A Florentine Affair
the time i smoked with an italian boy because i was sad :-(
The chore of listening to him talk about how smart and bored of traveling he was would have been overwhelming if I couldn’t sneak glances at the Arno River’s glittering water straining under the oppressive Florentine sun. It was unbearably hot, and with each pompous tangent he exhaled more and more smoke until we were encased in an ever-increasing fog dense with more tobacco than I would have liked. It was worse than I thought it would be, but I also wasn’t there to enjoy myself, and so I continued to dutifully nod and let out small laughs on cue until he made a move to leave.
We walked down the street along the river, and while he pointed out a mansion his luxury real estate firm had just sold, I contorted my body away from his flirtatious touches on the back of my neck. We went to a café so he could get a coffee, and I chose to get an orange juice. I handed the cashier the absurd amount of five euros as he told me about how he might move to Luxembourg for his Master’s degree. A little later, he impressively found a way to shift the topic of conversation to an indictment of American racism. I continued sitting in the café chair, acutely aware of the drops of sweat slimily sliding down my skin.
As he droned on and on, I had flashes of the night prior, when my mother and I were helplessly sobbing on opposite sides of the bed following yet another explosive fight, reminding me once again that my feelings will always react to the words and actions of another before they listen to me. I cleared my head, focused back in on his gesticulating movements and self-assured tone.
My acquiescence to this date was motivated by a desire to re-establish an illusion of emotional control, which only seemed possible by embodying the role of the inadequate daughter it seemed my mother (and therefore everybody) perceived me to be. This was a fun exercise I was known to do in which I subverted my sense of unworthiness and heartbreak by charming someone who I already had an ungenerous preconception of, “grant[ing] myself some sense of superiority to counter my… wallows of insecurity.”1 If this Italian believed me to be nothing more than the cute American girl who he had really been asking on the date, then my judgements of his arrogance and condescension would give me an illusory power. If he liked me more than I liked him, I would somehow have the upper hand.
Yet, turning my depressive feelings into a sort of judgmental irascibility predictably made me sink further. Every time I levied another harsh judgment against him, I condemned myself ten times more for being baselessly superior and hollow, feeding into an unbearable self-recrimination against which the only defense I had was a heavy numbness. I couldn’t handle facing the true intensity of my feelings, seeing them as representative of the emotional power my mother, with whom I am so tired of fighting, had over me; maybe if I didn’t recognize this power our arguments wouldn’t escalate, or at least would no longer render such a jarring impact. Or, even better, if I intentionally acted in validation of the perception everyone already seemed to have of me–– that of a girl pathologically unaffected, apathetic, angry, and temperamental–– whatever emotional reaction I would have otherwise had would be completely repressed. My emotionally destructive behavior would therefore inoculate me against what others thought of me, because I’d have already voiced thoughts more vile.
Following this familiar pattern of thoughts, I always arrive at the same emotional scorn and repudiation. Never mind the kernel of consciousness that stubbornly flashes an image of my mother’s tear-addled face, serving as an emblem of the unignorable truth: I have and never will have total power over how those I love and esteem make me feel, just as I can never fully measure the extent of my own ability to affect the people around me. Yet, rather than accept this lesson, I look away and return to what I’ve always known, which is how to use people, like this pompous Italian, for my own corrupted self-aggrandizement.
When I finally left him, I wanted to cry for knowingly making myself feel worse again. I walked past the church of Santa Croce, stopping to marvel at the structure before having to avert my eyes from the sunlight its blindingly white and teal tiles reflected. I looked toward the church’s plaza, where a stadium had been constructed to host the championship game of the calcio storico tournament the night before. I wondered if any of the players, all of whom I imagined with faces bloodied from fighting the opposing team, ever looked up at the long-standing, centuries-old building to push themselves to the end. I returned my gaze to the church, tilting my head so I could see the shape of its austere triangular rooftop against the endless blue of the clear sky, and I continued walking to the apartment where I was staying. I smoked a bowl, ate some ravioli, and watched Seinfeld.
When my mother walked through the door later, I wanted to tell her everything, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. I don’t seem to know anything except for an emotionally exhaustive process I fool myself into believing illuminates a path towards a type of victory, even if all I’ve ever found at the end is the same persistent hurt.
Still, when the Italian messaged me later that night–– heyy wanna get a drink? xx –– I didn’t hesitate before blocking his number.
Amazing