“Marcus Eugene, if you don’t stop eating that shit, I swear to God, weeds will grow in your stomach. Dio mio, get in here. Prontissimo.” Marcus, a nine year old legend-in-his-own-mind, is the weirdest kid I have ever met, hands down. No contest. To make matters worse, his sovereignty betrays a soreness that only a fellow displaced person like me would recognize. Being shipped off to his grandparents’ house year after year, summer after summer, is a tick for poor Marcus, a burden that could grow for him in ways that his father doesn’t recognize.
For that reason, I personally wouldn’t use the word “shipped”, but I’m sure that’s how Marcus interprets the situation. His Italian is abysmal, there’s no hiding it, and I imagine that he must feel overwhelmingly lonesome here because of it. From my window, though, I quietly get the impression that he’s accustomed to time spent by himself. This kid is crazy, you understand.
Presently, I should tell you, Marcus’ favorite color is turquoise. With gusto, this kid’s favorite color is turquoise; it’s all he wears. This morning, his favorite color, paired with his grandmother’s love for gardening, finds Marcus face to face with the most magnificent fertilizer he’s ever laid eyes on. You know that blue garden stuff that you spread and it looks like colored feta cheese? Yeah, dude’s eating that stuff. Just because it’s turquoise. But his actions, in my opinion, if scrutinized, run deeper, too. He’s sitting solemnly on the curbside, humming to himself…completely unaware that anybody would, or ever could, watch him.
It isn’t that he doesn’t love Rome. No, that isn’t it at all. Marcus is weird, but he’s also a brain, a fervent historian at just nine years old. No, in truth, he prizes days that his grandfather spends showing him the historical sites of Rome, camera death-gripped in hand and ears wide open. I know because I see him. I know because I know his family.
The pictures he takes, summer after summer, wind up painstakingly collaged on the guest bedroom wall, the room that only sees permanence in those photos, a makeshift map of Rome. Without question, Marcus is extraordinary. I know it. It’s just that he’s so terribly aware of his foreignness.
Shielded by childhood’s purity, the only thing he knows to be a transnational attraction for people is greenery, and I think that’s lovely. Flowers, sunshine, trees, warmness, all of the bliss and warm creatures that foliage draws near to it. Why doesn’t Signora Romano see him clearer? For sure, he’ll ignore her until she busies herself with something else; he is not meek. From across the street, I’m watching his favorite color, the fertilizer, take root in him. Fields and fields of green surface, and I’m watching all of the birds, bees, butterflies, and loveliness swarm him, only they’re not those things. They’re spray paint, dirty children, old women shoppers, and people enjoying their lunch breaks. In this moment, as I watch him struggle to be treasured, I’m wholly aware of the fact that he fits in better here than anybody has ever fit in anywhere.
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