Congratulations, Italian Style
On a trip to Italy a number of years ago, my cousins invited me to witness a young woman defend her thesis at the University of Trieste, located on the beautiful northern Italian seaside. She was related to my cousin by marriage and while I didn’t know her, I’d never been to Trieste or attended a thesis defense, so it was a welcome offer. I was staying with my aunt and uncle in a town of about 10,000 people near Venice and my aunt encouraged me to attend, guaranteeing it would be a unique experience. I was looking forward to a day of intellectual stimulation but wasn’t expecting an education of a different kind.
We spent the warm July morning taking in the beauty of the Adriatic Sea, doing a bit of shopping and partaking in food and drink in Trieste’s quaint shops and cafés. The university overlooked the Gulf of Trieste and I marvelled at the majestic view as we walked up the wide steps, onto a massive landing, and past towering arches that welcomed us into the main building. After some quick words of encouragement to the candidate, we followed her into the meeting room.
I was expecting to enter a conference room or small lecture hall but instead we were ushered into a narrow dark book-lined room set up with rows of chairs at one end and a U-shaped table at the other end. The student sat at one side of the table, on her own, while the professors, donning their robes and regalia (I was looking for their scepters and maces), surrounded her, and peppered her with questions. My Italian was good, however her thesis topic was totalitarianism, which in any language was beyond my level of comprehension. At the end of her defense against the verbal firing squad, they ushered us all out into the hallway, making us wait while the professors deliberated.
After the panel emerged and announced her excellent scores, friends and family hollered with joy and exchanged double-cheeked kisses. We proceeded out of the building onto the large landing overlooking the sea. With a mischievous glance, my cousins warned me, the polite and reserved Canadian, that what was about to happen to the new graduate was accepted and expected. I was used to being surprised and sometimes shocked by the unapologetic and easygoing Italian lifestyle, and besides, the young woman’s parents were there. How bad could it be?
On the old and elegant steps of the building, her friends stripped the newly crowned graduate down to her designer undergarments and then dressed her with layers of oversized heavy sweaters, sweat pants, ski pants, a parka, knit hats, mittens, and multiple scarves. She was unrecognizable and must have been sweltering in the heat of the Italian July afternoon, but she was laughing along. Armed with congratulatory signs and banners, her friends paraded her around campus to show off her accomplishment and their handiwork. I thought hazing was reserved for initiations not graduations but I was probably overthinking it.
I returned to my aunt and uncle’s place, where my aunt looked at me with inquiring eyes as if to confirm whether my Canadian self had been scandalized. I assured her I was fine but had many questions. She laughed and shrugged off my confusion, telling me this is just what they do and it’s all in good fun.
Later in the day, my cousins and I wandered into the piazza in the centre of their town. With a twinkle in his eye, one of my cousins told me I’d see additional accolades to the graduate. He pointed out a congratulatory banner inscribed with her name and a set of clapping hands. It warmed my heart to witness how this small town celebrated one of its own. Until I noticed the other tributes. Large, explicit, hand-drawn, and captioned posters adorned the café and shop windows. The grad, drawn in detailed scantily-clad caricature, was the central figure, and although my Italian failed me for a second time that day, no translation was necessary. All I could think of was that her parents, grandparents, and neighbours had seen these posters.
My cousins, pleased with themselves for shocking me one more time, barely acknowledged the obscene drawings. They were more focused on choosing elaborate gelato creations and finding a table that gave us the best vantage point for people-watching and socializing. I settled in and got comfortable, tried to ignore the backdrop of body part art and devoted myself to my spaghetti al pesto – strings of pistachio gelato swirled to look like a mound of long pasta topped with white chocolate shavings (the parmesan). Sitting amongst the picturesque surroundings, embraced by the warm evening sun, and lulled by the rhythmic Italian chatter, I unapologetically ate my sinful dessert and just did my best to blend in.
