Reflections of Production Coordinator

I will preface this with stating some details may be vague to protect my identity and to not draw the attention of certain parties.

Years ago, before the grays began to show and life took its toll, my grandfather offered me the opportunity to network with a radio host. This man was not famous by any means, unknown outside of the circle of geriatric listeners he had amassed. I knew nothing of him and barely spoke the language he broadcast in despite the fact it was my mother tongue.

My parents had never attempted to teach me Italian, and the bits I picked up were the southern dialect my grandparents spoke while taking care of us after school. My name is so obviously Italian, I could not possibly be any other background, but ‘Italian’ was not at all part of my identity. The music never appealed to me, I hated soccer, and I actively avoided the cliques of other Italian kids.

When I got to high school it was harder to avoid, the school was largely Portuguese and Italian, so despite me avoiding soccer all my life and hating euro music with the force of a thousand suns, I found myself needing to fake it to keep a circle of friends. Yes, even the early 00’s emo kids, would bond over their time playing little league soccer, and how great Dance Mix ’95 was. I lied, often, if for no other reason than trying so desperately to belong.

I did, in fact, start to enjoy aspects of being a second-generation Italian kid. SOME of the music did grow on me, but it was largely the sense of community I discovered. Playing ‘Scopa’ and ‘Briscola’ during lunch, debating who had the better pasta leftovers for lunch, learning that the life experiences I deemed weird while growing up were actually a quintessential part of my “Italian-ness.”

I found myself lamenting that I had never made an earnest effort in learning the language. I spent more time with my nonni trying to speak in Italian with them, doing my best to learn their recipes while listening to the stories from their childhood, and the hardships they faced when they immigrated. I wish that I had taken more time to listen to them, to learn the language, and that I just had more time with them.

All this is to say is that when this radio host offered me an opportunity to intern in their television department, I jumped at it. My nonno, in the years following, often said he wished he had never introduced me to him.

I paced outside the doors of the building, the first person to arrive. The director parked out front soon after, coming to a stop directly in front of the doors in a loudly branded vehicle. I shook his hand and followed him in. “Today just observe, see if being here is something you’re interested in, just know it’s a commitment. We’re not like other places, we’re a family here.” I should have left there and then. Slowly, the rest of the crew trickled in, all of which were college students like me. I even had mutual friends with a couple of them.

“Oh fuck, how did they get you here?” Marco was a friend of an ex of mine and had been working there a few years at this point. I did as I was told and just observed, the show seemed simple enough, set up and tear down were quick, and we were treated to pizza once we were all done. “So! What did you think? Are you coming back next week?” Marco locked eyes with me and mouthed ‘no.’ I needed the internship hours, and none of the other places I had contacted wanted to take me on. “Sure, I’ll be back next week!” “Great, do you know about the three kinds of people?” There was a collective groan in the room. “Tell him next week, it’s home time.” Marco jumped to his feet, put an arm over my shoulder and leaned into my ear, “You fucked up.”

I did. I fucked up.