Last
month I had the, I guess I shall call it “privilege,” to participate in a
special ceremony in Italian culture. Actually, I participated in four. The Dicottesimo or 18th birthday
as it would be in America is a grand event in Italian culture. In America,
turning 18 means one makes the transition from adolescent to adult, and while
the meaning is very much the same here in Italy, the celebration is more
equivalent to that of a wedding than the average birthday party. It is seen as
a sort of coming out party in which family and friends present the birthday
girl/boy to the world, offering their hand as a grown adult to the myriad of
society. The celebrations are a spectacle, filled with lots of food, friends,
and endless festivity. I was grateful to be welcomed into the joyous occasions,
as I was aware of how special they are to the people here, but I must be
perfectly honest when I say that it was at these events that I felt most like a
foreigner.
Now
I must explain why exactly I felt this way, as I’m aware of how lucky I am to
even have the opportunity to participate in something like a dicottesimo. I am a very simple person—I
don’t wear a lot of make-up, I am an utter disaster when it comes to styling my
hair, and I spend most of my spare change on coffee and books rather than
clothes. Actually, my mother or sister usually has to point out when it’s time
for me to go clothes shopping. In short, I’m not one to spend hours making
myself up. That is not to say that I don’t enjoy getting myself gussied up;
like most girls, I enjoy a fun night out feeling beautiful, confident, elegant,
and, dare I say it, even sexy at times. Yet even at those times, I always take
the “less is more” route. Many of my friends and family are the same way, so I
suppose we have formed a comfort zone with each other in this sense. Well this
simplicity made me stick out like a sore thumb the first time I stepped into a dicottesimo. Here is my story for your
enjoyment:
My
host sister, Ida, told me that I should wear something nice, a dress would be
best. In my head I recalled exactly which dresses I brought with me: a plain,
black cotton-stretch sundress and a maroon cocktail dress. Alright, I thought, cocktail
dress it is then. I asked Ida if this dress would be appropriate,
especially if it would be okay for me to wear with my calf-length black boots
(as it was chilly out and I didn’t have fancy stilettos as she did). She told
me it would probably be fine, that they would understand I was American. I’m
still not sure if that was meant as reassurance or as a slight. Either way, I
told myself not to worry about it and instead to just enjoy the evening as it
came. I decided that to make up for the lack of stilettos I would curl my hair
instead. After putting a little color on my cheeks and lips, I felt pretty good
about myself. It was nothing glamorous, but I figured I would at least blend
in.
As we pulled up to the restaurant where
the party was being held, Ida stopped me as we got out of the car. “By the way,
I don’t know this girl very well, but I do know her family is kind of rich so I
think this party will be very fancy.” Fantastic,
I thought, you couldn’t have mentioned
that earlier? I realized then that Ida was feeling just as uncomfortable
about her appearance as I was about mine, and she was the one wearing the nice
shoes! Suddenly, my worry returned that I might not be quite so appropriately
dressed for the occasion. Perhaps “tacky American” would be the look I was
going for then. We stalled for a few minutes waiting for Ida’s stepsister, who
is classmates with the birthday girl, to arrive so that she could accompany us
in. When we could no longer bear the cold night air, we forced ourselves to
smile and we braved the glowing party lights.
It was a sea of leggy brunettes in
stilettos (I cannot emphasize this enough), each of them looking as if they
were prepared for a fashion photo shoot. As if Ida and I being the only blondes
in the room did not make us stand out enough, I, even in my flat boots, was
about three inches taller than almost every girl there in her six-inch heels.
So, not only was I under dressed, but I looked like a giant. I could actually
feel their stares as I entered the room, could hear them asking each other, “Chi è quella ragazza?”—Who is that girl?
As they looked me up and down, it dawned on me that all of these girls were between
the ages of 15 and 18—I was one of the oldest people in the room, and yet their
stares made me feel like a lost child. Never have I felt so old and so naïve at
the same time. The room was brightly lit, the gold colored walls making
everything luminous. The tables had floral arrangements in a deep red color
that perfectly offset the gold, and on each were two or three bottles of wine.
In the far corner opposite the tables a deejay was finishing setting up his
equipment while his associate was laying the dance floor and putting up the
disco ball. Two professional photographers were casually milling through the
crowd, snapping an endless series of posed photos of the party goers. Maybe this
was actually a photo shoot. As one who has never been very good with large
crowds, my heart immediately began to race at this spectacle. Sweet, baby Jesus help me. Ida led me to
the coat check and as the attendant handed me a slip of paper with my coat
number on it, I realized I didn’t have any pockets or a purse with me. I stood
there for a moment contemplating how I could sneakily slip the number into my
bra without anyone seeing, but thankfully Ida grabbed it from me and put it in
her purse. We were joined at that point by Ida’s stepsister, and as we turned
to face the party, I saw her—the birthday girl. The crowd parted as she glided
towards us dressed in a golden evening gown, her hair pinned back from her face
in elegant curls that hung gracefully on her shoulders. You’ve got to be shitting me, was all that was going through my
head. She greeted us with a gracious smile, thanked us for coming, and linked
arms with the three of us for a photo. Awesome,
now there will be documentation of my giant tackiness. I had a flashback to
my own 18th birthday party and how drastically different it was from
this. Mine included a small handful of friends coming over to my house for
popcorn, cake, and a movie, and somehow the night evolved into a big frosting
fight. On my 18th birthday I wore no beautiful dress or had my make-up
in place; I was covered, as were my friends, head-to-toe in multi-colored cake
frosting. I chuckled at the thought of how all of these girls might react to
butter cream frosting splattering their dresses.
As the evening went on and I drank a
few glasses of wine, my uneasiness slowly wore off and I actually began to
enjoy myself. The catered food was delicious and ridiculously filling, the
desserts, including a legitimate wedding cake, were divine, and by the time we
all hit the dance floor, no one took notice of how each other looked. At that
point I was particularly pleased to have worn flat boots.
As I have attended more of these dicottesimi I have gradually become more
comfortable, even though I may still be considered under-dressed. While at first
glance they seem a little over-the-top in my opinion, I can’t help but notice
how much joy is in the room during the party. The birthday girls/boys smile
from ear to ear the entire night, obviously thrilled that their special moment
that they have been anxiously awaiting for many years has finally come, and in
that moment they are the center of attention. As superfluous as it all may seem
to me, I can’t deny the happiness that the celebration brings and the rite of
passage it brings.
So
while this little story may seem random and off the beaten track from what I
have been writing, it was one of the most memorable experiences I have had
here. Humiliating, yes; nerve-racking, yes; but it was nevertheless exactly
what I came here for—to experience something completely different from my small
corner of the world, to engage with people who are vastly different from
myself, that would push me out of my comfort zone, and try to find some sort of
enlightenment from it all. So what, you may ask, did I take away from the
experience? Well, with a smile, some good music, and your dancing shoes, you
can never have a bad time no matter if you’re fitting in or standing out.
Here are a few pictures from some of the dicottsimi that I have attended
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