advisor, and my superiors did not cotton to the fact that the students were beginning to see me as their potential equals. I was told more than once to be aware of my “place,” so the furthest I got was a compromise of “Dr. Rob” by the those fun-loving rugrats of the Liberal Arts Honors Programs. But, that is neither here nor there, I was now “Professore.”

That was not the main reason why I have such fondness for the time there, but it was part of it. It was a sign that I had graduated from being post-doc to being doc. Moreover, it was based upon who I was, not from anyone I knew that was helping me along, and that can be an important feeling in life. Rosa Maria had believed in me as me, and that was priceless.

Once I learned how to interact with the Italian students and had sufficiently convince them that I actually do not have a Texas accent, the rest was the sheer joy of teaching.

But, what for me was most important about living in Bologna was that it was the first time that I was living in a country where I had to learn to survive in a language that was not my own without the constant aid of a native speaker as had been the case in Belgium. In Italy, we were both stranieri and had to learn the ropes as such. In Forlì I found my groove and had my haunts and coffee shops and lunch spots. I really felt that I was making it there as a foreigner. I was well aware that one will always be a straniero in Italy if not from there originally, but at least I was getting the support and acknowledgment from the locals that I was making an effort. I was drinking my morning espresso and eating my paste with them.

It was a major transition for me as a teacher and within academics. Because of Rosa Maria’s help, I was able to publish my book on James Joyce and to attend several conferences as a visiting scholar of interest. Unfortunately, as it was merely a visiting appointment and we had obligations to go to in Castiglione Fiorentino, it came to an end and things have a natural tendency to do. I was no longer “Professore” and by the time we got to CF, I was back to being Dr. Rob as we were teaching for a UT Study Abroad program. I was just “Rob” again, humbled back several years, and for the most part, I had to tell people that I really did teach at Bologna. It was a blow to the ego, which I did not always handle well, but in hindsight, I now see the significance. We can change from the inside, but if our environment is unwilling to see that change, than there is often nothing we can do, but wait out the course of Time.

While checking some stats on my blogs, I noticed that someone had typed in “professore fulton forlì” for a search on this blog, so perhaps to some people still out there, I am indeed still “Professore Fulton.”

Ciao!

Strange Affinities

Don’t know where this is going, but just throwing it out there to start thinking about it. The more that I am in India, the more it seems to be similar to Italy in many ways, which is rather mind-boggling.

Some of the things that I have noticed are the dynamics of the household, in which outwardly it is a male culture, but inwardly the females run the place, especially the mother-in-law, though often that is not a good thing for the poor wife, that is quite clear.

First-born sons are treated like gold, whereas the rest of the children must fight for whatever they get, and again especially the girls.

Indian and Italian children both run in packs here. It is seldom to see just one child, but rather an entire herd of them is the norm. They are always playing in the streets, often until very, very late at night.

Both cultures are very sexual in the media, yet, on the whole, both are quite conservative with social interactions. Of course, public displays of affection in Italy verge on the grotesque at times, but for the most part, Italians are quite conservative with social norms and what you can say and not say, or do. For fear of being see as the dreaded “che brutta figura.” There is a similar shame culture here as well.

The entire culture revolves around food and music. There is always music in the air at some level, and Indians love singing as much as they pride themselves on their food. If you are ever invited to eat with Indians, I hope that you haven’t eaten for four days because, like the Italians, they will have an endless buffet of dishes and as the guest, it is incumbent upon you to eat til you explode for fear of insulting the host or hostess. As such, I have surprisingly not lost the 10 or so pounds I had expected to while traveling here.

The Indians love India, as the Italians love Italy. Most Italians don’t travel outside of Italy and that could be said about the Indians as well. It is all here, why travel anywhere else? Culturally pride runs deep in both countries.

The languages are very similar in expression. I have learned just enough Tamil by now to be picking up on the fact that you never say the same thing twice. That is also the case with Italians. They both pride themselves on the fact that they can always say the same thing differently in many ways. Now, that has made learning Tamil and Italian more challenging, but I admire the richness of linguistic variety.

Religion is dominant in the culture, both secular and sacred. Just as churches dominate any Italian town and religious festivals will involve the entire community, so to do the Indians do religion on a grand scale. Every day is virtually devoted to one god or goddess, similar to the Italians preoccupation with the Saints’ days.

The concept of Time and Space are also quite similar. Except for in the North of Italy, where Time is actually rather “important” to many, Italian Time is something on its own. Things happen when they do, whether it is a train, a meal, or a large event. Likewise, to bother an Indian about Time is a fruitless endeavor. There is a laissez-faire approach that is maddening to most non-Italians and non-Indians, but when you embrace it, life takes on another dimension.

The same goes for Space. If you go to a movie in Italy and the theater is empty, you sit down in the middle, guaranteed, if one other person comes into the hall, he or she will sit right next to you. Personal space does not exist in either country and it is something that you have to get over quite quickly. Or, the shops here and in Italy are quite similar. You will have very small, specialized shops that are literally packed to the ceiling with things and what would take up a city block in America will be condensed into a broom-closet sized store in which the storekeeper has an uncanny way of knowing exactly where everything is among the items packed as densely as a neutron star. I remember going to the hardware store in Castiglion Fiorentino and was amazed that the man could navigate through the insanely labyrinthine stacks of merchandise to find the exact item, and seemingly could do so blindfolded.

The street culture is likewise quite similar. Italians often consider their apartments as merely where they go home to bed because the streets are their living rooms and dining rooms. Indian homes may very well just be an entryway and bedrooms with a small cooking area because they are always out on the streets. I am reminded time and time again of Naples being here because of the incredibly vibrant street culture at all times of the day and night.

Restaurants often don’t have menus here, but rather you just ask what they have that day. In addition, as with Italy, you cannot simply order, but it has to be a full conversation with the waiter, who will also try to persuade you, often successfully, to choose something you did not intend on ordering. When we went to eat with Handel in Tirunelveli, his British friend Tess and I looked at each other and asked what in the world are they talking about for so long, we’re just ordering, but it was a lengthy discussion. This always happened in the local restaurants in Italy as well.

Mere coincidences perhaps, but it has been interesting to see the similarities unfold. I will be curious to see how I look at Italian culture when I do return one day after my Indian experience. Vedremo...