On Buttonholes and Green Carnations

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When Are You Going to Write About Us?I have been asked more than once—and not entirely in jest—by the students of one of my classes: When? It’s a fair question. It has been a couple of years since I last wrote anything. On second thought, that last post was something of a curse. It was about how I deviously and joyfully abandoned one faith (Catholicism) for another (my football team, S.S. Lazio), and since then, my inspiration has vanished. Yes, it has been like a curse. But I must overcome this.

Actually, the more I think about it, the less I find to say about this class—not because I lack inspiration. They are a boisterous, impish, cunning bunch, but I must confess, they are also one of the best classes I have ever had, if not the best. So, I find myself torn: should I write something to leave to posterity? A memory of us? Something to be engraved in stone? I just need the right episode. Let me think.

A few weeks ago, while chatting about Oscar Wilde, I mentioned in Italian that “Oscar Wilde era solito mettere un garofano nella sua asola e così anche il suo chauffeur”—a harmless sentence, or so I thought. It simply meant that Oscar Wilde used to put a green carnation in his buttonhole, and even his chauffeur did the same. But the sudden silence that followed alerted me. It wasn’t interest in the anecdote; they just hadn’t understood a word. In one sentence, three words were missing from their vocabulary: asola, garofano, and chauffeur.

I also discovered that the sentence was less cryptic in its original English. A buttonhole is clearly the place for a button, but in Italian, if you don’t know what an asola is, you’re out of luck—no clues from the word’s roots or Latin origins. A comodino might sound cozy, like slippers, but its English equivalent, night table, is beautifully clear: a table you need at night, likely beside your bed, not in the kitchen.

In this respect, English is far more approachable than Italian.

It’s a fact: the average number of words known and used by adolescents today is shrinking dramatically. Just a few days ago, in another class, I discovered that the word emancipation was unknown to them. I could go on with more examples.

Having a limited vocabulary means being unable to fully grasp the complexity of a text. Add to this the modern habit of quickly scrolling through information on phones, often from dubious sources suggested by wicked algorithms. So, if this is how things stand, what happens when we are called to make important decisions, as we were just over a month ago, in a referendum?

On March 22–23, 2026, Italian citizens voted in a confirmatory constitutional referendum on the “Nordio Reform,” which aimed to separate the career paths of judges and prosecutors, split the High Council of the Judiciary (CSM) into two bodies, and change member selection to sortition. The previous year, another referendum included five abrogative questions focused on labor market regulations and citizenship, aiming to strengthen workers’ rights regarding dismissals and reduce the citizenship residency requirement from ten to five years.

My point is this: if simple words like buttonhole, carnation, chauffeur, or emancipation can limit understanding of a text, what happens when we are asked to vote on complex issues?

So, if a simple sentence about Oscar Wilde’s green carnation can leave a class of bright, curious students bewildered, what hope is there for the rest of us when faced with the dense, jargon-filled texts of a referendum? How can we expect informed, thoughtful decisions when the very words that frame the debate are as foreign as Sanskrit to a room full of teenagers?

Perhaps the real question is not when I will write about this class, but how—how to capture the paradox of a generation that is sharp, quick, resourceful, yet often adrift in a sea of words they no longer recognize. And if this is the level of comprehension we bring to the ballot box, then we aren’t voting with awareness; we’re voting blindly, guided by bias, instinct, or worse, sheer ignorance.

Young Miss Tink’s Break with the Church of Rome

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After I graduated I was so lucky to win a scholarship for Dublin University. I say lucky, as I don’t actually know how my name happened to be among the 10 Italians who won that year. My dissertation wasn’t even about an Irish author, but I won. Apart from flight, tuition fees, the accommodation by an Irish family was included. I have to say from the very first impact, that the Irish appeared to be a particularly welcoming, kind, sort of people and the family I was assigned to even kinder, if possible. Another thing I noticed when I entered that house was that religion mattered, and a lot.  In fact, while the landlady was showing  me around,  the great deal of sacred images hanging here and there couldn’t but come to my attention; even in the bathroom, I swear. It seemed we were never alone, HE was following us wherever we went.

I also sensed that I was taken into particular consideration compared to the other two girls that were hosted along with me: another Italian and a Dutch. At meal time I enjoyed bigger portions, if I had a wish it was always fulfilled, I was given the best of the best,  but why ? It couldn’t be my being Italian, as there was the Italian girl from Bologna too. One day, from something our mistress had hinted, I suddenly understood : I came from Rome, that was my wild card ! The lovely lady had somewhat associated my birthplace and myself to the Vatican and the Head of the Catholic Church. In a way, I was the closest person to the Pope she had ever met. My being Roman and living in Rome made me …”special”. She couldn’t know to what a snake she had given her warm undeserved attentions, but she was to discover soon. At the end of the first week, in fact, when she asked me if I wanted to join her for Sunday mass, I said with a faint and slightly guilty voice: ” I…..I’m sorry, but I do not profess ….. I am agnostic “. She paused and looked at me in a way as if she had seen me for the first time. Then, she put on her hat, smiled gently and popped out. She kept being nice, for sure, but something had broken between us. 

The point is that my relationship with religion has always been troublesome since…. ever. All the catholic architecture has never had a hold on me and my being inquisitive has always found religious dogmatism unsupportable. I still remember my dear aunt Mimma, one day, after one of those sermons of mine, which wilfully aimed at mining her certainties of good catholic woman, had eventually enough of  my profane words and went like:

Auntie😵 : ” If there is a hell, you’ll go straight down there, when your time comes!”😤

Little MissTink : ” You see? You said “if”! IF !!!There is doubt in you”!!😈

Auntie: 😭

There were two days of the week I particularly loathed when I was a girl: Friday and Sunday. On Fridays good catholic families were not used to eating  meat, but fish. So, every Friday my mother’s menu consisted in either boiled cod or (even worse)  brain.  I guess the reason why my mother kept stuck to this rule was not religious orthodoxy but rather she thought it was the kind of food that could have made me become smarter, so, two birds with one stone. No need to say that I found both boiled cod and brain repulsive. I actually believed that there was a reason why Saturday was placed between Friday and Sunday : first of all to make me recover from the disgust of Friday’s diet and then to find the strength to face what was for me Sunday’s punishment: Sunday mass. I had done whatever was in the powers of  a child to skip that weekly appointment for years : faking  sickness, crying, threatening and more, but eventually the squabble always came to an end  with me reluctantly pulled by an arm in tears and taken to church. This every Sunday.

My mother and I came to a truce on the occasion of my Holy Communion. I had become milder about church-going and I even attended months and months of catechism classes for one major reason which had nothing to do with religion: the dress. I was attracted to the idea of wearing that white dress and that made me more yielding, but after my Holy Communion reception, as there was no other reason to go to church wearing that virginal dress, the fights started over again.

I was eleven when a memorable event happened . My mother and I were at church and I remember the mass being more boring than usual. Insupportably boring. That priest had been talking and talking what was nonsense to me, for …how long? It seemed hours. I felt I had reached the limit of my forbearance and finding myself unable to restrain my intolerance, I exploded saying something that wanted to be heard and unheard at the same time, as what remained of my sanity made me fully aware that consequences to my words would have been inevitable:

Young Miss Tink: “Che palle!” (That sucks!) 😤😤😤😨

She had heard⚡ ⚡⚡. My mother looked at me and said nothing. She looked at me and I am sure I saw the green of her eyes turn black. What could I do? I prayed! I prayed like an angel for rest of the mass. I prayed like I had never done before, always checking with the corner of my eyes if that was enough to see that green again in her eyes. No way. I was doomed. As soon as we left church, out of the blue, she slapped me in my face, which made my lip bleed as she was wearing a big ring.

I didn’t cry and she didn’t say a word; but that event put an end to my church-going, or better, to our church-going, because this story took the most unexpected turn. 

As we didn’t go to church any longer, we had the Sundays free, so, well, I don’t know how, but it was decided to embrace another faith, my father’s faith, that is: football. We became devoted to S.S. Lazio, after all the pattern is the same : choirs, anthems, sanctification of the players, people gathering etc. .The stadium had become our new church and every Sunday we followed the team wherever they played, whether it was Rome or other places in central Italy – the team at the time wasn’t very good as they stalled in second division . We also made new proselytes among our relatives living in Rome and in the other regions nearby. They didn’t care much about S.S. Lazio, actually, but the Sunday match had become the occasion for us to meet and visit beautiful towns all together.  I have splendid memories of that time. 

Growing for me has been nothing but losing “faiths”, I have to say, but still there is one that survives, very childish indeed, I know : my team and I am confident it will stay with me forever. I have no doubts about it.

The Realm of Women

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The world used to be simpler once. It is a matter of fact that as you grow older your certainties gradually need an upgrade if you want to keep up with times. Let’s talk about genders, for example. For a long time of my life I was convinced that there were just two: male and female. I was wrong. It is incorrect.  In fact, I have learnt advancing in years that there are more: transgender, gender-fluid, non-binary and I am afraid I am missing many others. Nonetheless, despite this colourful world out there, there is one place, which remains  grey.  A place where even the old tedious male/female dualism struggles to survive and I am talking about – guess what? – school. Women are on average  the 80-85% of the teaching force in Italy, hence, school has become de facto the realm of women. But, is this constant feminization of school a good thing? As, of course, the female gender distinctive traits cannot but characterize the work environment eventually, but, who is going to balance them?

One of the female  features which has been clearly affecting school in recent years is the so called “maternage” attitude, which tends to enhance the idea that teaching consists mostly in protecting, justifying and understanding. This is what mothers do. More than once I have found myself being  told by  colleagues, that as I have no children, I might be unable to understand a particular psychological condition that a student may suffer. What ticks me off is not only the lack of delicacy, as they cannot know the reason why I didn’t have children – I didn’t want them, for the record – but the assumption that to do this job well, you have to be a mother. Well, I firmly believe that it is exactly the other way round, as mothering is not part of this job. Teaching is a completely different kind of occupation. The custom of associating mothering to teaching  generates only chaos,  as the boundaries of teachers’ and parents’ duties are too often blurred in this way.

Think it well, for teachers  being maternal is much simpler, as giving rules and have them followed, educating, testing, grading  and such, is what makes us all enter into fighting mode against  parents, admin and students in this precise order and it may be the cause of lots of troubles. Mothers/teachers’ approach is warmer and apparently smooth. So, if Paolino often misses classes, mothers/teachers become his shadow and inform the family about it (despite the glorious invention of the electronic register);  if Paolino does not come to take the test, they check if on those days there were maybe too many tests, and make sure he will come next time,  usually promising a less demanding scenario;  if Paolino while smoking in the toilet sets the school on fire, they try to understand what brought Paolino to act like this (and they’d better find something solid, as someone let him go in there and it usually ends up being teachers’ fault too). Eventually, because of this mothering attitude students are never to be blamed, (real) parents are never responsible and teachers…..keep complaining, but who is the cause of all this mess?

It is a truth universally acknowledged that women are not good at teaming, and school is the sheer demonstration of this statement. I know, it is such a clichés, and I am sure there are excellent exceptions somewhere, and I have even met some, but, this is just a general rule which derives from experience and observation. The fact that women are not good at team working has been explained anthropologically, pointing out that teaming is in men’s DNA since the beginning of times. Men were in charge of the sustainment of the tribe and went all together on hunting trips or to make war. Playing  team games is something you have learnt since boyhood, while for girls things have always been a bit different. I need a metaphor, girls have always developed a sort of…..  “etoile” attitude.  

In short, while it is natural for the group of males  to develop a strategy together in order to provide food/victory, because they’ve learnt to understand the advantages of being part of a group in order to survive, women, having been raised as etoiles, enjoy dancing solos, that is,  they aim at being admired for their qualities or skills. They want to be protagonists, but what happens when a group of etoiles is in charge of planning a common development strategy? I leave that to your imagination. Who is used to working/playing in a team knows that success lies in  confiding in the most valiant actors and in the leader, and here is another distinctive female trait :  women struggle in recognizing the leadership of another woman.  The little etoile inside us means to be the star of the show and wants to lead the dance. Get in her way and she’ll trip you. This is how school dynamics work. Lots of solos, even good ones, but when the exhibition ends, nothing more remains. The residual 15% of men in the teaching force does not even try – remember, as a general rule – to change this trend. They mostly choose the convenient role of spectators or, much worse, start to learn ballerinas’ steps.

At this point a good question would be: what prevents men from choosing the teaching career ? Well, it obvious, the salary is not attractive, that is all. While on the other side, women find the working hours attractive, which allow them to perform the duties and responsibilities of being a daughter, a mother or a grandmother. This means that many of us have chosen to be teachers to have more time to do…… something else. If it is so, couldn’t that be reason why the salary is so low?  Don’t you suspect that men’s underrepresentation in the profession is one of the reasons why a teacher salary can be kept so low?  We need more men. It is time to admit it and  only a pay bump could spur a virtuous cycle, thus drawing a greater representation of men in the profession. School cannot be the realm of women forever, it doesn’t work and we all know it well.  

Christmas Lights

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I love Christmas trees. I can feel a sort of magic in their glow, a charm which has the power to revive my childish spirit, the one which still looks in wonder at the myriads colourful lights and baubles hanging from the branches. It  also brings back memories of my past, the majority of which, I have to say, are indissolubly linked to my father.  He loved this time of the year so much. Christmas decorations were his seasonal pastime and he was very meticulous in his creative act indeed. It took him days to study all the mechanisms of the nativity scene and find the best spot to place it, but he mostly excelled in making Christmas trees. They were real artworks. When I was a little girl I enjoyed watching him being intent in giving life to what I interpreted to be the spirit of Christmas.  I loved it so much that when I became old enough I was happy to share this family tradition with him and in time I  found myself preserving it for him. When I turned on the lights, the magic always worked as I could still see a joyful sparkle appear in his old dark eyes. It is no wonder that he decided to leave us on Christmas Day. It seems it couldn’t have been otherwise.

Yet, I never associate Christmas to sad events, and I would have more than one reason to do it, I can assure you,  as for some strange twist of fate, catastrophes and tragedies  have always happened during Christmas time in my life. And do you know why? Because that magic still has a hold on me. Every year when I  start to make my Christmas tree  the amazing charm of the lights seems to silence sorrows and bad memories are obscured for a while by their joyous twinkling. This is what I call the Christmas spirit. 

Hence, I want to turn on the lights of my  Christmas tree and share their powers with you, wishing you happiness and joy. At least for a while. Merry Christmas.

On WhatsApp and …Wisdom

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The fact that I wrote about a brand new class only after a couple of months of their acquaintance and nothing about the other one of the same age – another group of people of a peculiar kind I have been with for 5 long years that we’ll identify as 5Afb –  has aroused some sort of stupor among them; I guess because they found themselves unexpectedly stripped of the coveted title of “weirdos” mostly. Actually, it seemed pretty incredible that this event could ever happen, but it did. So, having the 5Afb been definitely surpassed by 5(I)D on matter of weirdness and desiring to make things even writing something worthy of 5Afb, I found myself running short of ideas. After all, you cannot write on command. But, one day, something epiphanic came in help.

The occasion was an unmissable training course given by the formidable Mr Cross, a former magistrate, deputed to updating  school staff  on the matter of norms, about the dangers of the usage of WhatsApp in class and in particular as means of communication with students. After more than an hour of endless boredom 🥱 Mr Cross came up with an incredible story which he thought to be pretty convincing:

Mr Cross:  ” It is absolutely not recommended the usage of WhatsApp  with students, hence, I wish to tell this story to dissuade you once and for all from using it for any school activity. So, listen carefully. I have been told that a student texted his teacher demanding if he could skip the test the following day and she replied he could not. The following day, as he was unprepared, he was given a bad mark. His parents read that conversation and sued the teacher for sexual harassment”.

Teachers : 😮😮😮😮😮

Mrs Tink ( texting a colleague) “If this is a real story, I guess there must be some parts missing!! How did we go from test to sex I can’t make it out”.😕

Nonetheless, despite the anecdote was absurd, it stirred something in my conscience and I found myself wondering  about the massive usage of WhatsApp I usually have with my students, which, in a word, I could actually define ….over-the-top. I know, it was only five years ago when I pontificated urbi et orbi about the joys of disconnection, but in five years a lot has changed, there has been a pandemic and communication via WhatsApp has become vital…..and fun. It was exactly during this thorough examination that some episodes about the 5Afb in question came up to my mind.

But first of all I have to spend a few  words on the general demeanour of this class. Their weirdness has always consisted in the fact that since early days almost all of them seemed to have joined the school by a twist of fate. To be more specific, their attitude has been for long that of a bunch of youngsters who are at a football stadium and the very moment their favourite player is about to kick an important penalty, for some sort of magic, they find themselves in a class while Mrs Tink is explaining the wonders of the Present Continuous tense. I still have this impression from time to time when I look them in the eyes. They are addicted to football and this is truth we have to deal with every day.

During the pandemic I even found myself in charge of the coordination of all the activities of the 5Afb, bureaucratic stuff  in particular, and on that occasion it was clear to me they all had trouble in responding effectively to the word “deadline”. Every time I needed some papers and I set a specific deadline, if  it was a good day, I had 2 in 22.  Words were totally useless, hence, I thought about using the figurative, primitive but impactful way of communication that WhatsApp  emoticons can offer. I actually used three of them  in particular, according to my level of anger and  consequent danger for them:

☠️:  You did something wrong! Watch out! I am ticked off! There will be consequences (but in a way you still have a chance of redemption).

⚰️: Your time for redemption is running short, in fact, I am just about to seal the lids of your coffins ( I usually texted a sequence of coffins according to the number of those who had not accomplished their tasks)

🪦: Non matter what you mean to do. It’s over. Fertig. Fini. Finito. Tomorrow we will settle up (sequence of gravestones followed).

Well, it worked and it was fun. They have become soldiers in matter of deadlines, I have to say.  I still every now and then text a skull, just to see how and whether they react, and they do (very childish of me, I know).

Mts Tink :☠️

5Afb : “What have we done, now?”🥶🥶🥶

But, I couldn’t help but wonder during that training course, what if one parent had stumbled across that group chat? The kind of parent Mr Cross’s story was about? I would have offered my head on a silver platter, especially if one wanted wilfully to misunderstand tones and intentions. So, I resolved upon being definitely more careful in the future. Hence, still full of concerns, I decided to test the waters telling the class Dr Cross’s tale and comparing it to our skull/coffin/gravestone episodes (and more🤦) to have a good laugh and check their reaction at the same time. While they were listening to this crazy story, I could see their faces enlighten and their smiles take the form of a smirk. Then, after a while, one of those “impostors”, a bold one, took the floor hinting darkly that in due time I might as well get a skull one day in remembrance of those “good” old times.

5Afb : ” Before the exams in June it would be a good timing, wouldn’t  it?😇😇😇

Mrs Tink: 😈“ You won’t live that long”.🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦🪦

“The Best of Our Breed”

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This year I have a brand  new class, let’s call it….5(I)D. It is the conclusive year, so when you take a class at this stage, it is like adopting a full grown up child: the room for action is quite thin. Nonetheless, I could not resist the allure of 5(I)D as soon as I learnt about its existence. Why? Well, because it is a small group, very small, a selected one, apparently. Hence, I did whatever it was in my power to come into possession of this rare gem. The reviews about the 5(I)D were not that inviting, actually, but rather ” bizarre” I would say, and, strange indeed, there was not a single voice to controvert them. Yet, I was not in the least intimidated, after all, for someone like myself who has had the fortune of working in both the best and the worst school in Rome and nearby, how could these young scoundrels be of any problem? So, even when fate seemed to have taken a different turn, as I was informed that the principal had planned to direct me to another class, I headed straight to her office and said decidedly : I WANT THE 5(I)D. And so, I had it. 

Well, I couldn’t believe my eyes, when I first saw them – we are talking about adolescents of 18/19 years old – as before me there was displayed the most incredible bunch of weirdos grouped all together as I had never seen before. Apparently,  they didn’t – and don’t – seem to respond to the norms of proper behaviour to be followed in class, or better, they do respond, till their basic needs come pressing such as: watching or even answering the cell phone ( “May I? You know, it’s really important”), eating ( “God, I was starving”), talking  loud ( “But , we were just discussing about what you’ve just said) , sleeping ( at least they are silent) , fixing makeup and…. having breakfast .

This is a typical scene at around 8:20 a.m.:

Curly boy : “Excuse me, Mrs Tink!”

Mrs Tink : ( while explaining and deluding herself into having caught his attention), “Do you have a question?”

Curly boy: “Yes, may I go to the bar? I haven’t had my breakfast yet and I’ m not feeling that well”.

Mrs Tink : “Of course”.

Yes, I say ” of course ” , which is of a caustic, sarcastic sort ( in the hope they will understand one day), of course you can go and have breakfast, of course you can a bite to your sandwich or fix your makeup along many other things while I am teaching a class. Of course. After all, do you think I should still explain what is right and what is wrong at their age, or sanction them? No way. All things considered, I never sense their way of behaving as a form of opposition, this is just what they are. If I may say so, this is a class where the “EGO” fails in balancing the urges of the “ID ”  and  the impositions of the ” SUPEREGO”.

So, when it was time to introduce  them to Freud’s tripartite theory of mind and apply it to the characters of Wuthering Heights, I decided to go just a little out of the box to catch their attention, thus using one of my tricks. 

On that occasion , I theatrically took my wallet out my bag and picked  a 50 euro note. I placed the note on the desk and I addressed them with the following words:

Mrs Tink:”Let’s figure that this note has slipped out of my bag. You know it is mine. You are alone; nobody can see you; I could never spot  you.  No cameras, no witnesses. Well, would you keep that note or would you return it to me?”

Curly boy : ( with no hesitation) “I would keep it! No doubt.“

Ginger girl: “Well, it depends!”

Mrs Tink: “On what?”

Ginger girl:  “Well, it depends on whether I like you or not!”

Mrs Tink: “And…. do I meet you approval? “

Ginger girl (blushes, mutters something indistinguishable I can’t understand, but I feel I’d better not investigate further).

Curly boy: (while trying to convince the others) “I would keep it, if she can’t spot me, I would keep it.”

Mrs Tink: “All right, let’s say, and I want to include myself in this, that we all would share the instinct of keeping that note for ourselves, so, what would prevent us from doing it? As I am truly confident that eventually you would hand it back to me.”

Curly boy: ” I would not!”

Hooded boy: ( reawakening from his torpor) “C’mon! If you knew to whom it belongs, you’d hand it back!

Mrs Tink: “So let’s say that either a moral imperative, Kant’ s moral law, might press you to give me back my note, or simply fear, the fear of being caught, as somebody might have seen you and report it to me. This would not be a crime, to be sure, but if I knew it, I would eventually  see the “culprit” with different eyes, wouldn’t I? So, this is how the superego works.”

Curly boy ( decidedly): “I would keep it, no way!”

Well, at least I had gained their attention. Eventually the bell rang, I put my 50 euros note back in my wallet and while I was heading to another class, I realized that I had left on the desk something more precious than money, that is, my packet of paprika flavoured crisps. I turned back, but I saw one guy running towards me holding my packet. He handed it to me smiling: ” You see? The superego is at work!!!” 

P.S. When I said I would have produced an article about them, they seemed to be very pleased about it and one went: ” I am surprised, it took you so long to write something about us” . I guess I’ll have material enough this year to develop a series.

The Ministry of Merit

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It’s been quite a while since I published my last post and it seems that a lot has changed. Most important of all, Mr Run is back to competition and to victory too; another school year has started and we may say that on-line learning is definitely dead; it has been a never ending summer here, no sign of Autumn yet, and  let me think, what else, oh yes, Giorgia Meloni is the new Italian Prime Minister, a woman, would you believe it?  This predictable outcome has been a terrible blow, a shock, for both Italian and foreign press. Since election day, the ghost of fascism has been evoked on papers constantly and the constitution of a new authoritarian regime with it. Well, I would like to tranquilize my readers that there is no such thing, or at least, nothing I am aware of at the moment. You should remember that this is the country of “The Leopard”, hence, everything seems change so that nothing actually changes, and, mark my words, this is one of those cases.

The fact that the press keep reminding us, with ominous tones, that Giorgia Meloni’s election happened  exactly 100 years  after Mussolini’s “ March on Rome”  has had only one consequence so far, that is, making everybody remember an event  nobody cares about at all or it was almost forgotten.  Now, thanks to this continuous bombing, we are able to promptly answer that the above mentioned event happened on October 28th, 1922, displaying the same degree of certainty and precision we may have when we are asked about our birthday.

I have to say that in these first days the new government seems to have been very much more occupied on rephrasing the name of Ministries, rather than organizing black shirt troops waving truncheons or exhuming the old racial laws, if these are the fears. Words are important to define politics, hence, the Ministry of Agriculture has become Ministry of Agriculture and Food Sovereignty, the Ministry of Economic Development is the Ministry of  “Made in Italy ” too and last but not least the Ministry of Education has become the Ministry of Education and Merit. ” Yes, Merit, here is the rub.

This latter has become the object of a harsh debate as you have to understand that “merit” has been for long, a word just whispered along school alleys and with trusted colleagues only, as “inclusion” has been the only religion to be practiced these years. In this inclusive school, teachers, endowed with super powers, employ any possible strategy so that learning goals can be achieved by EVERYBODY and  NOBODY is left behind. NO ONE is supposed to leave the school system without the necessary skills, thus  making sure that  the  school does not contribute to increase the differences in the perspective of success among individuals.  Of course, all this should be done demanding students the minimum effort at home and in class, without forgetting to be entertaining. Well, all this educational conduct has had a cost, as, to include EVERYBODY, there is only one recipe : lowering learning standards and objectives. There is no other way. There is no magic; and in so doing, we will deliberately exclude those who can aspire to a more solid education and in particular those who belong to the lower classes. 

It is hard to believe that in our competitive society, the importance of promoting merit is denied right in the place deputed to prepare the new generation to the upcoming challenges. Merit has become synonym of unfairness. Hence, the school is just a huge pool where everybody is expected to jump in, but there are no lanes, no rules, no training or coaches only some lifeguards. Just stay in, then, when it’s time to jump out, we will see.

I chose the metaphor of a swimming-pool on purpose, as I used to be a swimmer, and a good one too; but I was not that good at all styles. It was the task of my coach, through the right amount of work, to understand where I was more competitive, where I could have my chances of success and, eventually, after years of hard training it was clear that backstroke would be the answer, actually, I was better at swimming 200 mt  backstroke than 100 mt . That was my natural talent and there I could have found my reward, hence, I had to accept that in all the other styles I was just ok and nothing more. In that pool the lanes were divided according to merit and everybody worked hard in the hope to succeed in being  included in that one with the best swimmers one day. Nobody ever thought that the best ones should have swum a little slower so that anybody could join in, thus avoiding the risk of undermining their self-esteem.

That is why I applaud the choice of word, but this was the easy part. To give consequence to what promised, thus succeeding in reforming an obsolete and gangrenous system would be such an incredible achievement that could make me even vote Giorgia Meloni one day. After all, if she deverves it, why shouldn’t I do it?

Perturbation

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Love stories with a happy end follow more or less four/five main patterns. There are the fireworks of first sight love but also its reverse,  that is,  first sight hate,  in other words,  that kind of dislike that  grows into you and makes you forge a series of unmotivated prejudices on the object of your aversion only to discover  that aversion was actually love and you end up with the ring on your finger( Mr Run and I have been masters of this scheme). Then there are those who after  having been friend for long realize that that innocent feeling has actually turned into something more involving and completely new, or those who have lost, for some reasons, what they believed to be the love of their life and  fate gives them a second chance with the same person or another one. Think about it, these are the main patterns of the love stories  we enjoy reading, but what makes us prefer a novel to another with a similar storyline? What makes the difference? My answer is: nuances.  The ability of an author to understand and depict the nuances of characters thus showing with craft  their contradictions, weaknesses, depths, hopes and, of course, the accuracy of the context they are made interact in makes a huge difference. The multiple colours of those nuances are so marvellous that hook the readers’ minds forever. This is what  has made me, like many others, become  a “vestal “of Jane Austen and this is why I cannot stand  the way screen adaptations keep making havoc of those fine colours only to  produce dull grey  versions unworthy of such writer.

The peak in matter of screen adaptation quality for what concerns Jane Austen’s works was reached in 1995 with the release of iconic BBC Pride and Prejudice with the unforgettable couple Colin Firth/Jennifer Ehle  and the movie Persuasion with a super manly Ciarán Hind and a convincing Amanda Root. After that I have observed a slow and inexorable decline,  which has coincided with the first attempts to give a modern take to old Jane. I have nothing against modern interpretations of old classics, but  there should be a reason,  a message to convey, something that should  justify the necessity  of overturning what to my eyes represents perfection. Tell me, what is the point of transforming Mr Darcy into a sort of Heathcliff in 2005 successful version of Pride and Prejudice with Matthew Mc Fadyen  and Keira Knightley?  What does that walk on the moors at daybreak add to the story and why is Elizabeth awake at six o’clock in the morning? This choice has a great impact, I admit it, but it is so pointless and in a way overlooks Darcy’s  true self-controlled nature who would have never showed up in such a state , no matter how overwhelming his passion for his Lizzie might be.  And  talking about workout, why did Sally Hawking,  who acted as Anne Elliot in 2007 version of  Persuasion, have to run up and down Bath in search  of her Captain Wentworth? I guess they must have taken into consideration the ratio: 10 minutes run and 1 minute kiss. The director, in fact, thought it was a fabulous idea  to make the camera dwell on the two reunited lovers’ lips, when they were on the point of touching, for an endless embarrassing minute. Well, an entire minute is not romantic, it is just unbearably long!  Yet, these versions were, as Mr Darcy would say ,“tolerable”.

Nothing remarkable will I remember about 2020 Emma but the unnecessary scene when Anya-Taylor pulls up  her gown to warm up her butt by a fireplace. The cast was  wrong and  Mr Knightley too young. While watching the movie I couldn’t help but wonder: “have they read the book”? But in the case of the recent release of Persuasion on Netflix of one thing I am sure, if they have read the book – which I doubt, unless they got the abridged version – they have not understood it.

Anne Elliot is the most reserved  amongst Jane Austen’s heroines. Intelligent and endowed with  common sense,  a unique case in her family. At the age of 27 she is a spinster who  lives confined to the edge of society.  8 years before, Anne was persuaded  to refuse Captain Wentworth’s offer of marriage as he was not her station or rich enough and she regrets it.  After all this time Captain Wentworth returns a wealthy man and has in mind a mild revenge,  but he can’t perform it as he is still in love with her. Persuasion is, actually, a delicate story of second chances rich in tension as the two step by step discover they still have feelings for each other. It is built up in a sort of crescendo, whose climax is the Captain’s famous passionate letter: “I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever………”Can you hear the sighs at this point?

Dakota Johnson’s Anne Elliot is nothing of the kind. She is playful, outspoken and speaks wryly to the camera. She is used to drinking straight from the bottle, speaks loudly  and her behaviour is often inappropriate, in short, this Anne Elliot is somebody I don’t know. This “Fleabag” style of narration has nothing to do not only with the character itself but also with the conventions typical of Regency time. Deprived of all her nuances I found myself unable to find this modern Anne interesting and be involved in the story. Much of the fault lies on this new Captain Wentworth too. The chemistry between Cosmo Jarvis and Dakota Johnson, in fact,  is of that degree possible between a fennel and a potato – I can’t say who was the potato and who the fennel, but I hope I gave you an idea – . The acting was so poor that it was possible to detect a  certain inconsistency sometimes between words and body language,  that lack of empathy I normally see in my students when I give them lines they don’t fully understand. 

None of the side characters has been fully developed. They have been reduced to the role of puppets who seem to have lost their function in Austen’s original framework , that is,  revealing Anne’s character and growth when they interact with her. Anne’s friend in Bath has been cut off from the movie, for example. Very likely they have not understood that the very moment Anne rebels her father refusing to visit their aristocrat relations to visit her poor and sick friend is the sign of her change, an important development in her character. She won’t be any longer persuaded by anybody and that episode marks this growth in self-awareness. Lady Russel, who should be like a mother to Anne and is responsible for having persuaded her to break up with Captain Wentworth , never shows a sign of  real empathy. As I said, a puppet.

Adding confusion to confusion, it has become now customary to see white characters played by black actors on movies, and this Persuasion winks at Bridgerton on this matter. I really can’t understand what is the point of depicting the society of the past  as perfectly integrated, it is not only a historical distortion but  it does not help raise the issue of ethnicity at all.  Do we really think we can make amend for racial  discrimination of the past (and present) giving white roles to black actors. Is it so easy, Shonda?

If this the best it can be done in adapting Jane Austen’s masterpieces, I would suggest to give a break and turn all the efforts to future seasons of Bridgerton and similes. There is no need of further profanations.

The Dark Side of Talent

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There is one infallible and quick way to determine the language level of  non-native speakers, that is, detecting the way they more or less nonchalantly use bad words, but also their reaction when they become the object of that language too. Hence, when the most common Italian  swearword, for example, the one which begins with a “V…”  , to be clear, is translated into the equivalent in English which  begins with an “F…”,  well,“ its native hue of resolution is sickled o’er the pale cast of translation and loses the name of swearword” for an Italian. Of course, one understands the meaning, but somehow it is as if it were blunted in its effect.

So, when I accidentally came across an Instagram page with the name of my school preceded by that word which begins with the “F”, the options were just two: either the owner of the page wanted to soften the effect of the word, fearing the impact of the one with the “V” – and that would make this person an excellent English speaker – or simply, and more likely, only the poor knowledge of the language was the reason of  that choice, thus underestimating the inevitable consequences.

On that page there was also a sort of manifesto where the owner blabbed about the absolute necessity of changing the school system introducing new subjects  – those you don’t have to study, of course –  to replace the old ones, pleading also that this revolution should have been made with the teachers. One thing in particular really struck me: the core of those words was the necessity to speak and to be heard by adults, which could be a good thing but for the fact that the name of the page began with the word which begins with the “F” and the few pictures that had been posted represented all threatening people holding a gun.

Something had to be done. It was decided to give CSI Casalpalocco/Roma the charge of the investigation in order to quickly spot the rebel out of 1.300 students. Despite all the efforts, after weeks of inquests the crime division came up with nothing – actually, I have to say I was quite disappointed, as this Italian unit seemed to be much below the standards of the American ones. However, there is one thing I have learnt watching series, namely,  these kind of minds enjoy being tracked down just to demonstrate how smart they are in eluding any attempt to spot them , but in so doing they often make a mistake and this is what happened. Our rebel, in fact, yielded the temptation of sharing the shot of a note from the electronic register. Even if names were deleted, it was easy to identify the class, so, after some cross interrogations and a few threats we found our culprit.

Yet, I am sure that had the name of the page started with the “V” rather than with the “F” the fate of our “hero” would have been a tad more trying, as, after all, everything ended with no much fuss: the page was deleted, one day suspension and not much more than that, as far as I can remember. This was four months ago.

After a few  weeks, while I was examining some videos, 253 actually, of the students who were taking part in a challenge I had organized ( https://makeiteasychallenge.it/) which aimed at selecting the best candidates for the Breakthrough Junior Challenge, my attention was particularly drawn by one of them. The subject was not that challenging but that guy definitely knew how to nail the attention: he looked straight into the camera, relaxed, with a confident smirk, he definitely enjoyed what he was doing.

The video was extremely accurate, he had even subtitled it and that meant he had clearly in mind the effect images and words had to have on the viewers. He wanted to be heard and understood.  I had never seen him before, so I checked his name as it sounded, somehow, strangely familiar. I am sure you have clearly understood that it was our guy we are talking about. It could not be otherwise, in fact , I had not  noticed before, but even in that video there was the stamp of his rebellious nature, that sordid pleasure one must feel in daring break the rules, even for one second.

The second I am talking about is the one I resolved about censoring, as while talking about Dopamine effects, he had  thought necessary to mention and show  the name of a porn site. I  had not said anything to him, after all, it was just a second. “He’ll never notice it”, I was sure. Well, he did notice it. One day, in fact, he came to visit me, claiming his second back.  He did his best to explain his reasons. Apparently, without that precious second the balance of his work so meticulously achieved was lost forever. He was absolutely determined, and as he didn’t mean to listen to my reasons, so, I had to tell him that the price for having that second back was being out of the competition.

It was an effective argument, and you know why? Because he cared about it and a lot. He cared, and when he learned he was among the 25 finalists in the school, he soon shot the most amazing video demanding the vote of his mates, friends and relatives for the following step of the competition, showing a great deal of pride for his achievement. He cared, as when we eventually were in more friendly terms he helped me promote the final award ceremony. He cared, as in that ceremony I noticed he was definitely the most elegant among the finalists and eventually, no need to say, he won.

Few days after his victory in a video on TikTok he had made for other exciting plans he was pursuing, he mentioned these four crazy months of his young life . “We decide what we want to be” was the moral he had learned from this adventure and now he had decided that it was much more rewarding being constructive than destructive, that he could also be, nay, he was an “excellence” of this school and even more. Way to go, Gabriele!

RISK

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Human history is all about lines. Lines which are continuously drawn and cancelled according to ever changing systems of power. The making of empires and their dissolution has required  a constant endeavor of redefinition of  lines in time. A pencil a rubber, that is all, apparently. But those peoples who find themselves entrapped  in those mutable  lines often end up paying the consequences of that political artistry, which is always the result private interest and greed  rather than real taste for art. Being within a new line means losing certainties, identity, the world as you knew it. A line is a wound.

The recent Russian Ukrainian conflict is nothing but the result of yet another wound, which is particularly painful if we understand how these two countries are bound one to the other. It is important to know that Russian identity and the very name of Russia were born in the centuries around the 10th century in Kiev and the surrounding region. The first population that took the name of Rus’ (“rowing men” a term introduced during the High Middle Ages to refer to the Scandinavian populations living in the regions that are currently part of Ukraine, Belarus and Western Russia) lived in the present-day Eastern Ukraine. So, we may say that Russian identity, Russian people and Russian culture were born in what they call the Rus’ of Kiev.

It was the great prince of Kiev Vladimir who converted to Christianity giving rise to the long history of Russian Orthodox Christianity. Then, over the centuries, Russian and Orthodox civilization extended to North to the Slavic population living in what is now Russia, while Ukraine gradually became a more peripheral region. In fact, Ukraine means “borderland” and this is what Ukraine was reduced to around the 15th century, as the centre of  Russia was further North in Moscow.

When Ivan the Terrible, the great prince of Moscow, imposed his hegemony on the Russian world taking for the first time the title of Tsar in the 16th century, at  that point Ukraine was only one of the many territories of the vast Russian area where different dialects and forms of Russian were spoken. Ukraine became also the target of many invasions and it was conquered and subdued by non-Russian peoples: the Lithuanians first and then the Poles. For centuries Ukraine remained part of Poland and when Poland was divided in the 17th century, the current Eastern Ukraine re-entered into the Russian Empire, while Western Ukraine became part of the Austrian Empire. From this moment on these populations had different destinies.

Western Ukrainians lived in a Catholic empire, while in the Eastern part of the country the Tsars conducted a policy of” Russification”, hence, Ukrainian language at some point disappeared, as it was no longer taught or used  in the written form. The great writers born in Ukraine wrote in Russian and felt Russian like Gogol, for example. To cut a long story short, Ukrainian identity under the Tsars remained mostly provincial, just a small part of a great Russia.

The story reversed with the Soviet Union. The problem of nationalities and languages ​​was very much felt, therefore, an intense policy of development of national identities and languages was pursued, no need to say, under the Russian supremacy. Multiple Russian republics bloomed and multiple different identities with them. After  the collapse of the Soviet Union those republics for the first time matured a marked sense of independence which resulted eventually in an explicit refusal to be Russian.

The case of Ukraine is even more serious, as in the Eastern part of the country, where now  separatism is developing, the population is predominantly Russian.  The Ukrainian republic as it was designed at the time of the Soviet Union includes both Ukrainian and Russian areas, but for those who handled the pencil to draw the lines the matter of identity was only a small detail, it was the line that mattered. The consequences are before us.

Now, why  has that “borderland” become so vital in the international arena? Well, because it is a border land, actually, and in this last hand at the game of Risk Ukraine is perceived as a sort Trojan horse, the last frontier to penetrate Russia. The strategies of the game board players are quite clear: the USA want to detach Ukraine from Moscow and incorporate it into NATO, while Russia wants to recover the Russian-speaking Ukrainian territory and avoid Ukraine from entering NATO , while I have to confess that I find the European tactic somewhat obscure, as EU countries keep fanning on flames rather acting as mediators. Trying to corner Russia has only had the result of attracting  China to Moscow so far, is that wise? Negotiation is the answer to any war and not only because it is everybody’s best option, but also because “the greatest victory is that which requires no battle.”(Sun Tzu, The Art of War).