Tests, Riots and Scruples

Several times in the first year we lived in Verona, we arrived at the school only to find it closed. I never received a school calendar.  Everyone just knew there was no school on Saint Whatchamacallit Day or on National Carabinieri Day.

I checked out the current Italian national school calendar and it greatly resembles the US: 200 days a year starting about Sept. 9th ending in June with Christmas and Easter holidays.  But back then, school started in October and there were various holidays.

At the end of 2nd grade, Marie-Juliette took the Second Grade Exams.  These included a written test:  reading, writing, arithmetic and an oral drilling with 3 unfamiliar teachers. The Italian language is such that consonants and vowels are consistently pronounced the same with a few exceptions:  “ce” is pronounced “ch” like in “cello.”  “ch” is pronounced “c” like in “cat" or in Starbuck's Caramel Macchiato.  There are a few other combinations of letters, but on the whole, once you’ve mastered the alphabet you can read or write anything.  The students don’t need to spend hours memorizing spelling lists.  Wouldn’t that be nice?  So after passing the dreaded exam, 3rd grade students began to study history, geography etc.  I remember part of the 3rd grade curriculum was the Peloponnesian Wars (431–404 BC).

Charles wore a smock like these with a red cloth bow.

Charles’s first day of school was a nightmare.  He was to attend the public school 3 blocks away since “The School of the Angels” was for girls only.  He was thrilled that morning to put on his royal blue smock with a white color and a red bow.  (I wish I had a picture!)  We slipped on his backpack and headed to the school.  Outside the school building there was a mob milling around, parents with kids in tow and rabble-rousers. A man was standing on a pedestal shouting.  People were yelling back.  At some point I lost Charles’s hand in the mêlée.  It was terribly frightening for him and for me.  By the time, I found him and picked him up in my arms, we were both crying.   The Communists or Socialists had staged this riot because the city had not done its job preparing the building for the new school year.  The walls had not been white-washed and the building hadn't been cleaned.

We went back several days later when the school building had been properly prepared for students.  For weeks thereafter,  Charles was fearful to enter the school.  However, he had a wonderful, warm teacher who made learning come alive in a room with only white-washed walls, desks and a blackboard.  There were no decorative bulletin boards with fall leaves, flowers and bunnies.

I remember that the first story Charles read was a fable about a frog that wanted to be as big as an ox.  So he huffs and puffs and eventually he blows himself to smithereenes.  The moral being: accept what you are, if you go above your station in life, you could lose everything.

Another story mystified me.  A little boy tells the story.  His father has a pet shop.  He sells 3 parrots that are exactly the same.  He sells one for, let’s say, 200 lire, one for 400 lire and one for 1,000 lire.  The little boy tells us that usually the people buy the expensive one because his papà tells his customers it’s the best.  At the end the little boy says:  “My papà doesn’t always tell the truth but I love him anyway.”  This story confounded me. What was the message for first graders?   What about the epistle we hammer into our kids: Always tell the truth. Should we? Do we?  My great grandmother used to say: “The truth need not be spoken at all times.”