Becoming Italian Word by Word

Soccer and Shame in the Italian Language

 

vergogna 

shame 

“VERGOGNA!” the headlines in the Italian papers screamed as the Azzurri (The Blues), defending champions, exited the 2010 World Cup in the first round. Everyone—including the players themselves—seemed to agree that they had brought vergogna (shame) to Italy, a grave offense in a country that prizes “bella figura” and considers calcio (soccer) a national religion. 

"Ora ci faranno cavalieri della vergogna” (Now they make us Knights of Shame), Rino Gattuso, one of the players (calciatori), commented, “ed è giusto così" (and justly so). La Repubblica published a photo gallery of “le lacrime” (the tears) of the sobbing Azzurri after “la grande delusione” (the great disappointment). “Siamo distrutti” (“We are destroyed” said another member of the squad. “Il rammarico è enorme” (The chagrin is enormous.) 

A small group of tifosi (fans, so-named because they act as feverishly as typhus or tifo patients) greeted the returning players in Rome with chants of “Vergognatevi, vergogna!” (Shame on you, shame!) 

Vergogna (which contains the wonderfully Italian “gn” sound, as in gnocchi) carries the weight of centuries of meaning. Some seven hundred years ago Dante, father of the language, used it for “onta, disdoro, disonore” (shame, disgrace, dishonor). The medieval poet had very clear ideas of the consequences it deserved. 

In his epic Divine Comedy, those who acted vergognosamente (disgracefuly) on earth spent eternity being whipped, bitten, crucified, burned, butchered, transformed into snakes and shrubs, buried alive in flaming graves, skewered into rocky ground, frozen in ice and immersed in pitch, mud, excrement or boiling blood. 

Italians who brought vergogna to the people have also faced punishment at the hands of their countrymen. In the 15th century Florentines turned on Savonarola, the charismatic monk who destroyed books, jewelry, furniture and masterpieces of art in his infamous “bonfire of the vanities.” First they tortured him on the rack for three days (breaking every bone in his body except for those in the hand he needed to sign a confession of heresy), hanged him and then cremated his body in a giant blaze that burned for hours. 

A single death also wasn’t enough for  reviled dictator Benito Mussolini. After the fall of the fascist regime, Italian partisans caught and executed Il Duce along with his mistress near Lake Como. Their bodies, taken to Milan, were kicked, spat upon and hung upside down on meathooks from the roof of a gas station. A crowd threw stones and shouted insults. 

No one is suggesting such an extreme fate for the Azzurri, but for some time to come, wherever the famous (now infamous) players go, they are likely to hear whispers, if not cries, of “Vergogna!” 

As human beings shamed to their very souls, they have my sympathy. Yes, the Azzurri lost a world championship and injured national pride. But  more deserving of shouts of “Vergogna!” are those responsible for far graver consequences. My list would include the folks in charge at BP, Bernie Madoff and Wall Street wheeler-dealers,  who  all have so often seemed senza vergogna (shameless). 

Words and Expressions 

sentire vergogna -- to feel ashamed 

rosso di vergogna -- blushing with shame 

vergognoso -- has two different meanings: shy, bashful, timid or shameful, disgraceful, outrageous.

la vergogna della famiglia -- the black sheep of the family 

Grazie to Bob Sanfilippo for suggesting this topic! Click below to see a happier moment: the Azzurri singing Italy's national anthem before their first match at the 2010 World Cup in South Africa.

Dianne Hales is author of La Bella Lingua: My Love Affair with Italian, the World's Most Enchanting Language.

Washing Clothes, Italian Style

bucato
laundry

    In the United States, laundry is a chore, and Tide is a detergent. In Italy fare il bucato (doing the laundry) can be an adventure and detersivo (laundry soap) nothing less than “un amico di cui ci si puo fidare” (a friend you can trust).

    That’s what the label of Dixan detergent says, underneath its slogan of  “Da 50 anni, il pulito che ami.” (The clean you’ve loved for 50 years.)  By using it, according to the label, I—an enthusiastic lavandaia (laundress)--join millions of Italians, along with their mothers and grandmothers, who have discovered “i segreti del bucato” (the secrets of the laundry).

    These secrets have a long—and literary—history. In the 14th century Italian master storyteller Giovanni Boccaccio wrote of lenzuola di bucato, linens that were “pulitissimi” (the cleanest) because they’d just been washed. By the following century, bucato was officially defined as a quantity of clothing (un quantità di panni) washed at one time.

    Back then fare il bucato involved washing clothes by hand in local rivers and streams. These days I apply some smacchiatore  (stain remover, from the wonderful verb smacchiare for “to remove stains”) but  turn over the heavy labor to the lavatrice (washing machine), which offers an alphabet of options.

    “A,” with a temperature setting of 176 degrees Fahrenheit, scalds stains into submission.  “B” offers a prewash (prelavaggio) before pulverizing sweaty shirts. “C” spins stinky socks around the centrifuge with enough force to fling them into the Mediterranean. I add fabric softener (ammorbidente) and aim for the mid-range of “G” through “K,” never sure what fate may befall our clothes.

    Then I wait, and wait, and wait. Regardless of the setting, la lavatrice insists on keeping laundry hostage for most of the day.  Hour after hour, I can only gaze helplessly through the glass porthole in the unlatchable front door as socks, shirts, and shorts toss in a sea of foaming water.

   When I finally retrieve our soggy duds, I tote them in a cesta del bucato (clothes basket) to a stendibiancheria  (more informally, a stendino or portable hanging rack).  Like most Italians I prefer to stendere il bucato al sole (hang the laundry in the sun) rather than use an asciugabiancheria  (clothes dryer).   Held snug by wooden clothes pins (mollette), la nostra biancheria (our whites and linens) flutter like sails in the breeze.

    An old Italian proverb cautions,  “Fate il bucato in famiglia.”  (Wash laundry in the family—or behind closed doors.)   But you should also be wary of something entirely different: il lavaggio del cervello  (brain-washing).

Sayings and Expressions

la lavata – washing

stirare il bucato –iron the laundry

lavare a secco – to dry clean

candeggiare -- to bleach

capi delicati -- delicates

lavanderia a gettoni –- laundromat

bucataio/a –- laundryman, washerwoman

Coming Home to the Cradle of the Italian Language

 

 

La Bella Lingua at La Dante 

The American expression, “You can’t go home again,” puzzles my Italian friends. “Perchè no?” they ask. La casa è sempre casa; la famiglia sempre famiglia. (Home is always home; family always family). Last week in a very special homecoming, I returned to Firenze (Florence), la culla della lingua italiana (the cradle of the Italian language) and the place where my research for LA BELLA LINGUA began. 

Five years ago I arrived in this Renaissance jewel of a city, not as a tourist, but as una studentessa di storia della lingua italiana (a student of the history of the Italian language). The setting was perfect: La Società Dante Alighieri  (called La Dante), housed in a converted fifteenth century cloister with beautifully restored frescoes on the courtyard walls. 

My teacher, the vivacious Cristina Romanelli, had been a docent at a recent exhibit on  Italian’s history at the Uffizi. I remember secretly hoping that she would speak a little English. She didn’t, but Cristina provided so many audiovisual aids — illustrations of Roman graffiti, a page from an ancient grammar book, tapes of Italians speaking in various dialects — that the language came to life (la lingua si animò).

During the same period I visited the greatest bastion of the Italian language, l’Accademia della Crusca (literally the Academy of the Bran, because its esteemed members dedicated themselves to separating linguistic wheat from chaff). I turned the pages of its Vocabolario, the first compendium of officially recognized words in any language, and marveled at how many have survived to this day. 

When my editors were searching for a title for my book on how Italian became Italian, I thought of Dante and the wordsmiths at La Crusca and suggested La Bella Lingua (the beautiful tongue). I never imagined that one day the Società Dante Alighieri in Florence would host a presentation in its honor. 

Distinguished figures in Italian language and culture served as relatori (presenters or commentators): Giuliano Da Empoli, Florence’s deputy mayor for culture; Domenico De Martino, La Crusca’s Secretary General; Gigliola Sacerdoti Mariani, an acclaimed international scholar; Ludovica Sebregondi, a professor of art history and curator at the Palazzo Strozzi; and Portia Prebys, head of the Association of American College and University Programs in Italy.  

Feeling un pò d’ansia (a bit of anxiety), I feared making uno strafalcione dietro l’altro (one terrible linguistic blunder after another) in front of Italy’s top linguists. In fact, I did wish that I had at least two sets of ears (due paia di orecchie)  to keep up with the waves of Italian words (parole)—sophisticated (raffinate), precise (precise) and very clever (molto argute). 

When I first began what an Italian friend called the sfida audace (bold challenge) of writing a book on a language other than my own, I worried most about the reaction of Italians. And so the comments of gli illustri relatori (the illustrious presenters) meant the world to me. 

Deputy Mayor Da Empoli said he could not imagine an Italian writing, as I had about Dante, that “it was dislike at first sight” (odio a prima vista). It amused him that I, like many an Italian child, had come to appreciate Dante by means of a comic book version of La Divina Commedia. Secondo lui (according to him), I also had succeeded in peering beyond Italy’s stereotyped beauties to discover la lingua dei sentimenti (the language of emotions) that reveals the Italian soul. 

The Secretary General of La Crusca recalled my anecdote of slipping on the stairs the first time I visited the august academy. When a high-heeled shoe flew into the air, the ever-helpful press officer Paolo Belardinelli slid it back onto my foot. “I feel like Cinderella,” I said. “Cenerentola,” he translated. And now my friends at La Crusca think of me fondly as their Cinderella. 

The moderator of the panel, the delightful Professoressa Gigliola Sacerdoti Mariani, confessed that she initially thought that reading my book would be “una perdita di tempo” (a waste of time). As an eminent academician and a native Florentine, she understandably assumed that she already knew everything there was to know about l’Italiano. But she found herself caught up in La Bella Lingua as she discovered new or forgotten details about the language. 

Despite my insistence that I am not a studiosa (scholar), she declared that I had done so much research that I qualified as one, but more than anything else, she pronounced my book “uno spasso.” When I admitted that I did not know the meaning of the word, she explained that it dates back to the 1300s as a word for deep enjoyment. The Deputy Mayor whispered in my ear, “Your book is a lot of fun!” 

Noting that the subtitle of my book is  My Love Affair with Italian, the World’s Most Enchanting Language, La Professoressa observed that a love affair requires two parties. Thanks to her, the other presenters, La Dante and the many Italians who believed in my book when it was just una bell’idea, during a magical homecoming in Florence, I felt truly ricambiata (loved in return). 

Grazie di cuore! Viva l’italiano! 

LA BELLA LINGUA: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH ITALIAN, THE WORLD’S MOST ENCHANTING LANGUAGE, is now available in paperback and in bookstores in Florence, including the Paperback Exchange and La Feltrinelli. Here is a photo I could not have imagined five years ago: signing copies of my book in la bella lingua's hometown.

 

 

Opening a Window to the Italian Language

la finestra
the window

The first thing I do on an Italian morning is open the window  (la finestra), which is not as simple as it sounds. First I turn the hook (gancio) connecting the white wooden panels that cover the French window (finestra a due battenti) in our bedroom.  I fiddle with the metal latch (stanghetta) of the glass panes  (lastre di vetro).   Then I throw open the outer shutters (scuri) and breathe in the scent of the roses climbing up the trellis. Leaning on the sill (davanzale), I look out to the sea in the distance and lose myself in the simple—and thoroughly Italian--pleasure of looking out the window (guardare dalla finestra).

Fenestra, the root of finestra, dates back to the age of the Etruscans, the tribe that lived in central Italy before its conquest by Rome.  The earliest official definition described a finestra as an “apertura nelle parete degli edifici per aerazione e illuminazione” (opening  in the walls of buildings for air and light). But windows have always served multiple purposes.  In Florence you can still see the specially carved finestre where flasks of wine were delivered.

An Italian window can be large (finestrone) or small (finestrella).The window of a car or train  is a finestrino; a bay window, a finestra a bovindo; a sash window, a finestra a ghigliottina or a saliscendi. The word for a carriage window, sportello, doubles as the name for windows at box offices, banks and post offices. The larger window of a shop or museum showcase merits a different name: una vetrina.  A church window (una vetrata)  may be a dazzling work of art made of stained glass (vetri colorati).

A window box (fioriera pensile) filled with bright blooming flowers (fiori) is Italy’s favorite way of decorating the facade of a house. Towns and villages often hold a yearly contest for the prettiest flower box.  “Vota le finestre e i balconi fioriti piu’ belli!”  “Vote for the most beautifully flowered windows and balconies!” citizens are urged.

Just as in English, Italians try to avoid buttare il denaro (throwing money) out the window. “Mangi  la  minestra o salti la  finestra,” (“Eat the soup or jump out the window") is the Italian equivalent of “Take it or leave it”—something an Italian mamma is likely to say to a child who doesn’t want to eat the food she’s prepared.

Italian has a specific word, finestrata, for slamming a window shut (as in anger).   Yet  even if you’re in trouble, you may be able to find a way to uscire dalla porta e rientrare dalla finestra (leave by the door and sneak back in by the window). 

Sayings and Expressions

farsi alla finestra, affacciarsi alla finestra -- to come to the window
una vetrata colorata -- stained glass window
La finestra sul cortile –-- rear window, also the Italian title of the Hitchcock film that
    starred James Stewart and Grace Kelly.
persiana -- shutter, blind
tapparella –- roller shutter

Dianne Hales is the author of LA BELLA LINGUA: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH ITALIAN, THE WORLD'S MOST ENCHANTING LANGUAGE, now available in paperback.

The Art of Being Clever in the Italian Language

furbo
cunning or crafty person

Only after years of visiting Italy did I realize that Italians admire rather than disdain a furbo, someone who can pull off a clever deception. “Che furbetto!” a young mother exclaimed rather proudly when her son shifted the blame for a childish prank to his little brother.

An impressed friend recounted how a shrewd furbacchione had obtained a coveted building permit for a rectangular, cement-lined hole in his backyard by describing it, not as a swimming pool (prohibited by law), but as a storage vat for water that local firefighters might need to douse a blaze. A more deceitful furbastro would somehow manage to make money in the process, while a wheeler-dealer furbone would go after big profits by negotiating permits for an entire village.

The furbo holds a prominent place in Italian history. Although best known as a seducer, Giovanni Giacomo Casanova (1725-1798) swindled his way to (and through) several fortunes. The self-declared Count of Cagliostro (1743-1795), a Sicilian street urchin, conned gullible souls across Europe with magical elixirs for youth and potency, mystical spells and skillful forgeries.

The Fascist dictator Benito Mussolini (1883-1945) hoodwinked Hitler himself. When the Fuhrer visited Rome in May, 1938, Il Duce proudly displayed a prosperous imperial city. But its walls of gleaming travertine marble were nothing more than painted stage sets. The poet Trilussa wrote a famous epigram in Roman dialect on the occasion:

“Roma de travertino, / rifatta de cartone, / saluta l’imbianchino, / suo prossimo padrone.”
(“Rome of travertine, re-made with cardboard, greets the house pointer who will be her next master”)

My husband, transformed from Bob to Roberto in Italy, cannot resist a linguistic version of furbizia by casually dropping well-rehearsed Italian witticisms into conversations as if he were fluent. Italian acquaintances invariably applaud Professor Roberto for his cleverness.

However, some furbizia also lurks in my soul. The very first aphorism I taught Bob—and encouraged him to say on every occasion—was, Mia moglie ha sempre ragione. My wife is always right.

Words and Expressions:

Non fare il furbo -- don’t try to be clever.

Per conoscere un furbo, ci vuole un furbo e mezzo -- to know a trickster, it takes a trickster and a half (roughly, it takes one to know one)

An Italian friend recalls a childhood rhyme her friends would recite while rhythmically bouncing a ball against a wall:

Calzolaio Furbacchione (The shrewed shoemaker)
Fa le scarpe di cartone (makes shoes out of cardboard)
La signora non ci bada (the lady doesn’t notice)
Perde il tacco a meta’ strada (she loses the heel along the way).

An Invitation to a Celebration of the Italian Language

 

La presentazione

The Presentation

I am deeply honored to announce a presentation of LA BELLA LINGUA in Florence, with the following distinguished speakers: 

 *Giuliano Da Empoli, Assessore alla Cultura, Comune di Firenze; 

 *Domenico De Martino, Accademia della Crusca; 

 *Portia Prebys, President, AACUPI;

 *Ludovica Sebregondi, Fondazione Palazzo Strozzi, and

 *Gigliola Sacerdoti Mariani, Universita di Firenze. 

 The event will be held at 6:00 p.m. on June 9 at the Societa' Dante Alighieri, via Gino Capponi 4. It is open to the public. 

If you are in Florence, I would be delighted to see you there.