Mme. Bouche’s Italian (Toronto, 1972)

“She wants us to talk amongst ourselves.”

I translate to my clueless partner on behalf of Mme. Bouche, the Quebecois teacher who teaches us Italian. She walks around the classroom taking notes of our conversation, and ignores questions directed to her, unless they are in Italian. Our assignment is to imagine a conversation with strangers on the street of Rome. One of us might begin with a question.

“Mi scusi, dove si trova la Fontana di Trevi?”

To which another might answer, “Si trova alla destra, prego.”

I hate having to babysit Tony. He is not interested in learning Italian. He is only in this class because his parents are making him take it, and because before he understood what Italian was, he thought he could ace it. Mme. Bouche partnered me with him because she hopes I can be a positive influence. She thinks I can get him to practice in and out of the classroom. I don’t want to disappoint her, but I am not optimistic.

The problem is that Tony does not believe he is learning a foreign language. He thinks that the dialect he speaks at home, with his family, should do. He is lazy, and he is also a clown. He confuses our classmates by telling them that the language of Mme. Bouche is not Italian at all, but some sort of separatist conspiracy our teacher made up.

“We’re learning code words for the FLQ,” he says under his breath.

I don’t want people to think Tony is my friend. If I had not been told to mentor him, I would have stayed as far away from him as possible. I ask why he doesn’t just get out of class.

“It’s an elective, Tony. You can switch with something else.”

“What, and miss all the fun?”

“You don’t get it. It’s not just the words you have to get right. It’s the right sound, too.”

He rolls his eyes.

“So teach me something I don’t know. I told you, I can already speak Italian. Reading and writing should be a breeze.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, stupid.”

“I do, and I don’t care. Besides, I like hanging out with the teacher’s pet.”

Tony imitates me. He claims my Italian voice is just as fake as Mme. Bouche’s. I explain to him that there are many regions with many dialects in Italy, but only one official language. He doesn’t believe me. He blends calabrese and inglese, speaking yet another language, “italiese.” He pronounces English words like an Italian stereotype, adding vowels at the end, where there should be none. Like many Italian immigrants, he adds sounds to English words with silent vowels. Store becomes storo, boy becomes boia, girl becomes ghilla. It’s a mess.

As maddening as Tony is, he’s not malicious. Just idiotic. He has never been to Italy, but he talks about the food, the music, and his paesani as if he is an old man born and bred there. He imagines all Italians are like his parents, only way more cool – like Sonny Corleone in The Godfather. Tony charms his classmates, flirts with the teacher, and expects someone else (me) will do his work for him. A mama’s boy, if I ever saw one, and someone my father would call un pavone. I’ve met a few peacocks before, primping and preening, and needing so much to be admired. Tony wants to be popular. I want to be anonymous. Tony wants to play. I want to choke the life out of him because he embarrasses me.

Italian class is too easy for me, but I have a heavy schedule, plus a part-time job, plus responsibilities at home, and I need a class where I don’t have to study. I also didn’t want to pass up a chance to speak Italian with someone like Mme. Bouche. She studied in Florence. She thinks I have been educated in Northern Italy, even though I have never been there.

I want Mme. Bouche to be my friend. I want to have witty conversations with her, and not with Tony the Peacock. When I’ve had enough of him, I get back at him the only way I can. I ignore him. I motion to him that I don’t understand what he is talking about. I refuse to answer unless he speaks real Italian. Anything else, I treat like gibberish.

I make a mistake. I don’t pay attention to a letter that was mailed to our house. It is from the school, announcing parents’ night, and my parents, who have never known anything about parent’s night, haven’t come once in all the years I am in high school. I make sure of that. This time, though, I am unable to prevent it. In my absence, my mother asks a neighbour to translate the letter, and she tells my father when he comes home from work. They see such a letter not as an invitation, but as a command. I can’t invent reasons fast enough to keep them away.

Parents’ night is more like a fair; teachers are seated in individual cubicles spread corner to corner around the gym. Parents line up in front of the cubicles, waiting to discuss their offspring. I lead my parents into the gym through one of the side doors. I don’t want to be here with them.

I try to minimize the possible damage by sneaking my parents in and out of the gym instead of coming through the main door of the school. I want to introduce them to my homeroom teacher, translate a few niceties, and leave as soon as possible. In and out – no one gets hurt.

We almost make it out. Mother and father follow me. I am in front, leading the way. I hear my name being called and walk faster, pretending not to hear. It’s Tony and his parents.

“Licia! Li! Hey, wait up, what’s the hurry?”

I shudder when I hear him use the diminutive of my name. Too familiar. My parents will think there’s something going on between me and the peacock. Now, I have no choice but to turn around and stomp the fire he started. I go back, make the introductions.

In no time at all, my parents are exchanging family name and family history with Tony’s parents. Everyone, but me, comes to believe this meeting is a happy coincidence. I get goose bumps thinking that I might one day find Tony and his family in my living room, continuing the awkwardness they’ve started here. They speak the Calabrese dialect to one another, and Tony joins in with enthusiasm.

“Licia and me, we’re the only real wops in the class.”

He doesn’t realize that I have tried hard to hide my Calabrese roots from him and from Mme. Bouche. I don’t let on that I understand every syllable, every linguistic variation of his language. He doesn’t ask me why I never told him I, too, am Calabrese. I am resentful just the same.

The next day, unable to bear the humiliation of Tony any longer, I ask Mme. Bouche if I could help someone else for a change. Mme. Bouche is puzzled. She answers in Quebecois English.

“Mon Dieu, but what is the problem? You two have so much in common! He really likes you, and you come from the same situation!”

So, it’s too late, I think. She already knows who I am.

Then she adds, “Isn’t it better to be with someone your own age? Tony … he has failed two years of school, the same as you.”