Maria Rosaria Solla do not pack that heavy dark wool skirt. Do you want people to think you are a contadina?
I am a contadina and the skirt is warm.
Thank you for the skirt. I am taking it right now and you are packing the colorful dress. Now, on the ship you will look like a proper lady.
BAD ADVICE!
Nonna brought this photo with her. I wonder if that is the “friend” who took her warm and functional clothes?
As we read Cunard’s Queen Mary 2 dress code, I panicked. “What to Wear: Smart Attire.” I’ve got two advanced degrees but my clothes ain’t necessarily smart. Reading more, I knew I wasn’t going to look like a proper lady going to the ball. They have black tie fancy dress dinners and parties on board! All my fancy duds and summer clothes are in Pontelandolfo. In New Jersey, Bluefish style winter artsy fartsy is my fashion statement. I ran out and bought a $26 black dress at Marshalls, packed my silky scarves, bijoux and bling jewelry and hoped for the best.
Maria Rosaria hoped for the best too. Sadly, as I was told by her and Aunt Cat, hope was not enough. Crossing the Atlantic Ocean in steerage was freaking cold. According to Aunt Cat:
On the ship it was so cold mamma couldn’t stop shaking. She didn’t have anything heavy to wear. I hate that lady who took her warm clothes.
Mamma was shivering and had a fever. She just stayed in the bed – we were all way down in the bottom of the ship – hundreds of us. My brother Nick, Sal and me – mamma was so sick – we were kids. We didn’t know what to do. An old man felt sorry for mamma and took care of her. He got coats from the other men and piled them on her. Somehow she lived.
Warm cape was the first thing she made in New Jersey.
My lack of stylish summer clothing was not a problem. The Atlantic Ocean breezes are cold. My linen long sleeved ensembles and scarves were just right. And, frankly, we only went outside on deck for brief walks. The interior of the Queen Mary 2 is not only well appointed but temperature controlled.
The fancy dress parties were not even on the radar for my grandmother. Steerage tickets didn’t entitle voyagers to much.
Saturday night was Cunard’s Red and Gold black tie event. I felt perfectly fine in black palazzos, black silk top and huge hand painted silk wrap. Bejeweled handmade creations from Lambertville put the icing on my dress cake. As we sat in one of the upscale bars listening to a harpist, Jack said, “ Why didn’t you tell me it would be black tie. I didn’t even pack a tie.” Sigh…
Jack and I are blessed to be able to buzz back and forth between our homes in New Jersey and Pontelandolfo. Travel is never easy. Does anyone love the lines and commedia of any airport? The waiting for late flights. The agony of cancelled flights. It all is horrific. We were packed and ready to head back home to Italy when Newark Airport became a shitshow. Outages in the tower causing traffic controllers to practically faint at the controls. Runway mishaps and construction problems. What?
Then the text from United Airlines came. If we chose to cancel our flight, even though we had nonrefundable tickets, they would be happy to give us our money back. Hmmm. What are they telling us? Next, I heard the CEO say that to keep their passengers safe they were canceling flights. Cripes. I cancelled. (Still waiting for the refund.)
Searching for last minute direct flights through Philadelphia or New York JFK was impossible. Then the gift from the goddesses appeared in my inbox. Cunard’s Queen Mary 2 was having a last minute sale on empty cabins. I looked at Jack and bought two tickets. (What, you thought I’d leave home home alone?) The base price was considerably less than premium economy on any airline.
The fare was $859 each. Add on transportation to Heathrow Airport from South Hampton, Cunard Care Health Insurance, taxes and port fees and the total for two people was $2046.54. That includes food but not adult beverages, Wi-Fi, or the tips. I am not sure what the final bill will be but when I do, you will be the second to know.
One of my creative friends suggested that I was echoing my families immigration experience – in reverse. Is that why I saw the Cunard ad? A message from someone who came before me? Write about the parallels she said. Gulp. Let that challenge begin.
Like my grandma, passport in hand, heading to Napoli to grab a ship, we headed to the Brooklyn Piers.
Our great driver, Al, from Spectrum Limo got us to Brooklyn in record time. It was much easier than the ride to JFK Airport. With three kids in tow, luggage, food and a husband who was already in New Jersey, my grandmother struggled to get to the dock in Naples. Someone from Pontelandolfo got them there. Then she was on her own.
At the Brooklyn Pier, porters grabbed our luggage from the car and free of encumbrances we walked to the terminal. WHAM, then I got the chills. Long lines snaked trough the terminal. As bad as or worse than any airport at Thanksgiving. As we crammed into the que, Aunt Cat’s story of Ellis Island took over my consciousness.
Struggling with bundles, Rosaria and her three children joined the Ellis Island mayhem. Crammed to appear upright between her mom and older brother, polio crippled Catherine was marched through the madness. Children were crying, different accents were heard and the closer they got to the people in charge the more fear built up in Catherine.
Engulfed by a cacophony of accents – mostly British Empire – I could see and feel Aunt Cat. We were squished and prodded through to passport and ticket control. They took our pictures. I asked why. Who is monitoring the pictures? If we don’t look “right” will they refuse to let us disembark or back into the USA? Was Aunt Cat forcing the words out of my mouth. Or was I just a tired Jersey girl?
Little Catherine was right to be afraid. She was pulled from the line, taken from her now crying mother, and placed in quarantine. Her experience disembarking the ship had a lifelong impact.
Daily, my grandmother and grandfather came to check on her. Their lack of the English language and peasant status made the ordeal sad, frustrating and scaring. Obviously, Catherine was ultimately released and they began a life in New Jersey.
Domani o dopo domani I will continue the reverse journey story. The Star Link WiFi sucks. You may or may not get this blog post. Let me know. Please add it to social media for me. The WiFi on the ship – that I spent $240 on – doesn’t let me access social media. Hugs to all of you and all of your journeys.
FaceBook sometimes feels like just another chore and then some photo or post will smack me in the face and send my memory cells careening around my brain. On April 15, 2025, my testa dura got smacked hard. Into my otherwise boring feed popped a picture of a handsome young man at his thirtieth birthday celebration. I started to sob. Not because, I wanted to be thirty and at that party – though that thought did enter my mind – but because I first met the now thirty year old Valerio Mancini in 1995. The year that changed our lives.
The adorable Valerio Mancini held by his beautiful mom, Carmela Fusco. 1995
1995 – Jack and I accompanied my Aunt Catherine back the village she was born in, Pontelandolfo, Italy. That year, I had started a family tree and the three of us were on a quest to find more information.
Just to put 1995 in perspective, this is before we had a cell phone with a magic app that did instant translation. We had to get by on Jersey Girl balls and a big smile. Aunt Cat had had polio In Italy and at 80 something smiled like a wee elf sporting a big brace. Jack wheeled her to the municipal building and stopped. There were two flights of stairs to the anagrafe office. No worry, Aunt Cat beamed that magical smile at two local policemen who carried her up two flights of stairs in the chair. (This is what the Italian heart is all about.)
The woman responsible for vital records spent about three hours with us going through all these old books dating back to the 1860s. Aunt Cat started speaking in an arcane Italian dialect and everybody understood her. Her face lit up. It was like she had just found heaven. This was a language that was entrenched in her soul. A language that she never spoke at home and suddenly here she is and it’s possible again. We find all kinds of information. Like my Great Grandfather, Salvatore Guerrera, was married to Caterina Guerrera. Italian women keep their own names so my imagination went wild. Did he marry his cousin/sister – euuuch? Is that why I am just a little pazzo? Guerrera, we discovered, is a super common name. I licked my pencil point and kept on writing. We thanked everyone and found our way down the stairs and back to our car.
Now, we have about 6 handwritten pages of family tree and I haven’t the foggiest idea what we’re going to do with it. While staring at each other and standing in the almost empty Piazza Roma another vigile comes up to us. Having lived in Waterbury, Connecticut, He speaks English. Side Note – After World War Two, the lack of jobs and demolished towns were a catalyst for a mass exodus. There are more Pontelandolfese in Connecticut today than there are in Pontelandolfo.
Pietro Perugini, sporting his vigile uniform, walked right up to us. Asking if he could see the family tree, he pulled the notes from my hand, stared at them, got into the town police car and left. He left with all my notes. He just freaking left. Three hours’ worth of notes and he gets in his car and he leaves. What the f*&$? I threw the biggest hissy fit imaginable. All that work. All that time going through the dusty books. Had I unearthed a horrible town secret?
The tantrum chock full of English curses started drawing a crowd. Aunt Cat smacks me with her cane. I’m thinking, OK OK, maybe like we’re related to really bad people and they don’t want us to know that we’re part of the baddest of bad evil people. Or maybe we’re royalty. That must be it – and and and and and they don’t want us to know because we really own this freaking Piazza.
I swear we waited for 3 ½ or 4 hours. but Jack said it was probably maybe 15 minutes. I don’t know. All that pacing was making me insane. Officer Perugini finally came back and said, “I think I found your relatives follow me.”
We get Anne Catherine back in the car and we followed to row houses on a side hilly street. I found out later that after a devastating earthquake that eradicated homes dating back to the 1600s, this public housing was built. Since the houses were crammed next to each other, it was tongue in cheek branded as Shanghai. The vigile and I knocked on a door. A little old lady tentatively opens the door and with a fierce look stares at us. I’m holding the family tree and pointing I say here I am and there you are. The policeman says it in Italian. Actually, I have no idea what he’s saying but I’m guessing it’s ‘here she is and there you are.’ Bamm, the door was slammed in our faces.
Jack had parked and Aunt Catherine is, with great difficulty, dragging her leg, holding on to Jack and walking toward this house. I knock on the door again. Again, I’m greeted by a scowling woman, but also a smiling younger woman holding a baby saying “come on in for coffee.” Obviously mother and daughter don’t agree about what to do with these strange Americans. The old woman is essentially saying we know no one in America and we don’t want to. The young woman with an adventuresome gleam in her eye is curious. They see and hear Catherine say in her little voice from the road “are you my cousin?”
The three of us were in the doorway. Aunt Cat asked again, “tu e mia cugina?”
The old woman replied, Jesu e Maria.Ora e sempre, Caterina Guerrera had recalled the ancient greeting. Both women started to cry and hugged.
Giuseppina Guerrera and Caterina Guerrera meet.
Suddenly, Giuseppina Guerrera, who we discovered was indeed Aunt Cat’s first cousin, starts to ask her 20 questions. It was better than any of those quiz shows. The million dollar question was – Libero Capporosso. Conosci libero caparoso? I’m thinking who the hell is Libero Capparoso? A light went off, the audience cheered as Anne Catherine said – “bookie.” Libero means book in Italian. He had left the village and come to New Jersey and stayed with our family. Bookie was the magic answer that opened the door to our hearts and love for Pontelandolfo.
That day, we also found another family and first cousin, Carmine Manna. Both families have embraced us. Because of them we became part of the greater Pontelandolfo family.
Thank you Valerio for posting your birthday bash on Facebook. Thank you for being part of our extended family. Thank you for reminding me how blessed we are to have found our roots in Pontelandolfo. That you for being that wee baby boy who smiled and welcomed us home.
Sigh, I can see the steam floating up from my perfect cappuccino at Cafe Style. My wallet is thrilled that we can go to Bar Elimar for a scrumptious homemade lunch and spend a scant €15 for two people. Jack’s nose is yearning to smell the bouquet of the featured wines at Ponte Simone. We both have saved up our pennies for a night out at Tãwa, the glorious sushi restaurant, in Piazza Roma.
Do I sound homesick? I am, I am! Soon we will be back home in Pontelandolfo and I can’t wait.
Will we see you there? In 2025 we have two incredible opportunities for you to become a part of our village. Cook in the Kitchens of Pontelandolfo – May 17th to the 24th or September 6th to the 13th! This yummy program has been bringing smiles to the faces of culinary adventurers since 2016. (Not bragging, but last year we got a tourism award.) Check out the videos on the website – lots of food, laughter, and community. Then register and join the fans.
Follow your Creative Muse to Pontelandolfo
Our newest adventure is literally literature. Toss your laptop in a bag and participate in our 2025 Writers’ Refuge in the Sannio Hills. This Writer’s Retreat runs from June 21 to June 28th. Authors can soak up the atmosphere and work on their craft with Amy Scott of Scott Editorial.
All of the adventures start with a bar crawl. ‘Midge, Midge,” you are thinking, “a bar crawl is soooo sophomoric.” Nah! It is anything but sophomoric. What an incredible way to explore different parts of the village, meet locals and gain an understanding of village life.
Our very first group of writers joined the village in 2024. Playwrights organized by the New Jersey non profit – Write Where You Are. They wrote. They flourished. They conquered.
In the spring, summer and fall of 2024 our house in the hills was rocking with out of towners. For ten years, we asked, cajoled, begged and pleaded family and friends to please come and visit us in Pontelandolfo. Hardly anyone did. As years passed, no one did. This past year everyone did. We were so booked that we had a paper calendar on the kitchen wall with days blocked off and names scribbled in, scribbled out and new ones scribbled in. I felt like our door was not just revolving but always open.
Shut the door you’re letting the flies in. Shut the door you’re letting the cold in.
That said, we were happy to have a full house. We saw people we hadn’t seen in years. Catching up is always fun. I hope this summer we get just as many guests.
What an enormous bugia! Most days I was happy to have a full house. Other days, I took my computer and hid in a bar.
Come on Midge, every experience no matter how frustrating is an opportunity to learn. I learned that there is a lot to learn. Having all these folks passing through and me shaking my head like an insane Auntie M, I realized that there were things that guests, retreat participants, culinary tourists and everyone who visits us needed to know.
One of Jack’s cousins suggested I was doing my readers a disservice by not sharing my incredible knowledge of random and useless facts about traveling. She encouraged me to come up with a list of Ten Things Tourists and Guests coming to Pontelandolfo need to know. This suggestion was given after I looked at her with a raised eyebrow and said, you don’t have a debit card? How could you come to Europe and not have a debit card? Gulp, I need to work on may people skills.
Deciding to take the task seriously, and with her input, I riffed on things I noticed people having a problem with. Ta, da – Here is my arbitrary and lightly sarcastic list of Ten Things Tourists Need to Know:
No one here wants your American dollars. Even the local banks don’t want to exchange your dollars for euros. Unless you are washing your cash, why would you bring a sack of dollars? Bring a sack of euros. Stuff them in your bra. That’s what I do. When in Italy use euros. The 1950s ugly American idea that the entire world craves “American Money” is over. About 25 years ago, my father joined us on an excursion to Pontelandolfo. He knew that the kids in our extended family were in college so he brought a stack of $50 bills to give as gifts. Every single kid said thank you, looked at the bill, looked at me and raised an eyebrow. Unless you were in a big city there was no way to change the dollars.
2. Make sure you have a working debit card. With a debit card you can go to any automatic teller machine and get the best exchange rates on the currency of the country you are visiting. I take that back. Only go to bank automatic teller machines not the ones named after someone’s pet cat. When you get a debit card or if you have one but haven’t used it out of the country, call your bank and make sure it works abroad. I had a panicked cousin who had just gotten a debit card and discovered it would’t work anywhere but at her bank. An irate call to the bank unearthed that the card didn’t work because it wasn’t a debit/credit card. She ended up borrowing euros.
3. Beware of the seemingly friendly offer to charge you for your purchase on line, in a store and/or at an automatic teller machine in US dollars. You will be screwed on the exchange rate. Make sure you click euros. Your bank will do the exchange at a better rate.
4. Use your credit card not your debit card to buy stuff. Credit cards in a store or restaurant provide a more secure way to shop. Credit card companies will usually refund, cancel and harness the creeps who steal your info. This advice does not come from me. I can barely add. It comes from my banker and numerous articles I’ve read from credible sources. And, some cretin did steal my credit card number and used the card/number to buy breakfast everyday at the same bar in Campobasso. Yes, they were caught and yes, my bank handled everything.
5. Please don’t be a creepy traveler (especially in Pontelandolfo where I know everyone) and use a credit card in a small local caffe or shop for a cup of coffee and a biscotti. My personal guideline is if it is less than €25 I pay in cash.
6. Double check all the adapters for your electronic devices. Not every country abroad has the same plug configuration. “What, I used this in Germany, why the @$#% doesn’t it work in Italy.” Because you are in Italy not Germany. Depending on where you are, it might be difficult to get the correct adapter.
7. Make sure your bags make it directly to your final destination. Airline and airport blues make the beginning of your trip a nightmare. Guests have told me that they missed flights to Naples because they had to get their checked bags in another European country and go through control again before boarding their flight to Naples. I then ask the same question. Were you flying on two different airlines? Don’t. For example, we would fly Lufthansa from Newark, New Jersey to Naples, Italy. We changed planes in Frankfurt. Our bags came all the way through to Naples. If we had flown airline A from the USA to the EU and then a different airline to our final destination, the odds are we would have had to get our bags and schlepp them to the second airline. Double check when booking your flight. I always ask, ”the bags go all the way through, correct.” Yes, I book flights on line but being anal, I also call the airlines.
8. Pack less not more. Jack just asked, how do you know what you need until you get there. Jack also said, if you forget something you can buy it. Sigh. I tend to overpack or rather over pile stuff on the bed and then toss out half. Packing cubes are incredible. I’ve got both compression and regular cubes. Sorting your clothes can be particularly useful if you are moving from city to city. I sort, because my type A personality likes clothes organized by type. Ladies, gulp, maybe it is because I am in my third act, but I discovered that sanitary napkins are a life saver on many counts. I am able to wear a pair of trousers more days using sanitary napkins. (Shhhh, that is a secret.)
9. Make sure you have a working phone. Don’t cheap out and think you can just keep your phone in airplane mode and/or just use wi-fi. We have had folks stranded at the train station with no way to contact us. When you are in a Wi-Fi zone it is easy to use free services – like Apple to Apple texting and FaceTime. Many Italians, us included, use WhatsApp. WhatsApp is even used by doctors and businesses here. For clarity of sound, I’ve discovered that Facebook messenger is incredible for calling pals in the USA. Again, don’t only rely on Wi-Fi as your only means of communication. Pay the fee to have international access or buy a SIM card wherever you are. A digital warrior who lives here has another hack. She bought a rechargeable portable hotspot. Hence, WiFi everywhere she goes.
10. This is a biggy. Make sure your passport is up to date and doesn’t expire within a three month window of your trip. I have no idea why that rule exists. Could someone explain it to all of us? It seems to me, something expires when it expires but who am I to have an opinion. A young relative of mine slated to visit us last year, discovered his passport would be in the unusable two month window. He had to fly to another state to go to an in-person passport center and get his new passport in one day. Yikes! Though, thinking about it, not being able to get home might start a new adventure.
NOW LET’S TALK ABOUT COMING TO PONTELANDOLFO THIS YEAR!
Cooking in the Kitchens of Pontelandolfo is a magical experience that started in 2016. Last year we even won an award. We have a session in May and another in September.
2025 Writers’ Refuge in the Sannio Hillsis our second writer’s retreat. Last year Pontelandolfo hosted playwrights who raved about the experience. This June, creative writers are encouraged to spend time with us.
Duh! How could I forget. Bam! I did forget. Yesterday, January 6th I was in Piazza Roma trying to get to the doctor’s office first thing. He was closed. WHAT – the farmacia was closed. What is going on?
I walked into our house at about 9:30 AM and there on an end table near the “Jack chair” sat a bright read sack filled with candy. Turning, nestled in the chair I always curl up in, I spied a second red sack. More candy! Then it hit me – La Befana was here. We must have both been very good. Besides candy, both our bags included a bottle of an adult beverage.
Grazie La Befana (or bestie pal Nicola who tiptoed in with the stash). Growing up in rural agrarian Somerset County, New Jersey, LaBefana was not part of the landscape. The first time I heard about this sprightly old woman who brings candy to those who are good and carbone to the wicked was about 20 years ago. I saw, in an Italian book store, what I thought were kitchen witches. Or simply strega, like the witches of Benevento. Picking one up and glancing through the accompanying book I realized that La Befana was as important a part of the Christmas story as the three kings. She never did find the baby Jesus but every Epiphany she searches for and finds Italian children all over the world.
Her determination, working against the odds of her life, great choice of tattered togs and fearless nature has endeared her to me. It has been an interesting journey following the Epiphany celebrations. In Venice a cotillion of gondolas float by, each piloted by La Befana. In Alghero, Sardegna we saw La Befana effigies hung on very light post. In Rome’s Piazza Navona, one can find La Befana making appearances. Urbania, in the region of Marche, purports to be the official home of La Befana. (I think the woods behind our house in Flagtown, NJ were really her home. Just kidding.) Every year folks come to Urbania and watch La Befana fly down from the town’s bell tower.
Morcone, my other favorite paese in the Sannio Hills, had an incredible calendar this January. La Befana, on stilts, paraded down the street followed by musicians sporting traditional instruments. There was a marvelous mercatino.
Did I mention the elves?
The most astounding thing that happens in Morcone is a living nativity – Presepe Vivente. It is the best community involved theater I have ever seen. After wandering through the historic center redone as Bethlehem, one walked down to a huge field to see Mary, Joseph and baby Jesus find shelter. The three kings are there but La Befana never made it. I made the following video in 2018. Every year the spectacular gets better and better.
I was so taken with the fable that one year I put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and – if I do say so myself- a charming contemporary play featuring this feisty character leaped into the page.
Mamma Mia – La Befana?! weaves the ancient Italian Epiphany tale, La Befana, into a contemporary American setting. Could the fun loving sixty-something Nonna from Florida really be the thousands of years old scruffy old woman who on January 5th delivers gifts to the good children and coal to the bad? The answer becomes evident as Nonna/Befana uses her holiday magic to find her lost and injured granddaughter, Mary.
Shazam- the magic continues- Mamma Mia La Befana?! Was published by Next Stage Press. It is a perfect piece for a theater’s or school’s holiday season. Just as La Befana zaps around the world, I would be thrilled to see this play zoom to a theater near you.
Share this play with a pal.
Auguri! May 2025 be a happy, healthy and creative year. I know La Befana will never leave you coal.
This year we are celebrating the holidays in the Sannio Hills of Southern Italy. The house is ablaze with lights. Thanks to our talented landlord, there is even a 20 foot tall Italian flag that seems to billow in the breeze. Inside, with the pellet fire roaring and a single malt to sip, I’ve been ensconced in a comfy chair binge reading a series by Carlen O’Connor. The books set in a small Irish village made me realize that village life, wherever your village is, has a similarity. People taking care of each other. Holiday events filling calendars. Decorations making every village even more beautiful. Scents of baking, prepping and bubbling fill kitchens. The shops are stocked with “must have” new goods and their instagram feeds are bursting with photos. We are blessed to live in such a village.
Is everything perfect? Nah. That charming roaring pellet fire is our boiler. That means freezing or filling the pellet stove with 30 pound bags of pellets, cleaning the pellet stove and dragging the ash vacuum outside to empty; cursing at the error 12 on the freakin’ pellet stove; searching for that wool sweater that we (Jack) swore he left here; and of course seeing mountains of baccalà in every market and enough delectable sweets to keep me lying on the couch binging holiday movies for weeks. Sounds terrible – not! Yes, there is snow on the mountain peaks. Yes, the wind is whipping in the Sannio Hills. Yes, our cheeks are rosy. AND YES this little village is full of happiness, good cheer and enriching our lives.
Village life and Pontelandolfese have warmed my soul. Nicola makes sure the too heavyfor me to even drag bags of pellets are near our door. Lina arrived with enough homemade pasta for me to freeze for Christmas Day. Adele dropped everything when I had a WHOA was that an earthquake vertigo attack and quickly got me into see a specialist. Our car was in the shop for 7 days – don’t ask. Alessio has turned his free time into “drive Midge wherever she needs to go time.” Other people hearing through the village network that our car was on the fritz, offered to drag our butts wherever we needed to be.
Starting with the December 8th lighting of the Christmas lights in Piazza Roma, we have been out and about enjoying the season. Pontelandolfo, as I’ve bellowed from the rooftops before, is full of creative and energetic folks who produce events, art, and cultural happenings. Check out the calendar –
This holiday season enjoy your village, wherever you are. Spread the good cheer, love and peace that warms the hearts of others. Buon Natale! Buona Feste!
PS. La Befana arrives during epiphany bringing candy or coal to Italian Children throughout the world. Take a peek at the play I wrote. It is available through Next Stage Press. Mamma Mia, La Befana??!!
One blustery Saturday night, the theater in Pontelandolfo was full. Men and women of all ages braved the cold to see a production developed by two amazing women, Michela Delli Veneri and Fiorella De Michele. Posters for Conto su di Me – Libere e Vivere had been zapping around social media and tacked up everywhere. I had no idea what to expect. The one thing I did know, was that Michela and Fiorella, both powerful women, would present something professional and relevant. Nestling into my seat, I looked around and noticed the hand made signs surrounding the space – My Body My Choice”, “Non Una di Meno”, “no è no” “Girl Power “.
Women Can Do Anything
Reading the signs triggered a response this 75 year old woman didn’t anticipate – sadness. Silently, tears dribbled down under my glasses. Didn’t we march for these same thoughts and rights when I was a girl? How many generations of women need to be treated like chattel? How long will society allow the minimization of women? Suddenly, I realized I was going to be in for a roller coaster ride of a production.
The multi media event was well developed and staged. This wasn’t a pound the idea on your head lecture but a thought provoking presentation that coupled actresses with real psychologists. The theme – Economic Abuse of Women. When I heard that, I thought equal pay for equal work or how to crack the glass ceiling. After seeing the performance I realized, economic abuse by one’s partner is horrific on both an emotional and physical level. Frankly, I was embarrassed that I had never realized holding back and controlling money was a form of abuse. I should have realized it. Having grown up in house full of tears, shouts and begging for love. Money, or the lack of it, was an embarrassing topic. My parents separated when I was about 11. Dad was caught “in the cookie jar” and mom was – well not very stable. Being the obnoxious child in our family, it was my job to go and “ask” my father for money. Mom, my sister and I were often just making do. My lack of patience and pushiness may be learned behavior. I learned how to be tenacious. One event that crushed me was my eight grade dance. After my asking dad for the money for a new dress and getting turned down, I was decimated when my younger sister came home from school crying and told me that a boy in her class whose mom was a ‘good pal’ of my dad’s just got an expensive train set from our father. I didn’t call it economic abuse – I was 14 – but after seeing this show, I realized that causing that kind of pain is indeed a form of abuse.
The staging was interesting. An actress would enter the set and tell their story. Then, the psychologists would either interact with the actress or talk about the case. The psychologists were wonderful performers in their own rights. I felt as though I was part of a group session and was throughly engaged. One scene that obviously tugged on my heart opened with a mom and son going to see a therapist. As the little boy was in his session, the mom shared her grief at not being allowed to use any money – money her husband earned – to pay for the boy to participate in a traditional dance company. Obviously the mom didn’t have money of her own. The arguments that the boy witnessed included screaming, pushing and threats. The husband would not give up a penny for this child to join the other children in the village and dance. Yes, they could afford it. He controlled the money – period. That seems like such a small thing but the impact on both the mom and the child was incredible. The dad was so controlling. The money was being withheld as a method of controlling and punishment. Damn, I had been there.
Always having worked and maintaining my own bank accounts, it took a while for me to understand the stories of women who were totally dependent upon their partners. Stranded at home without cars, driver’s licenses or any form of recreation that wasn’t blessed by the king of the house put women in dangerous positions. The psychologists brought the truth of this battering home for me.
Media, music, monologues and scenes seamlessly worked together to further the theme. I hope the young women I saw in the audience realized, they are in control of their destiny. I hope the young men in the audience learned that men who promulgate any kind of physical, emotional or economic violence against women are cretins. ( I wanted to use really bad words here about abusive men – FFFFFFbomb ASSSSSSh#$#^$.)
Nonna's Mulberry Tree 