A country for (of) old men - La diaspora italiana

(English below)

Questo post è di settimana scorsa, ma vabbè...

Paese che vai, italiano che trovi.

Siamo decine di migliaia all’estero, tra i 20 e i 35 anni. La maggior parte con una formazione medio-alta. Qualcuno se ne è andato per studiare corsi prestigiosi; o programmi di studio con una parte di applicazione pratica sconosciuta in patria; o materie di cui in Italia non se ne conosce neppure l’esistenza.

Altri se ne sono andati per cercar fortuna, come si faceva una volta. Solo che cent’anni fa si cercava di guadagnare per sopravvivere e mandare soldi in patria alla famiglia. Oggi si scappa dalla famiglia e dalla patria perché ci tarpa le ali.

Non è una questione (solo) di orgoglio, ma soprattutto un’esigenza di crescita e sviluppo organico dell’individuo. Spiego: c’è un momento in cui, pur continuando ad essere figlio di, o studente di, o "giovane" (fino a che età poi?), hai bisogno di sentirti considerato/a come professionista, come elemento a sé, come nuovo nucleo famigliare, anche mononucleare (se sei single).

È indiscutibile che l’Italia è un paese per e di vecchi (modo indicativo di rigore), che però si credono sempre giovani. Magari non giovani giovani, ma suvvia, giovani cresciuti. Cioè, adulti, sì, ma giovani. Per questo vogliono riconoscenza (=poltrone e status), responsabilità (salvo poi non saperla gestire e scaricarla sul prossimo, perchè alla fine son pur sempre giovani) e Potere (guardate gli angoli delle loro bocche: c'è saliva che cola al solo pensiero). In realtà, i più giovani tra loro hanno già passato il mezzo secolo.

Le storie degli italiani all’estero sono tutte simili: si va via perché non ci sono sbocchi. Non solo mancano posti di lavoro che l'offerta formativa ti fa credere che potrai fare. (Esempio: ha senso sfornare centinaia di psicologhi e architetti - professioni che tutti sanno cosa sono - se il mercato del lavoro ne è più che saturo??). Manca in generale la possibilità di crescere, maturare ed essere valutati, scelti e retribuiti per le proprie capacità ed utilità. Mancano spazi per la crescita, l'affidamento di responsabilità, la fiducia (rischio necessario) nel nuovo e nella sperimentazione.

Ma c’è la famiglia. C'è quella fatta da parenti e amici di sempre, quella a cui siamo eternamente riconscenti per il supporto non solo emotivo nella cammino della nostra formazione. E la "famiglia" ingombrante e soffocante del sistema costituito, ossia delle strutture sociali, politiche e antropologiche tipicamente italiane:

- La cavillosa burocrazia, un percorso ad ostacoli pieno di agguati. Fin da piccoli siamo allenati a prevederli e a non avere fiducia nel percorso tracciato dai regolamenti: una forma mentis di cui prendi coscienza solo quando esci dal sistema.

- L’aiutino essenziale ed esistenziale per guadagnarsi la fiducia di qualcuno tramite nessun merito se non quello di nascita, ovvero la raccomandazione tramite parentela e conoscenza. Corollario: i privilegi.

- La prigione dell’identità, ovvero di come gli altri ti vedono sempre come troppo giovane per,ed anche se hai 35 anni sei ancora e pur/per sempre un adolescente.

Non se ne vuole fare una colpa a nessuno per questa situazione perchè le colpe ce le abbiamo tutti. Ma bisogna prenderne atto.

Un’importante fetta di una generazione giovane, capace e preparata ha lasciato il paese che, mai come in questo momento di crisi, ne avrebbe rimasto. Non che chi sia rimasto non ne sia capace o valga di meno. Ma chi è rimasto potrebbe giovare di un apporto notevole da chi ha acquisito esperienze diverse, da chi conosce sistemi ed ecosistemi diversi, da chi ha visto e vede le cose da un’altra prospettiva che può solo arricchire. Se non altro, almeno a livello di numeri, l’Italia ha bisogno dei suoi giovani (quelli che son rimasti e quelli che sono andati via) per un profondo cambio generazionale.

Non c’è un solo berlusconiano all’estero. E ultimamente neanche in Italia. Sembra che Silvio abbia le colpe di tutto. Ora, lungi dall’alleggerirlo, forse la congiunzione economica in cui ci troviamo non è proprio proprio solo colpa sua. Ma di colpe ne ha, eccome (essendo un plurisospetto per vari crimini), non ultime quelle di aver fomentato la costruzione di un modello distorto di Donna, Uomo, Sesso, Affettività, relazioni tra il cittadino e le istituzioni.

Quest’anno, fino ad ora, sono stata in sei nazioni differenti e non c’è posto nel mondo dove non abbia incontrato degli italiani. Non sto parlando di turisti, ma di italiani tra i 20 e i 35 anni, lavoratori, studenti o entrambi. Sono persone che si impegnano per trovare il loro "posto" nel mondo e nella società.

Stanno censendo gli italiani in patria, ma ne uscirà un ritratto distorto a causa delle complicazioni e delle rigidità dei moduli, che incasellano a priori in opzioni troppo strette. E' anche un ritratto monco: mancano non coloro che risiedono ufficialmente all'estero ma tutti quelli (la maggior parte) che non ha perso la residenza in Italia. Se ne sono andati senza data di scadenza. C'è chi si ripete sempre: "Ancora per un po'. Finchè le cose non vanno meglio", perchè alla fine c'è chi ha voglia di tornare. Ma nel frattempo passano gli anni, non sei più giovane, stai diventando vecchio.

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This post is from last week, but...whatever.

Whatever country you go, you find some Italian.

We're several thousands abroad, from 20 to 35 years old. Most of us with a medium-high education. Some left to study prestigious programs; or programs with a practical application component unexisting in Italian programs; or programs in science fields whose existence is completely ignored in Italy.

Others left in search of fortune or luck, just like they used to do in the old days. A hundred years ago you left in order to survive and gain money to send back to your family in your homeland. But today one is running away from family and the homeland because they're clipping our wings.

It is not (only) a matter of pride, but above all a necessity of individual organic growing and development. I explain: there is a moment in which, although you keep on been somebody's child or a student of something, or a "young" person (but then again, until what age?), you need to feel recognized as a professional, as an individual on his/her own, a new family unit, even mononuclear (if you're single).

It is unquestionable that Italy is a country for old men and of old men, though they always think of themselves as young. Maybe not that young, but c'mon, let's say "young grown-ups". I mean, yes, of course, grown-up, but still young. And because of that they demand acknowledgment (= "chairs" & status), responsibilities (unless they need to download it abruptly on somebody else, in the case of not being capable of handling it; in the end they're still "young") and POWER (look at the watery corners of their mouths ad they think of it!). The "youngest" among them are already over a half century.

The stories of Italians abroad are very similar: you leave because there are no outlets. Not only there's lack of job positions the educational programs make you believe that you could occupy. (Does it make sense to create hundreds of psychologists and architects - as examples I 'm randomly naming professions anybody knows - if the job markets is totally saturated?). What lacks in general is the possibility of growing, maturing, being assessed, judged and payed accordingly with one's skills and utility. Italy lacks spaces for growth, handover of responsibilities to new generations, trust (therefore necessary risk) in the new and experimentation.

But in Italy there is family. There is one made of family members and childhood friends, those people we're eternally thankful for giving us (not only) emotional support in our educational life. And then there is the one "family" which is bulky and obtrusive and that consist in the system, that is social political and anthropological structures typical of Italy.

- Captious quibbling petty contorted bureaucracy, a route full of obstacles and ambushes. Since a very early age, we're trained to foreview and dodge them, while not trusting any path set by regulamentations: a forma mentis you notice just when you exit the system.

- L'aiutino (the little help): essential and existential condition to gain trust and a job from somebody on the basis of no merit apart from your birth: that is a recommendation from some family member or influent acquaintance. Corollary privileges.

- The prison of identity: or how the others (the young grown-ups) see you always as too young to, although you're 35, but in the end you're still a teenager.

I don't want to blame anyone for this situation, we're all to blame. But we have to admit it.

An important slice of Italy's young, capable and prepared generation has left the country that, never like in this moment, needs it. This does not mean at all that those who stayed aren't worthy or capable. But those who did not leave could benefit from a big contribution from who has acquired different experiences, who has known different environments and ecosystems, who has seen and see thing from another perspective that can't be but enriching. If not so, at least just from a numeric point of view, Italy need its young people (either those who're still there or those who are abroad) for a deep and drastic generational changeover.

There is no Berlusconi Italian supporter abroad. Actually, lately it is hard to find one in Italy as well. Looks like Silvio has got all the blame. Far from easing his guilt, the economic conjunction we find ourselves in is not completely his fault. Faults and guilts he's got plenty, for he is a plurisuspected for varied crimes. At least he's guilty for fomenting the construction of a distorted model of Woman, Man, Sex, Affectivity, relationship between Citizen and Institutions.

So far this year I've been in six different countries and there's no place in the world where I haven't met at least one Italian. I'm not talking about tourists, but Italian workers or students or both, all between 20 and 35 years old. They are people engaged in finding their "place" in the world and in society.

As I write, Italy is conducting a census, but thew outcome will be a distorted portrait because of the complication and stiffness of the models. They classify in too strict options. It is also a cripple portrait: it misses those who are abroad but didn't officially loose their Italian residence. They just left without an expire date. There are some that always repeat to themselves:" A little longer. Just until things don't get better." Because in the end some would like to come back. And so years pass, you're grown-up, you're getting old.

Little daily tragedies

Greece is under a big crisis. A lot of people losing their jobs, many becoming homeless, some struggling through the day. The minimum salary is circa 700 euros, I.V.A. is 23%, 1L of milk costs 1,24 euros, 1L of petrol is 1,8 euros. Athens is hanging from some bad politicians' decisions, spurred by fat German and French banks. Somebody is going to crash down. It's just a matter of how and when.

In Epidauros things flow with the rhythms of the last Northern European tourists of the season. It's mainly sunny, just two days of rain; autumn silently shows up as a shivering breeze at dawn and sunset.

I'm working in a workshop with 5 more incredible actresses on the Euripides' Orestes. We're working on Electra's monologue in reaction to the news of the trial: her brother and she are going to die. It's the end of Agamemnon's dynasty, the extinction of his bloody line.

6 hrs of daily psychophysical training and vocal training and structured improvisations conducted by Phillip Zarrilli. In between we work autonomously on the Ancient Greek text, exercising the non-Erasmusian pronunciation and prosody.

It feels weird to be in a place on the edge of a break down. International news of the last months about how Greece, Portugal, Ireland and Italy risk to be bankrupt echo in my mind. Yet daily reality is different from the macro-economical landscape. I get my amazing Greek yogurt at every breakfast.

These countries have suffered for a long time. Things have always been bad or baddish. Or at least that's what we've always been told. Maybe Italy is the only one that really was better for a few decades, but still I remember that sense of “we could be much better” “we must be in the top 5” when at school we were taught that Italy was the 7^th industrial power in the world. At that time nobody even wandered about WHO was paying the actual cost for such a well being state.

In a world landscape of incertitude and threat of an economical breakdown, everyone goes under their own private tragedy. Compared all together some of them look ridiculous. Like mine. While people are losing their jobs, while some others won't be afford education or paying a rent or purchasing food, my every day little tragedy is not being able of getting a decent coffee, a constant Internet connection, dealing with feelings of missing my family and pizza, not finding a solution for my dry hair and mosquitos bites.

I wonder if feeling guilty for the comfort I've had and making efforts not to waste it is enough...

The importance of being trusted

One of my main concerns so far has always been that of trying to learn as much as I could both in my education and professional life. Through the years, since my secondary school, I recall wondering a lot about pedagogic issues applied to my personal experience as a pupil at first place - how is it that some teachers are so boring and can't "pass on" the love for the subject? what stimuli would I need in order to get more curious or to absorb even more about whatever subject? how do I get to make some use of all these notions I'm supposed to store? (Italian pedagogic system can be highly sciolistic sometimes).

These thoughts started drifting my attention toward a deep concern for language and its use, as I got more and more engaged in areas like linguistics, semiotics, literature and varied fields of expression - in one word Art - in my university studies; for I thought it was a matter of exposition.

And then, of course, the big question: what is Knowledge? Do I ever get to know things?

There's been a time when I thought I could learn only from good teachers, that is not only those who deeply know the discipline they teach but also those that put the student in the condition of really taking and carrying within what they learn. It is not (only) a matter of absorbing information but more and foremost a matter of making something out of it. Once you receive the contents it is very important to be able to handle them in authonomy.The real good teachers that I met in my educational journey were those who made me acquire skills (and contents), those who were there to watch after and help me to "walk on my own legs".

This ability in teaching is increasingly important as the student grows up and starts to build his/her own identity. We need to experience independence and mistakes in order to grow wiser. We need to be coached and mentored, not to be cuddled or, even worse, treated as notions cans.

At this status of things, another concern raised: what are the techniques a teacher should use to do this?

There is a special feature that is inner to the learning process that I find fundamental: Trust. As the learner opens up to receive from teacher, s/he abandon her/himself to dive into the unknown with the hope and the trust that s/he will be lead into the gloom. That is putting oneself in the condition of a bright blindness as s/he engages the journey with teacher. When this very personal relationship of trust fails the sweet magic of travelling safe towards interesting wanderings is broken.

Lately, I had a misfortuned encounter with a supposed coordinator that should have lead me (and other people) through a working process. Probably it was his first experience. A series of circumstances lead me to loose trust in what he was saying and, though I tried hard to take and make something out of it, I couldn't overcome that sense of being at risk in a confused landscape where my sight was kind of blurred and doubts started stopping me from doing a "good job". The lack of directions mislead my search as I struggled to stay focused. The funny thing was that the workshop was divided into two parts and the other one was run by a very good teacher, so that the enormous difference was stunningly evident at my eyes.

Once I got over the frustration of not being directed and thus not keeping the pace with the useful work during the other half of the workshop, I started thinking that it was a very helpful experience anyway. We can still learn from bad teachers. We can comprehend what we lack and what we need. I know now what directions I shouldn't go, what I want and need to work and, in a future, when I could find myself in a directing position, I know what I should never ever do.

Non tutto il male vien per nuocere (not all the bad comes to harm) ...

Cry yourself a river

I've been reading classical Greek tragedies. Nothing happens on the scene, action is communicated in synthesis, feeling are explicitly told, no blood on show, no sharp and shining knives, no killing: everything has already happened when its news reaches the stage. There's nothing one can do about it. It's Fate, it's Doom.

How can we reproduce the effect the audience experienced in Ancient Greek when watching a tragedy? How can a figure, a character, a person, an actor, an audience bear all that today? It is a commonplace that today there is no such experience that can be defined as Tragedy (with a big T) in the Western world. Yet there is such a crave for catharsis.

How can we, artistic and cultural operators, create the conditions for the audience to experiment it in a theatre? Today people cry their hearts out mainly in front of the most commercial and predictable cinema, even for the most improbable love story plots. I don't. I don't ever cry at the cinema. It is not planned, but I sincerely just never cry. On the contrary I do cry at the theatre, watching a play, and not because it is bad. In that case I'd moan loudly during the whole performance or leave the room, for I learnt and gained a form of self respect in so many years as a theatre audience: when it's bad, it's bad, no need for masochism.

I cried so many times. Emma Dante's MPalermu, Carnezzeria (saw it three times and cried the three of them) and Vita Mia; Bob Wilson's Quartet by Heiner Muller (I wanted to be Isabelle Hupper so badly); Psychopathia Synpathica by Cooperativa ESTIA with the prisoners of Bollate, Milan (again saw it three times and, in the last one, I was the only one doing a standing ovation and shout "This is good theatre, not the one we're used to be tortured with" (I was and still am in an open polemic with my hometown's theatre programming politics); Pippo Del Bono's Urlo, among many others.

The last (and probably not least) and the most mighty crying I had was for Angelica Liddell's La casa de la fuerza (Culturgest, Lisbon). 5 hours performance. I went to see it alone cos I didn't dare inviting anyone to such a long show. It was simply grand. I started uncontrollably crying after the first 5 minutes. In the first 5 minutes I couldn't breathe properly and couldn't stop thinking "Oh my God, what's happening to me? Isto mexe bué comigo...(This makes me wriggle inside!). It was about Angelica Liddell's personal hangover after the end of a big love: getting your body stronger through training, work out and running in order to survive an inner mortal hit; touching the lowest of your possible misery and humiliation in order to temper yourself to anything. You are still alive, even afterall.

From this personal dimension to the woman condition. To the tragic events that affect women in contemporary Mexico: we're talking about something that is far beyond simple breaking of Humain Rights.

Today the Tragedy seems feminine to me. All the strongest people I've met in the last few years were women. The man seems to go through an existencial weakness. He can't take decisions, he can't do the first stpe anymore, he's having a hard time being alone.

Maybe it is time to shift the abused paradigm where the woman is the one who cries and man is the column of everything. Maybe it is time for him to step aside. And cry himself a river, for it might make him stronger.