Being Italian comes with a lot of quirky perks. One of them is: if something utterly ridiculous is happening somewhere, we probably have seen it before. We’ve done it before. We’ve been it before.
Outside of Italy, talking about 20th century authoritarianism tends to focus on 1933 and the raise of the nazis in Germany. Yet we preceded them by eleven years, actually invented fascism as a term and as a thing, and were a source of inspiration for both the ridiculousness and the horror that ensued.
Now, listen carefully. This time too, we’ve done it before. America – you didn’t invent this show, you’re basically just giving it the Broadway treatment. Think Rent: maybe more spectacular than the original Bohème, but you can’t take from us that Puccini wrote his thing ninety-eight years before Jonathan Larson.
So: a media celebrity with a bewildering personality cult and a sordid sex life got voted in once, proved to be an utter disaster and got swiftly voted out, then proceeded to craft a surprise comeback – mostly thanks to the ineptitude of the other side. I’m talking of course of 1994 (same year as Rent, come to think of it) and then 2001 in Italy, with the additional aspect that social media wasn’t even there yet to take blame for what happened.
He was a convicted felon, managed to dodge most of his other trials, self-dealt to all of his companies, sanctioned laws that brought the Italian economy and society to its knees, targeted his opponents, had no respect for minorities nor for the constitution: his second term was way worse than the first. And then he ended his career senile and largely demented, leaving in his wake younger but not less dangerous authoritarian-minded politicians. One of which has even dedicated an airport to his memory. A vast crowd was there at his funeral, paying respect and celebrating his life.
So, yeah. Been there, done that – and yet we’re still here. Worse off than if he had just never been in charge, but we’re here. With fewer civil rights and freedoms than most other European countries, but we’re here. With a sluggish economy and an unappealing political spectrum, but we’re here.
We’re here because we were there. When he tried to change the constitution, we dissented – and eventually won. While he fed poisonous language on minorities and migrants through media he owned or controlled, we stood next to those who needed help and support.
Building a better world and society isn’t a one-day-in-four-years effort. It’s an every-day-is-a-new-day one. Every time we read to our children, every time we talk to them, that’s a political act. (I mean “our”, here, in the broadest possible sense. Even if the narrow-mindedness of a government, such as the Italian one, actively prevents you from having your own biological or adopted ones, all children are your children, because the hope and future of our civilization and species is our collective future, and that’s what children carry for all of us). Every time we write, sing, compose, film, or act, we’re carrying a torch. Every time we behave with kindness and understanding, we’re modeling what we could and should be as a society. Every time we’re practicing or teaching curiosity, intellectual honesty and the scientific method, we’re preventing darker times from coming later on.
Turns out, history isn’t linear. The world isn’t linear. And it isn’t easy. But then again, nobody guaranteed that it would be. Yet through the mind-boggling non-linearity of history, we can walk on. Carry on. Dream on. Hope on. We listen to our neighbors, especially if they have voted the way they have, because we can learn from them. We hug our kids and reassure them that we’re there for them, and that they’ll most definitely build a better world, be it with us if we stop screwing up, or despite us if we collectively persist.
I’ve done two TV interviews, one book tour presentation and a dinner yesterday, with a show-must-go-on smile on my face and a storm inside. We laughed a lot, at the presentation and at dinner, because that’s what we do when times are tough: we laugh. It helps.
And then tomorrow comes, and we do it all over again. Every day. Every minute. Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes (yep, that’s Rent again) per year. Times four – it’s two million, one hundred two thousand, four hundred minutes. Doesn’t lend itself to a catchy tune, but it’s still two million, one hundred two thousand, four hundred occasions to practice love, kindness, laughter, and dissent when needed. That’s a lot of work to do – better get started already.
Carlo Calabrò 