Trafika Europe 14 - Italian Piazza

Frank Iodice

The way he spoke about Campania, it seemed as though he were describing a devastated African vi l lage, and yet I couldn’t blame him. It was true that many in this area didn’t even speak Ital ian, as was the case in a lot of the tiny towns scattered from north to south, from Bolzano to Reggio Calabria, towns hidden on the map l ike provinces of provinces, fractions so smal l that they were missed by administrative programs. Thinking about my origins helped me feel what people cal l a sense of belonging, which I confused with nostalgia. Al l I could do was make myself useful , col laborate on the founding of the new l ibrary and have confidence in the new pol itical classes so that the distribution of bread and fish might change from what it had been and my country might become more unified. However, returning to the pictures—they were worthy of a photojournal ist. He had certainly not taken them, his fingers were so fat it would have been difficult to bend them. Perhaps they were pictures of the school the priest was in contact with. Whi le he spoke about the project, a feel ing of wel l-being took shape inside me, for the first time in my l ife I felt I might do something good. Looking at these chi ldren could only make me think again about mine, the ones left up there in the hands of the fatso covered with tattoos, and also made me reflect on another aspect of the business: Don Vito had an even bigger bel ly, and yet I’d never have

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