Yelling from Windows
This is why Italians don't get cancer
True to their reputation, many Italians are big yellers. “Verbally expressive” is how I prefer to look at it, and I’m proudly learning how to join in. Prior to moving to Italy, I was just as dangerously repressed as any other American. Nobody could weaponize silence like I could. I did slam a door once so hard it cracked (not one of my finer moments), and as an Aries girl, I can hold my own, but no one gets stuff off their chest in a healthier or more theatrical way than an Italian.
Case in point.
We live in a four-unit building overlooking a piazza, which gives us a birds-eye view of all sorts of shenanigans. At least once a month, the carabinieri (police) are called, usually over an altercation involving the massive double-parking problem. Think: seven hotly contested parking spaces and thirty aggressive Italian drivers, which add up to one raw Darwinian struggle. Punches have been thrown. The preferred method for alerting the double parker that his car is blocking traffic is to lay on the horn. This happens right beneath my window while I’m trying to work. What nerves I have left have been shredded like linguine.
Under our apartment is a dog groomer who takes weekend appointments. Every Saturday, the piazza is full of double-parked dog owners and their happy, waggy little creatures that freeze in terror the minute they figure out where they are. The squealing alone would break your heart. As every dog knows, the minute you get a respectable odor going, there’s always somebody who wants to wash it off.
I’d suspected for a while that the groomer, an Italian man in his thirties, was none too gentle with his charges. Two weeks ago, he actually smacked somebody’s dog, and a kind-hearted woman passing by saw it took him furiously to task over it. Then the neighbors joined in (reasons vary, but pretty much everyone hates the groomer.) Then I joined in because: 1) I love animals, 2) the groomer got in that woman’s face, 3) I will recklessly, even violently, defend the underdog in any fight, especially a woman, child, or animal, 4) I’ve gone full-on native.
I stood at the window and screamed at that guy. In English. I’ve discovered that when you scream at someone in a language he doesn’t understand, it can be really motivating and effective. The groomer tucked tail and ran back inside his shop.
I’m the mother of two grown kids who are bigger than I am. I can yell, trust me.
Angela, the carabiniere, showed up. People were still furious about what happened with the dog. It took half an hour to clean up that mess, and I’m happy to see a noticeable reduction in the number of dogs who were groomed the following weekend. Everybody got it out of their system, and now it’s done. This is the Italian way.
Italians have a long, storied tradition of yelling out of windows. There was a local man, a known philanderer, who returned to his apartment after a few days of cavorting with his mistress. His wife locked him out, and even when he positioned himself underneath the balcony and pleaded with her in full view of everyone in the piazza, she continued to yell at him in loud, theatrical Italian and refused to open the door. For three days, it rained buckets, and the philanderer was still there, staring forlornly up at his former home. People started referring to him as il gatto, the cat.
Italians fight, scream, slam doors, and think nothing of it. In an hour, the storm is over, and everything returns to normal. At least, in most instances. Violence against women continues to be a problem in Italy. Justice, when it comes at all, tends to be sluggish and unevenly distributed. For my American friends who have Italian husbands, I try to explain that the fireworks are cultural, but of course, there are many exceptions that prove the rule. There are quiet, introverted Italians. But for some Italians, a noisy fight, preferably conducted in public where sides can be taken … well, where else are you going to get that kind of entertainment value?
How do you fight? Are you a summer storm, a howling winter’s wind, or a weaponizer of silence? Let me know in the comment section!
Greeks are similar creatures. I remember my first time in a taxi in Athens. Traffic, as it always is, was buggered up for God knows what reason (or no reason at all). People were out of their cars screaming, gesticulating, and just generally carrying on as if they were hockey players about to drop their gloves. No, my companion told me, this is how Greeks communicate. Being the repressed American I am, I never did get used to it.
I've always tended to the loud and theatrical. But once it is out of my system, it is done. By the bye, this line reminded me of something: "I stood at the window and screamed at that guy. In English. I’ve discovered that when you scream at someone in a language he doesn’t understand, it can be really motivating and effective."
Ph.D. in philosophy and all, I've studied a fair amount of logic. It really burns people's toast when you identify the logical fallacy they're committing, giving the Latin name for it without further explanation.