The whole world
is full of cultural investigators, and today, it’s just you, me and the
fencepost trying to figure out why people do the things they do. There are tons
of signs to scrutinize along the road to cultural understanding and they all
point to how a population loves and how it listens, how a nation spends both
time and money and what strikes its citizens as silly or unfair.
Exclamations of surprise, ranting damnation, expressions of wonder-why
not pin them all down and see what stoffa they’re fashioned with? In a week characterized by
minor squabbles at home and social unrest in Rome, somehow, it’s anger’s turn
to take front seat-as passenger, not driver, ’cause in this forum, we’re going
to study it, not feel it.
When English speakers get angry, they ‘fly off the handle’ and ‘blow
their tops’ or ‘blow a fuse.’ It’s all about liberating compressed air after
weeks or months of sensible repression. The Italians, who refuse to consider
suppressed emotion a form of politeness, have different ways to talk about
getting angry. One such verb is imbufalire, and the thought of ‘buffalo’ being a verb almost
makes me forget about being peeved at all.
Then, there’s that wonderful reflexive verb, incavolarsi. Liberally
translated as ‘to cabbage oneself,’ it’s one of the country’s most vivid ways
of articulating anger. Does rage go to one’s head, annulling all reasonable
thought, so that we’re left with nothing on our shoulders but a leafy head of
kale? Or is it about getting caught in the cabbage patch, like furious Mr.
Macgregor who finds that Peter Rabbit and all his flopsy bunny sisters have
managed to make off with the carrots again?
However you want to look at it, cabbage seems to crop up in the Italian
language far more than any vegetable ever should, and one can’t help but notice
the country’s fondness for making frequent mention of it. It is true that Tuscans like to stir it into
their soup, re-boiling black kale leaf and cannellini beans with a
quasi-religious respect, as if they were mixing Immortality Stew rather than ribollita. But besides
being a winter dish that combines well with sausage, cavolo is more often
in the mouth than it is on the plate. A euphemistic expression, it refers to
almost any annoyance. Accompanied by an explanation point, it becomes both
‘gosh’ and ‘damn.’
If you want someone to mind their own business, it’s fatti i cavoli tuoi, or
alternatively, sono
cavoli miei. I’ll oversee my own row of cabbages, thank you very much. Non capisco un
cavolo, an expression that’s sadly apropos in most of life’s labyrinths, means
you have neither cabbage nor clue about what’s really going on. Also, any
trouble you foresee means saranno cavoli amari-expect bitter cabbage for dinner, my friends,
there’ll be no buts about it.
The leafy green list does not end here, but I must finish this piece
before the page ends. Humor me with just one more, would you? Because, let’s
admit it: angry people often say things that have nothing to do with the actual
issue at hand. When bad tempers hit the roof, they pervade in the whole of the
house, from cellar to attic, dragging in every domestic misdemeanor that
occurred since before Columbus even left the bel paese. C’entra come il cavolo a merenda or ‘That’s got
nothing to do with it!’ means that one’s accusations are as out of place as
cabbage for breakfast, and this exclamation proves especially effective in a
country where people have small morning stomachs.
Ma cavoli aside-anger,
annoyance, irritation-alas, they all happen, transforming us into
foliage-chomping bison. Still, once we’ve cooled down the heat under our
collars, it’s helpful to remember that English doesn’t even have a real verb to
express anger, we simply take the adjective and force it into the makeshift
phrase ‘to get angry.’ Italians have an odd situation as well: though the verb
exists in the language, it is almost solely reflexive: arrabbiarsi. Essentially,
that’s self-generated misery-‘I get myself angry.’ I find it comforting
somehow: it puts it all into perspective. Oh, and then there’s this: arrabbiare actually comes
from the root word for rabies.
Rabies, I tell you. How’s that for a reminder to keep off the warpath?
Next week, we’re talking about peace, I promise.
