“We are not
racists.
We are Italian
racists.
We hate
everybody.”
I taly. 28 May 1985.
Montecatini Terme. A
magnificent, almost-
summer snug Tuscan
nightfall. I have just come
up to the intercom at the
door of the building on Via
Manzoni where my vest-
pocket studio apartment
is located on the third
floor. I hold two pizzas.
One margherita con
cipolla and a marinara for
Maria Luisa. I ring the bell
to have Maria Luisa open
the door for me arms-
filled and to signal to her
that she can take the cold
beers out of the frig and
pour them. I walk up.
When I arrive, the door is
ajar, I see no beers, and
Maria Luisa—glued to the
TV screen—is waving her
hand frantically for me to
come next to her. I put
the pizzas down and
move quickly to her.
Heysel Stadium. Brussels.
The Liverpool-Juventus
game has been
interrupted. To my horror,
I see Liverpool fans on the
pitch with bats and chains
threatening Juventus
aficionados. Maria Luisa
tells me the sportscaster
has reported that a wall
has collapsed; it is
believed there are people
crushed to death under
the rubble and the feet of
shocked spectators who
are trying to escape in a
stampede. I cannot
believe my eyes, and I
have to remind myself I
am in Europe and not
Yankee Stadium in New
York. I am really sad and
depressed. I have never
even dreamt in all my
years that a spectator
sport might provoke
violence and death. I feel
as if I have come upon a
very dismal, exceptionally
unbelievable discovery. I
am lost for words. Maria
Luisa is practically crying.
Even still more seemingly
impossible is the fact that
the game will be played
to its finish! I am
dumbfounded. 47 fans—
32 of them Juventus
supporters—are dead. Yet
the show must go on. I
understand later on that
the decision was based on
the thinking that if the
game had not been
played out, more violence
would have erupted. I do
not agree. I believe we all
should have hung our
heads in shame for the
rest of the night.
The tragic event is finally
over. The television news’
programs begin the
lamentable rehashing of
the night’s events as
death toll verifications
come sadly trickling in.
The next morning I will
watch, benumbed, videos
(some of them
amateurish) of the rescue
efforts to bring to life the
trampled bodies with
broken limbs. It is a
ghastly sight. I feel the
same I did when I visited
my men in a field hospital
in Kontum after the battle
of Dak To.
It is time to accompany
Maria Luisa to her home
in Sesto Fiorentino. I do
not have a driver’s
license, so I must take the
2
train back to Montecatini.
It is almost late. We walk
down the stairs solemnly,
and before we go to the
car, I toss our uneaten
pizzas into the trash
disposal unit in the street.
We say little on our way. I
kiss Maria Luisa goodnight
and walk the kilometre or
so to the train station to
catch one back. I feel
very bad. I am perplexed.
The train comes. I look to
see if there are others as
deadened as I. I cannot
determine that. About
twenty-five minutes later
the rickety train pulls into
Montecatini Terme—the
main station. I start my
ten-minute walk up the
street leading to my
apartment. All of a
sudden, I hear a caravan
of about fifteen cars and
trucks—overflowing with
young men and women
screaming with joy and
shaking their fists about
with gleeful energy—
coming towards me. I am
puzzled to discern what
the commotion is. All the
revelers are dress with
some violet; they are fans
of La Fiorentina—the arch-
rival in Italy of the famous
Juventus squad. The La
Fiorentina tifosi are
shouting at the top of
their lungs: Grazie,
Liverpool! Grazie,
Liverpool!! Grazie,
Liverpool!!!
B
efore talking to you
about Racism, my
dear reader, please
read with me these three
definitions of it which I
copied out for you:
1. From lo Zingarelli
1998, edited by
Miro Dogliotti and
Luigi Rosiello,
 Zanichelli; wing, and a bigot of
Bologna, Italy: enormous stature, set the
“Teoria che tende “tone” for me in the
a stabilire una beginning: “Don’t ever
gerarchia tra le invite a nigger into this
popolazioni house.” Amen! I studied
umane, esaltando for sixteen years in
le qualità superiori Roman Catholic schools:
di una razza, “Cross your legs, girls,
affermando la and shut the gates of
necessità di hell.” (When are Roman
conservarla pura Catholics going to come
da ogni to terms with the truth?…
commistione e priests do not want to
respingendo le marry…if they did they
altre in una stato would never have even
di soggezione.” thought of joining an
2. From The Concise organisation that keeps
Oxford Dictionary, them from women…
Sixth Edition, priests are women-
edited by J. B. haters…they want to be
Sykes, Oxford alone with themselves…
University Press, they think they are better
1976; Oxford, than we are…even a dull-
England: “Theory witted Jesuit would
that human understand this…priests
abilities etc. are belong to a class of
determined by people unified by a
race.” community of interests for
3. From Merriam- them more powerful than
Webster’s love….) I served for two
Collegiate years on active duty in
Dictionary, Tenth the United States Army; I
Edition, edited by was a social worker in the
Frederick C. Mish, northwest section of Fort
Merriam-Webster, Lauderdale, Florida; I lived
Incorporated, in the north of Florida—
1994; Springfield, part of the Deep South—
Massachusetts, for four years; and, I have
United States: “A lived in Italy for more than
belief that race is sixteen years with those
the primary who might be considered
determinant of the greatest racists in the
human traits and history of Western
capacities and that Civilization—they have
racial differences been practicing the art of
produce an Racism for centuries and
inherent with spectacular
superiority of a precision.
particular race.”
I am sensitive to acts of

I
Racism and have been for
know about Racism.
most of my life. Racism
How could I not? I
denigrates that which is
have lived with it all
good about humanity, and
my life. My mother,
because there is so much
fanatically Roman
of it in all parts of the
Catholic (Irish wing), right-

3
world, it has become
almost popular to opine
that there is, in fact, no
remedy for the causes of
Racism, they being so
ingrained in the innate
makings-up of the human
being. This belief is so
common, it helps in
almost giving carte
blanche to racists to
perpetrate their rants and
ravings. Racism gives
humankind a bad name.
Which is to say that if
Racism did not flourish as
it does, the world would
be a better place to live
for all individuals—a less
vexed place to be in.
Racism establishes the
truth that most of us are
weak-willed, that we are
inclined to take the easy
way out when we should
be confronting, for sure,
that which is threatening
us and our fellows. The
orchestration of hate
against whatever minority
group or member of that
arrangement by parties
larger than it, is one of
the most despicable acts
of pusillanimity
conceivable. There are
many other why and
wherefores I can bring to
the forefront to express
my disgust for Racism,
but it is now more
interesting to concentrate
specifically on those
characteristics which
distinguish the racist from
others.
Remember Mark
Fuhrman? It is pretty
much agreed upon by
most people that Mark
possessed racist
inclinations, and these
were revealed—most
embarrassingly for him
and his defence attorneys
—during his trial which
4
also brought to light many
interesting aspects of his
personal life. But let us
now concentrate on
Mark’s face. That face,
for me, is a “racist face.”
I have seen it time and
time again during my life.
There it is. Mark’s face. A
very listless face. I have
espied thousands and
thousands of them.
Mark’s is a face full of
hate and full of fear and
full of cowardliness. One
ashen with sadness, rigid
from smirking, and
smitten with loftiness. In
Vietnam, that face said
this to me: “Lieutenant, if
you want to make the
United States Army your
career, don’t associate
with those nigger
privates.” That face said
this to me: “Tonight we’re
having a company party
to celebrate that nigger’s
(Martin Luther King)
death. Are you comin’,
lieutenant?” That face
said this to me, under its
breath, refusing to salute
me, when no one was in
sight of us: “Lieutenant,
you’re a nigger-lover.
You’re a Jew-lover. And I
don’t salute Yankee scum
like you!” In Florida, that
face said this to me:
“Why don’t you go back
to New York where you
belong?” That face said
this to me: “Here in Lake
City we know how to take
care of our nigger
problems.” That face said
this to me: “The Division
of Family Services of the
State of Florida is not
corrupt and mismanaged
as you say. We do our
best to help the Negroes
in the northwest section
of Fort Lauderdale where
you are assigned. You are
being released from our
organization because you
are insubordinate.”
This face can be found
easily in any city in the
world. This face is
malignant, and it is
invested with potentially
unlimited growth. It
expands within itself
through the strength of its
ignorance and its craving
for punishment inflicted in
retaliation for an injury or
offence. This face pounds
and beats to the ground
that which is around it.
This face, in the course of
time, sinks in its own
poison. I cannot imagine
why this disease is not
alphabetized in the
Diagnostic and Statistical
Manual of Mental
Disorders published by
the American Psychiatric
Association!
Perhaps you have heard
of Jean-Paul Sartre? He
wrote a very interesting
book, Réflexions sur la
question juive, in 1954 in
Paris, France, and which
was published by
Gallimard, a very famous
Parisian publishing house.
It was Sartre’s intention to
bring to light one of the
most sordid sides of
human behavior, anti-
Semitism, and his
experiences fighting
Fascism and Naziism
during World War II no
doubt influenced his
sense of disdain for the
tragedy that had been
inflicted upon Europe’s
Jewish population during
that conflict. Sartre,
surely, did not think that
Racism was the breeding
ground for anti-Semitic
individuals exclusively.
He knew there were many
different strata of Racism.
5
But because he was a
very courageous man,
instead of writing some
prosaic, academic treatise
on the subject which
would have blanketed all
the peculiarities of all
forms of Racism—thereby
keeping the author safe
and unperturbed in his
generalizations—Sartre
picked a fight with anti-
Semitism and its
adherents per se. He was
not one to dillydally—as
many academicians are
wont to do—about
matters he deemed
menacing to society and
which he thought should
be nipped in the bud with
determination.
According to the grand
French philosopher, the
linguistics (thought
patterns) of the racist are
devoid of substance and,
therefore, easily engaged
in verbal counter-
attacking. The adversary
of the racist—using
serious words because he
or she holds to the word
and employs them to win
an argument against the
racist—must respond to
the buffoonery of the
racist who retorts by
trying to discredit the
earnestness of the non-
racist counter-attacker.
The one intolerant seeks
to hit back with banter, to
intimidate light-heartedly,
to displace from normal
position or relationship
the argumentation at
hand. When confronted
with the propriety of
language, the bigot is
afraid to appear
ridiculous, incredulous,
and he attempts to
mitigate the confrontation
he is embroiled in at the
moment.

Interestingly enough,
Sartre points out this
characteristic: the racist
is often provincial-
minded. (Are racists
living in metropolitan
areas less racist than
those living in the
countryside?) For
example, the anti-Semites
he talks about in his book
and who were all French
citizens, could boast a
two-thousand-year-long
tradition. They were
“glued” to their
birthplaces and counted
so much on the wisdom of
their ancestors, they felt
they did not need to be
intelligent for the simple
reason they had been
benefiting from what
others of their past had
been already doing for
centuries. What was
there to be learnt!
Attachment to their
property was paramount
to their thinking. Their
possession of it was part
of the cause of their fears.
Their land had not been
bought. It had been
passed down to them
through the centuries.
The countrified racist is
fixed to his property. He
fears to lose it. He is
suspicious of others whom
he feels might take the
acreage away from him.
It is very easy for these
country bumpkin-like
racists to divine plots
about usurpation of
property by foreign
invaders and, of course,
the Jew is the classic butt
of these ultra-nationalists’
prejudices.
Sartre says there are
other ways we can
identify the racist. For
one, the racist is not
6
inventive; he prefers to
keep things as they are
sticking to those rules
which maintain the status
quo. The racist will not
assume responsibility for
his or her actions because
in doing so, his or her
bluff will be called
immediately. Nor will
racists form any faction
from which they may be
singled out for
identification. They prefer
to join secret
organisations. (The Ku
Klux Klan, of Scottish
origin, is a hooded group.)
Racists will not elaborate
any fixed program which
might evidence their
actions or plans of them.
They do not seek legal
identity or registration as
a legal entity for dread
they will be caught sight
of. They hide in the dark.
The racist wants to be a
disciplined member of an
undisciplined group. The
little person needs those
who can be hated to
sustain—as high as
possible—the level of
anger in his or her being.
The racist wants to
destroy people, not
institutions. The
intolerant one is
concerned with what is
perfidious for him or her,
and goes about trying to
combat that intimidation.
Sadly, the racist is not in
search of that which is
intelligential. He takes
the long, slow road to
hatred. As a
consequence, the illiberal
is apprehensive of himself
or herself. The racist is
craven.
Sartre makes this
observation near his
closing: the racist is very
much interested in occult
powers, magic,
irrationality—all things
that are intuitive.
I talians are one of the
most misanthropic of
people in the world.
But victims of their
Racism and xenophobia
should take heart.
Italians are, above and
beyond, more
unforbearing of
themselves than they are
of any other existing
ethnic group! As a matter
of fact, Italians despise
themselves so much
more, they have
subconsciously conspired
to start eliminating their
stirps under the aegis of a
methodical, self-imposed
demographic standstill
that has already ruptured
their proliferation more
than did the two world
wars of this century. A
mass suicide is evolving
in Italy and hate is the
weapon of choice. (Listen
to this quote by an Italian
journalist: “Ho imparato
che in Italia bisogna
parlar bene di tutti.
Quando dici una cosa
cattiva succede un
putiferio. La capacità di
moltiplicare l’odio da
parte delle persone di cui
parli male è infinita. Io
non odio e non voglio
essere odiato. Non voglio
mettere in circolazione
tossine di malanimo.
Questo è un Paese di
odiatori professionisti.”)
Italy is sinking in the mire
of its own vindictiveness.
Let us hypothesize about
highly-bigoted individuals,
members of the Gestapo
and the Ku Klux Klan who,
socializing, drinking beers
together in a spirit of
camaraderie, are rabidly
7
involved in an enthused
discussion about which
one of their systems of
cruelty is better at
mastering the domination
of victims through the
various means of torture
and murder available to
implement the maddening
horrors of the two. The
German speaks about the
gas chamber, mutilations
of body parts, firing
squads, and many other
systems of abuse. The
Northamerican speaks
about lynchings,
castrations, beatings,
slavery, rape, and still
more systems of abuse.
Both compare notes.
They learn from each
other. They teach each
other better ways to
torture and wound and kill
innocent people who have
become terrorized by
them. They drink into the
night enjoying their
friendship and feel
confident in assuring one
another that they are
accomplishing something
for the betterment of this
world. Along comes the
Italian. He sits with the
black-garbed German
man and the hooded Ku
Klux Klan man. The first
thing he wants to say is
that he can devise death
instruments that are
better than the German
and Northamerican’s, and
that he can kill more
efficiently and reap better
results. No one can do
this work more effectively
than the Italian. He is the
best at everything. He is
also the best at being
doubtful about himself.
(Schopenhauer: “Il tratto
principale del carattere
nazionale degli italiani è
un impudenza perfetta.
Questa consiste sia nel
non sentirsi troppo impari
a nessun compito, onde la
loro presunzione e
sfacciataggine; sia nel
non sentirsi troppo alti
per nessuna cosa, onde la
loro bassezza.”)
Italians consider
themselves the most furbi
of all. A furbo is an
individual gifted with
cunning. Perhaps it is so
that Italians are furbi as
much as it may be said
that they have endured—
throughout their long
history—all varieties of
invasion, oppression and
other national tragedies
that have left them
particularly sensitive to
suffering and obligated to
do all needed to survive
(Italians sold the
virginities of their
children, through
lotteries, to United States
Army G. I.’s—all lined up
and hoping to win—during
the bacchanalia of post-
World War II Italy), or
better said: mangiare!
Furbizia, the fine art of
being calculating, is
something of a carry-over
idiosyncrasy fixed in the
character of the Italian,
and it has come to mean,
to some extent, a taproot
of ability and power
naturally lacking in non-
Italians. With this ace up
every Italian sleeve,
inhabitants of The Boot
kick their way, frequently,
to have their way, to even
a score, to put across
their point of view.
Always, there is present
this ratiocination: “We
Italians are something
special.” No doubt they
are. Their opinion of
themselves comes across
rather anti-climactically
for most foreigners living
8
with them because the
outsiders know that no
one else in the world is
particularly impressed
with Italian furbizia.
Therefore, why should
Italians be? (Henry
Kissinger: “Voi italiani
siete vittima di un’unica,
peculiare forma di
stupidità. La vostra
presunta furbizia. Se
ammiraste meno la vostra
furbizia, sareste
probabilmente i più
intelligenti e i più civili.”)
S
uppose you are an
African from
Senegal, a scruffy
Albanian from Albania, a
Chinese with almond-
shaped eyes which
distinguish you from your
fellow Italians, a
Florentine Jew who has
spent his life hiding the
fact that he is Jewish, an
Arab woman with your
head covered, an olive-
skinned Tunisian, or an
Indian who has recently
arrived in Italy after being
stuffed illegally into the
hull of a ship filled with
other poor people who
have paid their way to
come thousands of miles
to escape persecution in
foreign countries in the
East, seeking a better life
in Europe…. It is Sunday
afternoon and the Franchi
Stadium in Firenze
(Florence!) is filling up
with fans, tifosi, come to
see some important
match crucial to the
overall Class A standings.
You know damned well
that you better stay a
hundred kilometres from
that place! And why…?
Well, inside the stadium
there is the stench of
violence all over the
place. Sections of season
ticket-holders, grouped
under diverse
organisations with their
blazoned flags or logos,
are expressing their pent-
up emotions and taking
advantage of a unique
opportunity: to let it all
out against anything
caught in the nets of their
disapproval and rancor.
There are banners with
anti-Semitic slogans
written on them. There
are chants against
Africans, Albanians,
Chinese, Jews, Tunisians,
Indians—you name them!
There are Nazi salutes to
greet their favorite
players. The Mayor of
Firenze, the Cardinal of
Firenze, the owner of La
Fiorentina, businessmen,
bankers, lawyers, police
officials, doctors, actors,
actresses, and the editor
of La Nazione, a
Florentine daily
newspaper, Vittorio Feltri
(he who still refers to
African people as
“niggers” in his columns—
just as my mother did in
our home!) are all there.
They are talking and
laughing with other
“notable” personalities in
the V.I.P. section of the
stands. The
demonstrations of hate
and brute force (by now
hoards of combat-
equipped police are
spraying rambunctious
fans with water hoses and
shooting off tear gas
canisters at them) do not
interest the “City Fathers”
one iota, and they appear
to be so used to these
brutish commotions, they
do not even anymore take
notice of them. In some
parts of the circus, more
sedate ticket-holders are
frozen to the spectacle of
9
savagery, and they
remain silent hoping the
entire ugly scene will—in
some way—just melt
away out of their sight. It
never does. These more
reserved spectators never
have even a grunt to
voice their opposition to
the disgusting shows of
dissoluteness. Bocca
chiusa. It is hard to find a
child among the
thousands of gawkers.
This is not the place to
bring the innocent, nor is
it the place to invite your
friend who is visiting you
from another country. It
would be just too
embarrassing. What is
amazing is that people
are not usually killed
during these marvels of
ferociousness. The
loathing is pretty much
contained—it has to be or
it will not be able to be
replayed next time—and
instead of breaking bones,
what is broken the most is
the stadium itself. If you
want a fight while you are
visiting Firenze on
vacation, the place to go
is the stadium on
Sundays. (Is World War III
on its way?)
Oh, no! The referee has
made a favorable call on
behalf of an opposition
player, and all the La
Fiorentina tifosi are
furious! A rain of coins
and cigarette lighters is
falling onto the field…oh,
no! Thousands of La
Fiorentina tifosi are
shouting at the top of
their lungs: PUT THE
REFEREE IN AUSCHWITZ
WITH THE REST OF THE
BASTARD JEWS! HEIL,
HITLER!…oh, no!
Someone has thrown a
“paper bomb“ onto the
field, and La Fiorentina
will now be automatically
disqualified for the next
game. The tifosi
applaud…oh, no!
Helmeted police are
chasing some juvenile
delinquents through the
stands and other tifosi are
throwing anything they
can get their hands on at
the police…oh, no! An
ambulance has pulled up
to take away an injured
tifoso…oh, no! Tifosi are
trying to break the bullet-
proof panes of glass that
help keep them from
going onto the field…oh,
no!…oh, no!!…oh, no!!!
The “game” is over. The
stadium is a mess. Things
are broken all over the
place. There are charred
pieces of wood and shards
of glass as far as the eye
can see. The tifosi are
energized to go home, to
continue in the streets of
Firenze their acts of
violence. About two
thousand visiting tifosi,
tifosi of the opposition
team, caged in an area
with high fences around
it, must wait at least half
an hour until the La
Fiorentina tifosi have
disappeared from the
confines of the area
surrounding the stadium.
They will be then
escorted, through the
streets, in long lines, by
the police very anxious to
put them on their trains
and buses home.
Meanwhile, on their ways
home, La Fiorentina tifosi
are destroying the team
bus which transported the
opposition players to the
stadium. They are
overturning cars, breaking
storefront windows which
foolishly were not
10
boarded, setting fires to
garbage disposal units,
throwing rocks at passing
cars, ripping telephones
out of their sockets,
spraying windows and
street signs with violet
paint, and one tifoso with
a hatchet in his hand is
chopping away at a tree!
The La Fiorentina tifosi
have a surprise for their
opponents who are now
entering their trains and
buses. About two
hundred have gathered
near the train station and
are positioned, in hiding,
ready to pelt the parting
train with rocks, bottles,
pieces of metal, and
anything else they have
found not tied down. A
Molotov cocktail a few
years ago burnt ninety
percent of a Bologna
tifoso’s body nearly killing
him. (The Ferrovia dello
Stato spends hundreds of
millions of dollars each
year repairing damage to
trains that have
transported
football/soccer fans on
Sundays.) If you walk a
block over, you will see
that each and every car in
that via has a long scratch
on its side etched on by
the keys of the La
Fiorentina tifosi.
Oh, no! A group of almost
thirty La Fiorentina tifosi
have encircled two
Albanians who happed to
be in the area probably
unwittingly. They will not
be killed. The tifosi know
better. However, the
foreigners will be spit
upon, kicked, punched,
and left on the ground in
agony. Fellow tifosi have
been set at the corners of
the streets to warn of
arriving police vehicles.
Often, the police just
watch and let the tifosi
run amuck crazed with
howling. The faces of the
Albanians are white with
terror, and they are doing
whatever they can to
protect themselves—
without saying a word.
(Let’s ask the tifosi of La
Fiorentina how they treat
their girlfriends and
wives!)
Stadium violence is kicked
around so flittingly so. It
is subject to long holdings
forth by droning
sociologists and
psychologists and
beyond-all-bounds
“journalists” and
vainglorious civic leaders,
but little is done to quell
the destructiveness. It
has become an accepted
fact—an uncomfortable
one, but not that much so.
The reason? The tifosi
blackmail the teams: “Let
us rumble and do what we
want, or we won’t buy our
season tickets.” Other
ignoble approaches are
employed. They are not
bluffing. They are the
masses. They are
discontented. (Bertrand
Russell: “Cynicism such
as one finds very
frequently among the
most highly-educated
young men and women of
the West results from the
culmination of comfort
with powerlessness.
Powerlessness makes
people feel that nothing is
worth doing, and comfort
makes the painfulness of
this feeling just
endurable.” Russell said
that in 1930, my dear
reader!) And in the
masses they are supreme.
With their banners,
swastikas, death signs,
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paramilitary clothing,
flags, Rebel flags of the
ex-United States
Confederacy, arms,
symbols, et cetera, they
form “our group” against
“their group.” There are
leftist and fascist
elements in the stadiums.
The Italian hooligan
expresses a bad feeling,
which is generalised, of a
dissipated society:
Florentine society. They
bring their chains, brass
knuckles, hammers,
cigarette lighters, axes
and explosives to blurt
out their desire for
passion, myth and
dreams; but, what oozes
out from their
nonconformity is their
incompleteness, their
bafflement. These
individuals are empty.
They exist to belong to
their rustled groups;
ridiculous concoctions:
Che Guevara Group, Dixie
Group, Marxist-Leninist
Group, Nazi Group, Bad
Boys Group, Renegade
Group, et cetera. All their
heroes are negative ones.
They are the paladins
hated by the
establishment. The tifosi
are nihilistic. They cannot
create anything. Violence
renders these individuals
visible, but they will be
violent only in a place
which is socially
acceptable and where
they can hide in groups:
the stadium. (Those two
Albanians might be killed
in the stadium; outside
they are safer.) The
cowards make gestures at
the TV cameras—with
their faces erased by ski
masks—then escape to
hide in the masses.
These delinquents believe
it is better to transform
themselves into
revengers in the stadium
instead of being nothing.
They have no values and
they yearn to publicize
their insignificance.
Should it, then, surprise
anyone that Italy is
number one in Europe for
use of heroin, cocaine and
amphetamines? I hope
not.
I have compiled a simple
psycho-socio identikit of
these Florentine monsters
for you, and I think it will
help to serve to bring you
to a better understanding
of them and Italy, “the
problem child of
Europe”—a CNN Freudian
blurting out. (Bettina
Luscher’s baldness is not
the only thing CNN is
trying to cover up!)
Their mothers and fathers
sacrifice them for their
very own ambitions. Italy
suffered a great deal after
World War II, and
grandfathers and
grandmothers and fathers
and mothers then set
themselves the goal to
give all they could to their
little darlings so they
would not have to
languish as much as they
had to. But, they
overreacted by vitiating
what they thought was
best for their offspring.
Italian parents do not
impart their love to their
children. They give them
their thoughts. Children
have become a
commodity of sorts. No
one believes that children
come through their
parents; they believe they
come from their parents.
Possession. Children are
not heartened to leave
the nest; they are brought
up to be soldered to the
12
family. It is very common,
still, to find unmarried
forty-year-olds living with
their parents.
Children are taught to
oblige. As such, they
speak in a monotonous
sonance without any
enthusiasm for life. They
are tense—on the alert to
do what they must. The
kids are catechised when
they are tired and angry.
They are loaded up after
school with English
classes, piano classes,
karate classes, swimming
classes, ad nauseum.
They must do that which
their parents did not!
Parents platform their
children saddling them
with their maxims.
Schools teach the same
boring subjects, in the
same boring way.
Children are bribed to
learn. They are always
being corrected, chided.
Kids are forever,
neurotically, being asked
questions; controlled.
They are inflicted with
humiliation at every turn.
The children lack
motivation, vigor; they
are conformists, obeyers.
Apathetic. Passive-
aggressive personalities.
They get what they want
by manipulating for it.
They grow into little
tyrants. They do not have
to earn anything. They
are exempt from manual
work and that which
would require them to
partake in some activity
they could say they
created or invented and
then enjoyed. They
possess no spontaneity.
They have no sense of
duty to others. They are
taught to have rights only.
Possessive mothers,
grandmothers, aunts and
mother-in-laws condition
their children not to love
(Visit Firenze’s Careggi
Hospital and go to the
feeding rooms in the
maternity wards. If there
have been some births
recently, you will find two
or three mothers—
cigarettes dangling from
their mouths—bottle-
feeding their newborn.
You will also see, in the
cloud of contraband
MARLBORO cigarette
smoke, their mothers and
grandmothers and aunts
and mother-in-laws
brushing off the cigarette
ashes that have fallen
during feeding time onto
the GUCCI sweaters of the
mums.) Italian kids parrot
the customs of other
nationality groups.
Others’ clothes, others’
music, others’ ideas.
They are not respected.
They respect not. They
are always riveted to the
television or video games’
screen, and they go to
study tired of watching
television in lieu of going
to watch television tired
of studying. They are
pushed to compete—but
not on an intellectual
level. Their parents are
thinking only about their
immediate lives and those
of their children. The
children are not listened
to; they are preached to.
The children are given
bad example. They are
not given love. It is no
wonder that these warped
individuals seek a violent
outlet in the stadium: it is
the only place where they
can revolt—feel
themselves free from a
suffocating family
oppression. The stadium
13
is the only place they
cannot be ensnared.
This sad state of affairs
exists today victim of
neglect and hypocrisy. It
has been incubating for
decades, not addressed
by governmental,
religious, political and
economic institutions. As
if the quandary did not
exist. Warning signals
have been flashed time
and time again in the
past, but no one has ever
responded to them. The
sickness has spread on
and beyond. It is believed
by many that the chance
for a turnabout is now
impossible. Italy is on its
way to extinction.
There are many who will
not lose sleep over this
“fall” of modern, self-
indulgent, corrupt Italian
society. They will surmise
haughtily that Italians
cooked this plate
themselves, and now they
must stew together in it.
Italians want to go down,
down, down; and, they
want to be brought closer
to some Final Action.
They are destroying more
than they are producing.
It will not be kind, or just,
if Italians are let alone to
limp to their Final Plunge.
Their problems are
Europe’s. Italy is an
obstacle to the economic
and political stability of
the European Union. It
needs Europe’s help
desperately.
Most interesting are the
reasons why this is so.
One must stretch the
imagination in all
directions to draw some
precise conclusions. It is
incredible that a society
that boasts of an almost-
two-thousand-year-long
history should have found
itself in this unthinkable
predicament. For Firenze,
the responsibility is
perhaps even greater for
it was here that the seat
of humanism was warmed
so well five hundred years
ago. What can we say
about Firenze today? Why
has it fallen into such a
dismal state? Could it be
that the very values of a
devotion to the
humanities have no
sense, no merit? Must we
re-evaluate the moral and
spiritual fundamentals of
Western Civilization that
for so long have nurtured
our intellects? Is this
agony that Firenze is
suffering through the
result of it coming to an
unreal dead end? What
can be done to alter this
disaster course? Can it be
altered? Why cannot the
Florentines relate to
themselves and their
society in a hale and
hearty manner? Why
cannot the Florentines
enjoy themselves, put
themselves to that which
has a basis in reality?
Why are Florentines afraid
to seek a new
interpretation of their
place in this world? Why
are Florentines so
alienated?
I daydreamed the other
day that Dante,
Boccaccio, Giotto,
Leonardo da Vinci and
Michelangelo were
together in Piazza della
Signoria, in front of
Palazzo Vecchio, under
the same balcony from
which Adolf Hitler
addressed thousands of
roaring, applauding
14
Florentines. These
masters of the
Renaissance were all
screaming in shock:
“Who are these
imbeciles? Who are these
imbeciles? Who are these
imbeciles? What has
happened to our city?
Our art and traditions
have been left in the
hands of fagged,
muddleheaded
overseers!” They were
overwrought. I was
hoping that at that
moment a caravan of
Northamerican tourists—
trekking in slow motion
and on their three-week
tour of The Old Continent
—would float by for Dante
and his friends. We could
have flipped a coin to see
which of the two came off
the more ridiculous.
Heads, the
Northamericans; tails, the
Florentines! (From A
Book of Aphorisms and
Quotations by Anthony St.
John: “116.
Northamericans have
been obtuse for more
than two hundred years.
Europeans have been
obtuse for more than two
thousand years.”) Look at
the Northamericans!
Little fat, flush old ladies
and chubby sales
representatives (Hey,
man! I’m on vacation, not
civil rights!) from
multinats who have won
international sales
campaigns, slobbering
from one plate of pasta to
another, their heads
spinning from rich, red
wines, subsidising racist
taxi drivers, racist hotel
clerks, racist waiters,
racist travel agents, racist
bankers, racist barbers,
racist electricians, racist
audio/visual technicians,
racist stenographers,
racist printers, racist
photographers, racist
display builders, racist
translators, racist
musicians, racist security
guards, ad nauseam.
When the Northamericans
come to pay their bills,
the Florentines smile and
kiss them on both cheeks.
Then the descendents of
the Renaissance about
face, up the middle
fingers of both hands and,
violet with envy of the
Northamericans’ wealth,
ridicule how “fat,
uncultured, and—of
course—how terribly
dressed are those
Northamericans!” (We
Florentines must be
better than they are!)
This disgusting ritual
plays itself out time and
time again and has been
grinding on so for
decades. Northamericans
tilt home, their cups filled
with “culture and
souvenirs” and two or
three nights fattening up
in Florentine restaurants
the average Florentine
citizen cannot afford to go
to.
But let us not ramble
further on about stupidity,
my dear reader. Let us
get one thing clear in our
minds: Firenze has the
lowest birth rate in the
world. There are now
about 57,000,000 Italians,
and in about thirty years
there will be 7,000,000
less—and then 25% of
Italy will be over sixty five
years of age. Is it not
time to come to the
rescue of Firenze and,
hoping for the best, wish
with all our might that
Italy will follow suit? Is it
not time for the United
15
Nations to send task
forces of psychologists
and psychiatrists into
Firenze to weed out the
hatred which is destroying
Firenze from within? Is it
not time for B-52s to drop
How to Raise Children
books all over Toscana? Is
it not time that we do
something drastic to save
Firenze from the
Florentines? S.O.S. from
Firenze! S.O.S. from
Firenze!! S.O.S. from
Firenze!!!
Three days before I
finished this article, I was
on a Florentine bus going
home, seated at the back
with other immigrants.
(Just as in Alabama in
1953!) There were five
gruff-looking Albanians
talking and laughing in
their own language. After
a number of stops, three
bus line ticket controllers
entered the bus and they
found that, as usual, each
Albanian did not possess
a ticket. The Albanians
had no I.D. cards, and as
the ticket controllers
wrote out their penalties,
the Albanians offered
names and addresses
which—the controllers
said—were false. When
the ticket controllers left
the going-home, crowded
bus, the Albanians took
their fines, shredded them
into confetti, and threw
them into the air. Not one
Italian in the bus blinked
an eye. They watched
with tight-lipped
virulence. The Albanians
stared back at them—
they too—defiant. Not
one Italian thought to call
the police. To do so would
mean that the Albanians
enjoyed the same rights
the Italians possessed;
and, these, the Albanians
would never have in racist
Italy. Nor would they
have a decent house to
live in, a decent job to
labor with, a decent life to
live with decent people.

Firenze is an incubator of
xenophobia, racism, and
hate. And as such, it is
killing itself. Steadily,
furtively it is marching to
the destra.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell

you. Vittorio Cecchi Gori,
Italian Senator with
immunity against
prosecution, courier
pigeon between Vatican
“Incorporated” City and
Hollywood City, and
bankroller of that
magnum opus of
demagogy and
disingenuousness, the
film Life is Beautiful, is
also the owner of—you
guessed it!—La
Fiorentina!

La vita è bella? For

whom?

* * *

Written by:

Anthony St. John

Casella Postale 38
50041 CALENZANO FI
ITALIA

15 December 1999

16