Games Kids Play
In Duffer’s class,
we do this test review
called History Jeopardy.
In small groups,
we figure out questions
from answers
and there’s more danger in
teachers picking teams
than students guessing wrong.
In my head,
I play this game
every weekday
from eight to three.
But Duffer doesn’t get that
history teachers should be
up on current events,
especially when they
go down right in front of him.
Bet if he joined in
and the answer was
This boy threatened
to shoot up Harbor Bay Day School.
Duffer’d know the question—
Who is Mario D’Auria?
SUNDAY MORNINGS
Nonna starts the sauce early.
That familiar smell
sautéeing the air
wakes me up
every Sunday.
I follow my nose.
It knows the scent of
thinly sliced garlic
crackling in olive oil,
splattering up the cooktop,
smacking my senses.
My bare feet hop
down our steep stairs
to Pavarotti playing
and San Marzanos sizzling,
the pomi d’oro,
the sweet golden apples—
crushed red chunks
my grandmother pours
from a giant can
into a cast iron pot
every Sunday.
San Marzanos are
the Ferrari of tomatoes.
Their skin even comes in rosso corsa,
the original racing red—
hot, fast, and flashy,
the national color of Italy.
Sunday dinner’s at three.
Don’t be late!
only in south florida
South Florida is
saltwater and beach sand
and green iguanas that turn bright orange in mating season
(well, only the male ones do)
and frozen iguanas—any color—falling from trees.
(Not fake news.)
It’s hungry gators waiting to devour small, unleashed dogs.
(It happened to my neighbor. Also, not fake news.)
It’s golf courses and golf courses and golf courses
and tennis courts in gated communities
(that all look exactly the same)
and backyards with screened-in swimming pools
(to keep the mosquitoes away).
South Florida is
fan boat rides through Everglades
and kayaking through mangroves
and groves of mangos
and avocados with enormous pits
and delicious citrus.
Everyone loves a good orange.
And even though I’ve never been north of Orlando,
I know everyone on this peninsula
also loves a good headline—
Florida Man Arrested for Pooping on Opposum in Public
Florida Man Breaks into Stranger’s to Avoid Angry Wife
Florida Man Stabs Gas Station Customer with Box Cutter
Florida Man with “ALL GAS No Brakes” Neck Tattoo Crashes While Fleeing Police
(That last one’s even got a video! #floridaman.com)
Don’t confuse northern Florida
with my side of the Sunshine State.
We’re the only ones who have
Florida Panthers on ice
and Miami Dolphins in stadiums
and Marlins stealing bases
and Heat steaming up the court
and eight D’Aurias around our Sunday dinner table—
la famiglia ~ the family—
the best place to be.
Family Is Everything
Three generations
of D’Aurias
live together
under one
narrow roof.
Compared to
Zio Enzo’s mansion,
our townhouse
might be small,
but it’s perfect for us.
Babbo and I are up
on the third floor.
Nonna’s on the first.
In between’s the kitchen,
the heart of our home
where Nonna loves sharing
our Italian culture,
her first language,
our rich Roman history—
anything about Italy!
I’ll never inherit a trust fund
like most kids in my class
(including my cousin),
but my inheritance comes from
the name I was given at birth,
family recipes Nonna passes down,
and her Italian wisdom—
those everyday idioms
and priceless proverbs
that don’t translate literally.
They’re kinda like riddles.
You just gotta figure them out.
My favorite one is
Non si può avere la botte piena e la moglie ubriaca. ~
You can’t have a full bottle and a drunk wife.
I used to think this one was funny
just because a wife was getting drunk.
(Then I met Lucy’s drunk mom—not funny.)
But there’s way more to it than that.
Sometimes to keep one thing,
you gotta give up another.
One of Nonna’s go-tos
doesn’t need explaining though.
La famiglia è tutto ~
Family is everything
says it all.
I mean, it used to.
If you’re a D’Auria,
you’re supposed to
have your family’s back.
Always.
No matter what.
But what happens when
someone in the family thinks
everything means
only some things or even
nothing at all?
Latin~Roman Legacy
I’m the first son of my generation.
(Lots of pressure when you’re Italian.)
I’m also the underachiever,
two weeks older
than my overachieving cousin.
(The most annoying human on earth.)
My parents named me after my
father’s
father’s
father,
Mario Armando.
Nonno Mario was a farmer.
He grew San Marzanos
in Valenza, a little town in Campania
(where he also met Nonna).
Armando was also my
mother’s
father’s
father.
(Just a coincidence.)
Armando Montoya was a Colombian poet.
He wrote haikus and odes,
sonnets and limericks.
Mami would read me Abuelo’s words.
(I loved when she rolled her R’s.)
Mario comes from Mars—
Roman god of war,
father of Romulus and Remus,
founders of Rome (in this myth).
Don’t confuse Mars with Ares,
the Greek one,
the Percy Jackson one.
Mars only fought in defense,
to keep peace.
(That’s more my style.)
Aside from boneheads
asking if I’ve seen Luigi
or unclogged any toilets
or saved Princess Peach lately,
I like being Mario.
I never met the first one
(or the first Armando),
but I'm proud I have their names.
I’ve never had to be Ari D.
like John M. and John B.,
Alex M. and Alex C.
I’ve met Marcos and Amandas
but never a Mario or Armando.
I think my parents named me
so I could always and only be me.
So why's it so hard to live up to my name?
HYPERACTIVE BLACKOUT
You know when something’s funny
(but not really that funny),
like when your teacher farts then
pretends it’s just a squeaky dry-erase marker and
you know you shouldn’t be laughing but
you just can’t help it?
That’s what’s happening
right now.
I’m no-control cracking up so hard
I have to hold my chest to breathe.
Emilia puts down a stack of eight plates and
glares at me like I have seven heads.
It wasn’t that funny, Ari.
My abs hurt.
(I mean, the place where abs should be hurts.)
I might laugh myself to sudden death.
Why are you so hyperactive?
A lid clanks and clatters against a pot.
Time to add salt before the pasta drop.
You really need to go back on meds.
And just like that,
her voice cuts the vibe
like a full-on blackout.
DEATH OF EMILIA
I’m frozen
in the doorway.
I want to shut off
my whole body.
Flip the switch.
Cut the sound.
I squeeze my eyes
and clench my jaw
and turn around to get in
one last dig.
Emilia’s holding her hips
and pursing her lips
like the drama queen she is.
My weapon’s at her feet.
I don’t pick up the evidence.
Instead, my voice flips to offensive.
YOU are not my mom, Emilia!
YOU set the table!
I storm into the den
and park my butt on the couch
between Peppe and Babbo,
two soccer-crazed D’Aurias
yelling at the TV.
(The refs can’t hear you in Italy!)
The crowd’s cheering catches fire.
Napoli’s about to score.
Dai! Dai! Dai!
chants through the townhouse.
I wish Emilia would
Die! Die! Die!
I picture her funeral—
Me, Nonna, Babbo,
Zia Sofia, Zio Enzo,
Peppe, and Dominic.
First pew.
Front and center.
All in black.
No Emilia.
My chest tightens.
Ok, I don’t really want my cousin to die.
I just want her to realize
how much her words can set me off.
Even though,
we both know
they’re true.
Over Sunday Dinner
We sit in our usual seats
at the long wooden table
in our small dining room.
Every room in this place is small.
It makes eavesdropping way too easy.
Emilia’s insult repeats
over and
over and I’m
over it. I’m
over her. I’m
overwhelmed and
overpowered and
overstressed and
overshadowed, and it’s all
over this endless echo
over and
over and—
Why are you so hyperactive?
Emilia’s voice
overruns my head. It’s an
overflow I can’t
overcome.
Does she even know
where hyperactive comes from?
Over Word Origins
Hyper comes from Greek meaning over,
like excessive or exaggerated,
like hyperbole or hypercritical
(like the label ADHD).
Super comes from Latin meaning over,
like extreme or excessive,
like superhero or superior
(like what ADHD should be).
They’re cognates,
born from the same word,
historically related,
changing with each new language.
Why’d the H in ADHD
have to come from Greek?
It just makes me hate
acronyms
and Greek
and Emilia
and this Sunday dinner
that hasn’t even started.
We’re just sitting at the table
waiting on Babbo and Nonna.
(Can’t start until everyone’s here.)
My body won’t untense.
My fists won’t unclench.
I strap my arms across my chest.
What’s taking so long?
Through the kitchen doorway,
I see Nonna shaking a finger at Babbo.
I hear words too fast to understand.
I smell sauce on pasta getting cold.
I taste my mouth salivating.
I feel anger, simmering
like that pot of salted water, boiling
but there’s no pasta to drop in, intensifying
and I just can’t stop this volcano in me raging.
I hear Nonna say,
Lui è buono come il pane.
I’m not sure
what that even means.
Buono is good
and pane is bread
and good bread’s
the best food on the table
but in any language,
I don’t want a label.
If I’m as good as bread
it must be stale.