A SIPPING SINNER
“Kirrrsten.” My cousin P speaks no English, yet trills the “r” and correctly says my name – proof volition matters in careful pronunciation. English has no word for people who callously mispronounce names. I’ve seen “mangler,” “mumbler,” and “micro-aggressor.” Yet my Italian cugina nails my name perfectly in one go.
P smacks a box of pastries against her Fiat’s red rooftop with the same vehement elegance with which she gulps down a coffee. She has recruited me here in L’Aquila as her aide-de-camp in executing errands for her daughter’s upcoming wedding.
An Emily Post of espresso, she flips her flaming mane leftward, staring at me across the car roof. “Trasferisciti qua.” Move here.
“Mi piacerebbe molto.” I would love that. Italian holds another language of desire and diaspora, languishing and longings.
Why don’t I just run to this Promised Land? I am a sipping sinner. A Mary Magdalene of milk and morning coffee froth. Why? I drink cappuccino. Even worse, I am willing to drink cappuccino – well past 11:00 a.m.
This makes me too American in Italy. This distressing disregard for my diasporic descendance is desecration. Is this worth risking family ties I’ve been gifted? Shouldn’t renouncing this be simple?
It is not.
I cannot sip cappuccino after 11 a.m. on the soil of Italy’s sacred and mundane and claim my roots. I cannot embarrass my family by doing what Italians call fare brutta figura, making a bad impression, to save my cappuccino craving.
This difference defines me more than any accent. I could down a bitter daily demitasse. But could I shove my sugar and foam compulsion in a closet?
I am too watered down, too American. I cannot keep my quotidian coffee quota in Italy. Yet I yearn to say yes: yes to Italy.
Could the wind whip off these Apennine mountains, whistle through the pastry box, blow away my favorite foam, and sprinkle tolerance on my lips to quaff this bitter beverage down without ever saying it feels to me like guzzling gasoline?
I cannot fathom foam-free afternoons in the birthplace of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.
Could Bibesia, Roman goddess of beverages, whisk away my love-at-first-sip and wash away my longing for sweet foam? Like my accent, cappuccino after 11 a.m. also tells a story – one of proof volition also mattered when our ancestors, who also craved slaking a silent thirst, crossed that vast dark and liquid ocean.
Kirsten Keppel is a regular contributor to Ambassador magazine and a 2017 Russo Brothers Italian American Film Forum semifinalist for her documentary Ringraziamenti: The Saint Joseph’s Day Table Tradition. She is a member and past videographer of the Abruzzo and Molise Heritage Society of Washington, DC. Her poetry has appeared in Ovunque siamo, Mediterranean Odyssey, The Chesapeake Reader, and Lombardi Voices. A descendant of Molisani great-grandparents, Kirsten lives in Washington, DC.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 