In my current unemployed daze, I started cleaning my room and came across a photo of myself and 7 of my 8 roommates from my semester in Florence (Firenze), Italy 4 years ago. Yes, I had 8 roommates in one not-large apartment with 5 bedrooms. Luckily (or not surprisingly), I was the only person that had their own room. I got there first, it was the only one ready, I offered to switch but no one took me up on it…
Of course, I took this photo as a perfect reason to stop whatever I was doing and reminisce. I’m unemployed. I should just live the middle-class, uninspired, quarterlife-crisis happening American’s dream and backpack around Europe (again). But being pragmatic and a month and a half away from absolutely broke, I didn’t linger on this fantasy very long. However, I did try to remember what it was like to live in Florence, the sounds, the smells, the foods, the people, the school, the market, the mosquito nets…
Aside from the expected culture shock and complete lack of disposable income, I had a great time. In the most cliche way, that semester made me feel like I could be a grown up and I started to toy with the idea of being able to really do this, really living abroad. Pack up and become more concerned with a passport than a state driver’s licence. I liked just being classified as an American, not as black, or middle class, or a Southerner, or the product of a broken marriage, or a preacher’s kid, or whatever social constructions I use to identify myself at any given time. Of course those things would still matter, but I now how had this larger title AMERICAN to identify and/or argue with.
However, I had another title that I wasn’t prepared for. So growing up in the US, Tennessee and going to school in Iowa, I’ve never been the ideal of beauty. Real beauty is petite, buxom and blonde. Real beauty has blue or green eyes, gets curly perms and pays to tan. Real beauty looked like Britney, not Beyonce. Not to go too extreme, the US is a melting pot and values melting pot beauty but if we were to identify one true ideal for the nation as a whole it would not have an excess of melanin. It’s just the truth.
I happened to room with 4 wonderful, very different looking and acting white women from Iowa State. I respect these women and hate to reduce them to physical descriptions but it’s necessary to make my point. We had a short, cutsy sorority girl, an athletic, artsy blond, a shorter, fuller diva and a commanding, self-assured amazon. And then there was me, I guess I’d describe myself as a tall, sassy black girl. We were nearly as different as possible.
In Iowa (or just about anywhere else in US), I would not have been the 1st, 2nd or even 3rd person someone would look at in our group. However, in Florence, to my surprise (and that of some of my roommates…), I was often the object of attention. How odd it was to be walking to class through the market and hear “Brown Sugar, Can I love you?” in a thick Italian accent. Well of course you can’t but thanks. 🙂 Cat calls were strange to me. At home, it only seemed to be dirty old men I could easily dismiss. Here, not so much. It seems that brown was exotic in Florence. Blondes were typical. Every American, British and Australian exchange student looked like my roommates. Italy gave me a little ego boost. 🙂 And to make things even better, I didn’t look my best. Here I was getting more attention than ever before and I didn’t have access to a hairdresser or my entire wardrobe. Who knew?
And I have to give it the Italian men. They were not shy but they were also not all that annoying. Yes, I definitely heard some things that would make a less brown person blush and some of the guys would follow you around. But unlike at home, once they got the message that it wasn’t going to go anywhere, rather than get pissed or hurt, they simply turned in one direction or another in search of the next female. You don’t want me? Ok. She might. And I’m off…
I also have to note that there were quite a few male African immigrants out during the day. At any tourist spot, you’d find men selling random knock offs on sheets for easy pick up. I later found out that there were quite a few African immigrant women as well. It just so happens that they are the popular choice for prostitution. I can’t say for sure if this is true but my sources led me to believe that Italian men had no problem paying for a little brown sugar and in fact, preferred it. Supporting that remark, I was visiting a friend, my wife actually, in Rome and as I was walking back to the hostel, four cars pulled over to ask how much. It’s important to understand that I was in a hoody, jeans and tennis shoes. Rather than be offended, all I could do was think how our “girls” are being played in the states. Of course, I didn’t but I could’ve gotten some business in comfortable clothes while they’re suffering in spandex, stilettos and fishnets…
Anyway, the whole point of this story was the fact that I had to get out of the country to recognize my melting pot attraction, whether I was the one leading myself to believe it didn’t exist or not. I’m not saying that I’m horrendous and doomed to live with 14 cats because my looks are so offensive. It’s just that growing up I was brown, lanky, only developed the one curve I have in college and always had cute(r) friends. A semester in Florence gave me a little more confidence and the ability to possibly see myself as being a little more, if not one of the “cute friends”, at least not “the ugly one.”
Italy – an expensive ego boost,
Jo’van
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The Truth: According to Jo'van 
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