are so many of my memories and I would fix them, stop, share with others or even to myself ... What is your earliest memory of a wall ... a 'dark room. To give light on the wall someone had painted a tree branch and a flight of swallows ... but the room remained dark .. It was a 'classroom of the elementary school I attended and where my mother taught .. It was called "E. Fusinato Fua", where E was about to Erminia. I think it was the wife of a poet, Mercantini, that of "The gleaner Sapri" but what had she done to deserve that is called a school, I do not know.
We were housed in a dilapidated building, a pious institution, called "Mondragone Institute, located in the 'homonymous square in the center of Naples, where, among intricate alleys, down from CorsoVittorio Emanuele Via Chiaia: two routes among men with a maze of narrow little poor.
The school was unsafe, which means that everything could collapse at any moment to 'another, but it was said with resignation mixed with a sort of indifference that is typical of the Neapolitan people. How to say "What we putimm 'is?" I 've ever heard: When I was a pupil and later, until my mother retired in '73. The' establishment 'Mondragone "housed holy women, the sisters nearly but not quite: between those ce n' was one that prepared me for the First Communion. C 'was also a guest there was a child, a deaf-mute, survived the earthquake of Messina, I, terrified of any type of malformation, I was afraid and ran away when I saw this poor woman who spoke with moans .. The elementary school had with the 'institute a kind of convention, so, after school, once a week, we girls went to a canteen where we were given lessons in sewing ... I hated those hours: point-to-day , stem stitch, cross stitch .... crap that came out of my reluctant fingers!
's building was an overlap of buildings: c' was a close-up, then a second that is illuminated by a corridor which overlooked the dining hall where we sewed, then through a winding stairway all (I think the current rules security), access to third floor where light c 'was my class.
That's my mother, however, was the first floor: she was the TEACHER .. It was many years in that school to be able to choose the 'classroom, I do not know under what criteria: it was not the prettiest, it was in the side of the dilapidated school, but she liked it. My mother gave the "you" to the Director, because they were related, but not called by name, only the Director and you.
My mother cried when he was teaching, she was good, very, its classes were winning so many competitions, the 'Knight also have made for their academic merits, he loved the students and their' loved it, but cried, I too, in later years I would separate the stentorian tone ... but I remember that as soon as you entered the school, felt the voice of my mother.
I did the first grade three, four and five years, the first two, simply for failing to leave me and where I had refused, rolling on the floor, to attend the 'asylum, took me with him and made me sit in a bench in four years ... ... read and write at five, always dragging me, forced me to take the first set. In Naples, all make the first five years, only now you can, always. If you knew you were a teacher admitted as a listener (I shudder even thinking about the safety standards), then at the end of the first you take an exam and went to second on right.
When I made the 'first examination, as well as when I gave the elementary school, my mother, to be fair, he left the school ...
's use of the school was mixed: c' were sons of gentlemen and children who came from San Jib Lucia, a warren of alleys and stairways that by 'the Egyptian led to a Pizzofalcone S. Lucia, the most intelligent of an intelligent people: so they called my mother, because, he said, had grown up over the sea.
My teacher was called Carolina Bruno Rossi, great lady, good teacher: he did not know when someone slaps drew the lesson that left the 'imprint of the fingers (not me because good daughter and colleague). Nobody dreamed of challenging, even the parents say, "Sign vattitele" asked the teacher to beat their children. I had a friend who called me "Quatt'uocchie" because I wear glasses, but I never felt like an 'offense, was a way to define me.
poor children were given the meal, that is, free snack: sandwiches roses, yellow American cheese and quince jam it was a quince, but tough. The teacher shared the meal and also gave to children who could be poor but not enough to have their rights. I envied very poor children because 'I wanted but it was not me.
We had a voice teacher, and crippled old lady named Chair: in 'now taught us singing the national anthem and "Va pensiero" ... I do not remember other songs.
Mine was a mixed class: it was the 'only one of my life because I have attended middle and high schools by nuns, but this is a' different story.
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