You know that feeling where your entire body is split, torn, ripped in two between I CAN’T DO THIS and YES I FUCKING CAN? Yeah. I started Italian classes, and that is what’s up.
It’s hard, guys. Really hard. I’m not good with new languages, and I don’t particularly like “going to school,” and in my two lessons so far, I was lost and not found.
Even getting to class is an emotional / physical abduction. I ride my bike down two manic highways, where cars and motorbikes come at me like bullets. Roman streets are completely anarchic, and the only way to navigate them is to…pedal and pray.
(In truth, I do like my wild morning bikelife — after all, the language of confrontation, I can speak. But on the record, I am risking my life for the sake of verb conjugation.)
If and when I make it to Monti, where class is, all I do is stutter and sweat. Confidence out the window; tension in jaw. In my mind, I’m the worst Italian speaker in the world — and definitely within the paper-towel-grey room of foreigners.
I should not be complaining about anything. Roma is an incredible city, with which I have amazing chemistry. I’m crazy for it. And life with D is the sweetest love song. Let me tell you. He is everything I wanted and everything I deserve.
Sooo why all the intensity over Italian class?
Because I’m a writer. Because I have always been able to communicate with some measure of grace. Expressing myself through language is my one and only thing. It is my identity. Everyone says to “have fun with it” and “relax,” but no one understands that without the right words, I feel weak. I hate weak.
But I have to do this. As a sign of commitment to D — whom I would do ANYTHING for — and because, frankly, it’s arrogant to make everyone in our life switch on the English language button just for me. Maybe I like the attention, but it’s not right.
Okay. After two hours of reciting I like hip-hop and I hate mayo (KILL MEEEE) this morning, I have make a sandwich and pass out now.