Against my better judgement.
I usually ignore it, when I go up into the attic. The little, light, green plastic suitcase, vintage 70’s, standing up straight, partially hidden by all the others, the large modern ones, mostly red, mostly rarely used.
But in there lies my story, my history, my Italian life, my marvelous and angsty formative years.
I unzip it, and the flood of the past engulfs me almost instantly. I can smell the salty marine air of the Portici’s harbor, all the fishing boats lolling on the gentle waves, preparing for their nightly journey. I am blinded by the lights of the parochial theater, buzzing with activity and excitement, as the teens enthusiastically rehearse for the play. I walk the elegant, crowded Viale Leonardo da Vinci, a river of chatty, animated young humanity, bursting with the hope and joy of those who still don’t know better.
A rainbow of notebooks unfolds before my apprehensive eyes: I blink, even turn my gaze toward the window and the fading green of the trees of my New York autumn.
I’m ready to close up that perilous well of the past immediately…but I can’t.
So much writing, more or less neat, in those hundreds (thousands?) of pages, a plethora of exclamations points ending the sentences, because emotions were pure, extreme and raw in those wonder days. The tender, innocent diaries of someone who was in love with the world, yet insisted on despising it. Call it teenage angst, or embarking into the tentative construction of your own life, not according to your parents’ desires and plans.
My cheerfully decorated school agendas, filled with an insane quantity of quotes, mostly sappy, but, at the time, fundamentally powerful, next to the list of my homework assignments.
Life was vividly colored then, no gray areas. Friendships were forever, infatuations were eternal love, the future was a kaleidoscope of images of that amazing life of traveling the world, a world that was kind and welcoming, as I believed in my naïve knowledge of humankind.
A stack of letters, some slightly yellowed, the ink fading in spots, some corners torn. I read the names, and some shake me to the core, others barely ring a bell. So many summer friendships, developed spontaneously at the various resorts where my parents would take us during the summer months, new ‘best’ friends, whom we couldn’t bear to leave, at the end of our two-week stay, our young hearts ripped in two. Thus, the frequent correspondence, afterwards, for several months, three-four sheets of flimsy letter paper filled, with every single detail of our lives, sincerely curious and interested in each other’s stories. Stories that eventually ended, when one side or the other would simply stop responding.
Those days when people were made of flesh and smiles, their touch was real, their voice close by. Not photographs on Facebook, their words blue-white letters on a lit screen.
My precise drawings, illustrating my original fairy tales, amuse and inspire me: Why on earth did I stop drawing? I was rather talented. Oh yes, life happened, the real thing, the one that overwhelms the mind and soul, that erases dreams and innate skills, that dulls the senses. It’s called maturity. Also known as the demise of spontaneity and vibrant, liquid emotions.
The photographs are aggressive. They grasp my heart and squeeze it till I’m gasping for air. Noisy school yards, smiling boys and girls, spensierati, yes, carefree though we didn’t know it. I turn over the class photos, and make my aching way through all the handwritten dedications and messages. Yes, I remember you, and you, and you I hated, but not truly. And you were my world till it ended. And, after that, you were my world. A series of important people that really weren’t so, after all. The cruel unfolding of life. Continuous replacement. Of everything.
I close the suitcase, grab the handle and make my way up the ladder to the attic.
But it’s so difficult, the climb: the little green suitcase is so much heavier now, I can barely drag it.