SEver since I was little, I loved sitting on the stairs and reading books. In my childhood home in Nuneaton, I liked to put the square carpet between the two flights directly opposite the wall-mounted clock so I could keep an eye on how many pages I could read before bed. But my favorite place to read is the red-tiled staircase leading up to the front door of my Nonna’s house in Puglia. There are pictures of me and my cousins on the stairs of all ages. When I close my eyes, I can always feel the warm terracotta in my hands, even in the middle of winter.
Throughout my childhood, I grappled with the question: “What makes someone love Italy?” – Do you think you’re more English or more Italian? I’m British-Italian and most of my family lives in a very small town on the outskirts of Italy, with a population of 6,200 at the last census. I live in My mother is one of five children and the only one who actually moved far away from Sand Nazi to Midland for love before having me, her only child.
Just as I didn’t always appreciate my second identity, I didn’t always appreciate my adopted home. My 93 year old Nonna lives at the entrance to town and her children fan out from her. My aunts all live on the same street and in Sandonaci there is little privacy due to the closeness of the family and certainly no locks on the doors. One of my cousins once had to hide her boyfriend in the shower when his Nonna came into the house without knocking. Even when you’re out of the house, the whole town knows about each other so you’re never completely alone. Even if, miraculously, you weren’t immediately recognized, it’s not uncommon to hear the phrase “A chi appartieni?” – Who do you belong to?
As a teenager, I tried to separate these two aspects of my life. In England, family tradition has it that I would rest my elbow on my mother when she spoke to me in Italian. My rules were clear. In England you speak English, in Italy you speak Italian, and you should never mix the two. But my mother and aunts never got the memo. At Easter and Christmas, I was sent to school in Sand Nazi, the local children lashed out at me about how best to swear in English, and my cousins all worked shifts at McDonald’s in Nuneaton in the summer. The young colleagues slaughtered their beautiful name “Federica”. I became Freddy. Salvatore became Tori.
Eventually, it became clear to me how beautiful it is to be both. I speak Italian with a strong local accent. And when my cousin started taking me to nightclubs, I started switching from one language to another as a party trick. Being Southern Italian is a big part of who I am, and not necessarily just half of it. When I’m there, I have my own room, I have my rituals, I have clothes that are there all year long, and I have people who have known me all my life. There is immense comfort in that.
Nonna finds it hard to think about her grandchildren, who are scattered all over Europe. She often asks, “Quando te ne torni?” – When will you come back? She means forever. But part of what makes her home so special is the way it incorporates all the good without too much of the bad. It’s idyllic because you don’t have to look too hard at the cracks, like there are no jobs in town and the infrastructure is at its limits. When we’re all together, I sometimes watch her and see that she’s doing head count for the company. Here we are all, each of my chicks returned to their nests. The grandchildren broke her heart when we all flocked to faraway Milan, Brussels and Paris.
For me it was London. I’ve spent most of my adult life here. I love this city, but it’s also a place that gives me a sense of anonymity. I’m one of almost 9 million people here. In Hackney, no one approaches me to ask who I belong to. I still get excited when I see a familiar face in my neighborhood. I live on the first floor of an apartment, so the stairs in my house are shared and I can’t sit on them, but I’ve certainly never tried that. I want to develop friendships with my neighbors. Like many Londoners, I want to be untroubled, but I also want a sense of belonging. In Sand Nazi, my Nonna is something of a local celebrity and we don’t have that problem. When she goes out, people stop her on every street corner to chat. Also, she is rarely allowed to pay for her own coffee.
But I found an Italian community here. A huge number of Sand Nazis in their 20s and 30s have moved to London for work, including my childhood best friend, whose father happens to be the current Mayor of Sand Nazi. There are only two Christmas flights a week, so you’ll see the same faces on the plane every year. The joy they give off is a painkiller. All I know is that they’re daydreaming about fève e cicoria and Christmas morning breakfasts on the beach and being suffocated by their extended families. This December, I will be on that plane, looking at that face, and one of my aunts will be picking me up from the airport. The first thing you do is grab a coffee and a book and sit down on the red tile steps. But it won’t be long before Nonna comes to distract me.
