Warrior Types...

"Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow that talent to the dark place where it leads.”

The Southern Italian culture I grew up in was composed largely of people who were warrior types (possessing differing intensities): loud, hard-hitting, intrusive, paternalistic. My relatives were no exception. In the midst of this dominant personality trait, I was born: someone internally intense, yet quiet, inconspicuous, and reflective. This worried my relatives to no end and I was stigmatized for not being so extroverted as they.

When someone celebrated a birthday, baptism, first communion or graduation, everyone was expected to visit in large numbers to show their support and warmth. Food, music and dance were the center of all our family events.

Reviewing my Italian roots has proven challenging especially because I had no language to define or reframe my life experiences back then. The path to freedom began when reading, "The Highly Sensitive Person: How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You." by Elaine N. Aron.
Thanks to this author I have begun to see heightened sensitivity as a strength rather than a handicap. For most of my life I knew I was different and even reproached myself for being that way. It never occurred to me it wasn't my personality trait that was the problem but the cultural cruelty and the prejudices toward gentleness. Aron says,

"The signs of prejudice against sensitivity are easy enough to spot once you read between the lines, to catch those descriptions of sensitivity as a 'syndrome' or that such people are 'out of balance' or 'frequently lose control' or are over-reacting or 'unable to perceive accurately' due to bodies with 'excessive' this or 'abnormal' that. Remember these are usually medical judgments from a warrior-king's perspective of what is out, lost, over accurate, excessive and abnormal. Do remember, however, that there may be times when you truly do feel you have lost your balance, are out of control, and are overreacting.

Highly sensitive persons in a highly stimulating world are bound to, especially those who've had a very stressful childhood or personal history... remember it is not your trait that is to blame, but the world into which you and it were born, and are constantly being challenged to adapt or change."Often friends will comment about their sensitivity as if it is a fault and what they are doing is reflecting the cultural bias that looks upon sensitivity as less mentally healthy. Again, Aron explains that even doctors shun introversion as if it were a disease: “Furthermore, for some doctors especially, sensitivity is a dreaded weakness they had to repress in order to survive medical school. So they project that part of themselves (and the weakness they associate with it) onto patients with any sign of it at all.”

Those of us with this trait can be introverted or extroverted. We are the resident artists, musicians, composers, writers, counselors and pastors. Having a more sensitive constitution we can be more easily bruised and misunderstood in a society where bravery, cool-headedness, mental and physical toughness and determination are highly esteemed. Of course these are excellent characteristics and this blog is not about diminishing certain personality traits against another.

Those who are socially extroverted individuals sometimes find it hard to acknowledge their sensitivity traits. King David seems to be one of those rare individuals in the Bible who was a highly skilled warrior yet at the same time was artistically sensitive writing the most amazing psalms ever written through the ages! David was extraordinarily creative. In relationships, those with heightened sensitivity are usually attentive and thoughtful partners with acute listening skills and compassionate hearts. Most are not only intellectually gifted but highly intuitive. They enjoy a more simple self-aware lifestyle focusing on staying fit and eating right.Anyway, take a look at the list below and see whether any of these descriptions apply to you. Notice, however that this list includes many strengths!

Do you get overwhelmed by stimuli such as lights, noises, and smells?
Do other people’s moods and emotions deeply affect you?
Are you easily startled?
Do you become uneasy when someone is watching you complete a task?
Do you become tired easily after a “normal” day of activity?
Are you aware of other things in your environment that most other people are not aware of?
Do you become agitated or anxious when you have a lot of tasks to do and not enough time to complete all of them?
Do you avoid disturbing or violent movies, books, or T.V. shows?
Do you feel the need to escape and retreat when there is too much going on around you?Are you deeply interested in the arts or music?
Do you dislike changes in your life?
Do you enjoy delicate tastes, scents, sounds, soft fabrics, or beautiful works of art?
Have you always been labeled as shy or sensitive by other people?
Are you overly conscientious?
Do you seem to be more sensitive to pain than other people?
Are you sensitive to certain foods such as foods containing caffeine, sugar or alcohol?
Do you become unpleasant when you are hungry?
Do you easily sense the energies of places or situations?
Are you easily touched by others' experience, stories of kindness, and courage?
Are you attracted to the deeper things such as spirituality, self-development and philosophy?
Do you need time alone?
Are your feelings easily bruised?
Do you have a vivid imagination?
(All above questions were formulated by by Elaine N. Aron)

-- Reflector

Unsolicited iNadequacy...

Inadequacy has been an unsolicited companion since childhood. Actually, I viewed her as a permanent resident. I even used to have recurrent dreams where it took center stage. There were several scenarios yet all of them produced somewhat the same sensation: Sometimes I'd be preaching before a congregation I never had seen, however, I didn't have a Bible with me and couldn't remember the text I was to preach from.


Sometimes I'd find myself in a park area I had never been to before where I was wearing only pyjamas, yet had to make my way past the police that surrounded the area to get back home.

Sometimes I'd be in an unfamiliar High School writing a math exam having no idea how to answer the unintelligible equations that were staring me in the face. Sometimes I’d be involved in hockey (as a youth) but hadn’t brought the appropriate equipment so I'd have to sit on the sideline and just watch.



When I used to have these dreams I could feel the tension go through my whole body, I’d sweat only to later realize it was just a dream, but a dream that revealed so much about my emotional/psychological makeup.



Don Miller, a Christian writer, writes about this same tendency.  He describes how he tends to second guess himself about too many things… whether or not his ideas are right … whether or not people like him… whether he will get married or not …whether his future girl will leave him if he does marry… whether his car is fashionable enough, … and whether he sounds like an idiot when he speaks in public.


How about you? Do you suffer from inadequacy?


© Reflector 2008

“Everything is just fine”

I lived my childhood surrounded by lots of anger, shouting and drama, but I thought this was normal... the fate of every human being. I couldn’t make sense of my surroundings, so that left me in a state of confusion and guarded detachment. The world was a constant boot camp just waiting for you to trip and fall into a ditch with no one to help you get out.

Of course abuse came in diverse forms but most often it operated in insinuating ways, and so as a boy I learned to bear it silently behind a facade of “Everything is just fine”. The bruises were inside where no one could see them anyway.

My view and experience of love and affection was also just as disfigured. Again, insecure love is a distortion of life, but when you've lived with it most of your life it feels normal and you just don’t question it. In my adulthood, I entered the lowest valley of my life where I quietly and slowly lost myself to a personality disordered spouse. My sense of peace laid flat on its back with all four feet propped up. If anxiety and depression could describe my condition, I wouldn’t have been able to say, for I was too numb to feel.

I became as invisible as I could, flying under the radar as much as possible -- making myself as small as I could to escape the tantrums. If I saw an acquaintance on the street, I’d walk on by pretending not to notice him or her, because I simply did not have strength to interact. I stopped caring how I appeared, whether my hair was cut well or not, what clothes I had on... Any photographs taken of me during this period revealed the empty eggshell existence. There was no sparkle in my eyes, not even a trace of joy or spontaneity… and as Randolph Bourne says… “haunted with a constant feeling of weakness and low vitality which makes effort more difficult and renders (me) easily fainthearted and discouraged by failure.¨

Friends could see how I lived under the pangs of anxiety more than I was willing to admit. The reflection in their eyes told me something was wrong, but I preferred to live in denial, so I became reclusive. As Susan Ariel Kennedy wrote, “We become hypnotized by isolation, and think we’re doing it all by ourselves. Our self-supporting skills are not developed, so when people cancel or disappoint us, we can feel a lack of support. Support is usually very close by, and we haven’t learned how or when to ask for it. This can all be changed by studying and practicing new ways of giving and receiving support.”

I found some sense of relief in my routine of domestic chores. In some odd way I was learning an indispensable lesson: to be self-motivated even though my activities were “unsung, unseen, and unsupported”.
It was in the midst of this Cinderella scenario, that the survivor instinct awoke inside me -- when Hope entered inside me through a pin hole saying my life was about to change though I had no idea how.
What began to grow inside me was that I no longer expected others to understand me as I once "needed" them to. If someone understood me I'd be grateful! If not that too was now acceptable. It used to amaze me that though I described my past, EVEN THEN, well-intentioned people would give me this or that advice having no idea what this level of hurt meant. I realized it was not my responsibility to convince anyone about the validity of my story. That had been my first step to freedom.

So, this is my testimony -- a man lost in the land of the lost, but now in the process of recovery… The underlying motive that now compels me through each day is the search for connectedness -- authentic connection – seeking to share rich, satisfying, deep thoughts and feelings.


-- Reflector

Childlike wonder...

¨Relish the pure beauty that can be found in the most seemingly ordinary moments. Give of yourself just because of how right it feels.¨

As a child I enjoyed collecting exotic tropical fish and looking after them. I had two aquariums that seemed to me then as if they were a 100 gallons each when in reality the biggest one may have been 10 or 15. I didn’t know about tropical fish farms then, nor anything about how commerce had breeded these living ornaments to make money. Instead I thought these creatures were from the amazons or who knows what else. What I want to focus on is the childlike wonder that I experienced. I treated those pets as if they were rare.

In the same way we need to see past the commercialism that threatens to cheapen our lives. Even education has become a pursuit for the highest paying jobs that few people can attain and the few that do, live under tremendous pressure that they may never seem able to relax enough to enjoy any of it. I'm sure there's a teaching to be learned here. Oh, yes! Each day the cynical adult world would like to suffocate that childlike wonder so that we lose sight of our dreams and passions. God protect us from those toxic wayward people or ideas.

-- TR

Italian Roots... [entire document]

“Nothing shapes values more than overcoming adversity, having to build success rather than being just given it and knowing - and being proud - not only of where you are but where you come from.”
RCMP Commissioner Giuliano Zaccardelli

“My Italian family journey”

About three years ago, I watched “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” just to appease a friend. I didn’t even expect to enjoy it, since I find most North American comedy movies annoying. It was not only humorous, but I also identified to the protagonist, Nia Vardalos who played the central role and wrote the screenplay herself. Vardalos stars as Toula, a Greek woman questioning her culture's expectations -- the conflict between her collective family culture versus her endangered personal growth.

The Portokalos family express their worry about Toula. She is shy, rather plain. Her aunts, uncles, and cousins regularly encroach in the most personal details of each other's lives. Her family believes Greek women marry Greek men and many other Old World views. If she doesn’t get married, she is expected to work the family business. Toula, however, dreamed much more than her family had planned for her.

Many elements of the movie were autobiographical and therefore reflected reality. It was an authentic portrait about the disparity between first generation Greek immigrants and their children’s divergent ways of thinking. The movie was a lively and light-hearted parody of gratification/pain contradictions. Writing this family memoir has allowed me to contemplate my own gratification/pain contradictions coming from my own Italian immigrant heritage.

As a child, I had looked at my Mom and Dad’s wedding photos many times, but not once did I ever notice that my father was not in any of the wedding photos, except one… and just one. My parents met in Canada for the first time after they had already married. You don’t have to reread that sentence. My parents met after they were married. As impossible as it is to believe, they married without ever having met even once -- only having seen each other in photographs. 

My parents knew one another only through correspondence, through my mother’s aunt who was also my dad’s sister. My mother was only 18 years old, facing a bleak existence in Catanzaro, Calabria where everyone was talking about how the streets of America were paved with gold and how people lived a good life there. My father was already living and working in Canada when my parents began to write one another. Somewhat similar to the effects of e-mail today, my mother constructed a dream of somehow living a happier and more fruitful true-North-strong-and-free life.

My father proposed marriage to Mom, but he said he was not able to return to Italy, so my parents married by proxy. A proxy marriage is a wedding ceremony where the parties are not physically present or in the presence of each other. During the marriage ceremony, based upon the authorization of a priest, the brother of my maternal grandfather acted on behalf of my Dad. Wedding vows were exchanged by means of a long distance phone call between Calabria, Italy to Toronto, Canada in 1956. I did not know this until I was an adult.

From 1880 onwards, 25 million Italians migrated from their homeland to the New Worlds struggling to achieve a better future.  After WWII the shortage of labor made Canada receptive to Italian immigrants. Almost 70% of Canada’s postwar immigrants were Italian. Poverty, overpopulation, and natural disaster prompted several million Southern Italians to immigrate to Canada, mostly from rural areas. My father came from a rural small town on the coast of Sicily called Capo D’orlando, while my mother was a city girl from the mountainous Catanzaro, Calabria.

Upon entry, Italians were made to feel unwelcome in Canada and the U.S., labeled as ignorant, poor, unskilled and lazy. My father often spoke about this kind of discrimination while my mother was able to integrate with other cultures and thus to transcend these injustices. My mother was comfortable socializing outside of her own culture, though she liked to also socialize with other Italians too.

An Italian Immigrant once said,

“I came to America because I heard the streets were paved with gold. When I got here, I found out three things: first, the streets weren’t paved with gold; second, they weren’t paved at all; and third, I was expected to pave them.”


Most Italians worked from the bottom of the occupational ladder and in the worst kinds of jobs, such as shoe shining, sewer cleaning, and construction. Many were miners or built railroads. They worked in low status, but not necessarily low paying jobs. My father was a stock keeper all his life while my mother advanced from a bank cashier to a bank supervisor. My father’s employment stagnation contrasted with my mother’s increasing promotions and salary increases.

In spite of the cultural and interpersonal obstacles, my parents learned to be resourceful, inventive and creative amid the demands of adjusting to a unfamiliar setting. They were models of a strong work ethic and emphasis on family and family values. Also, my parents were lively and did not have to work hard in order to have a good time. They enjoyed music, food, dance and lots of laughter. This contrasts with the Canadian culture that is informal, reserved, and generally lacks expressiveness.

Italian Growing “Pains”

As “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” had illustrated, so too the Southern Italian culture is composed largely of people who are typically loud, extroverted, hard-hitting, intrusive, paternalistic and not very reflective. My family was no exception, and yet in the midst of this dominant personality trait, I was born: someone who was so different: introverted, inconspicuous, quiet, and reflective. I also enjoyed reading and developing my writing. These kinds of interests worried my family.

I was stigmatized for being different. I was not a party person either while most everyone else in my family thrived on social gatherings. I preferred to be either alone or with a few friends than in a multitude. My relatives were good at telling me how bothered, and disappointed they felt. When a loved one celebrated a birthday, baptism, first communion or graduation, everyone was expected to visit in large numbers to show their support and warmth. Food, music and dance were the center of all our family events.

Like the Greek comedy, my parents also witnessed the distancing of their two children from the traditional norms of Italian values, but in their case they saw nothing funny about it. My sister Rosa and I had adopted Canadian values and this brought many heart breaking moments to my mother and father. For example, Rose and I had left the Catholic church and were converted to the Evangelical faith. This was a hard blow since Italians profess to be strong Catholics even if they deny many of the practices. Our leaving Catholicism generated lots of criticism from our relatives.

“Memory is a creation people reshape and reformulate throughout life.”
Roberto Orsi

Orsi states that Italian immigrant parents are excellent at conjuring up images of their homeland as a tool for social restraint. Southern Italy’ was viewed as a mythical place with supreme parents, obedient children, and submissive wives, and the Old World was contrasted to ‘ North America’ where everything had gone wrong. Obsessed by the fear that their social order would give way to the new world, parents used memory as a form of ‘coercive collaboration’ – a contradiction in terms yet this worked to maintain traditional values, and to quash individualism.

My father had an exasperating habit of singing praises to Italy and Italian history. He would say, “Did you know that so-and-so is Italian… This was Dad ‘s sermonizing mode, but none of the second generation believed him and (our many cousins) openly expressed inconformity to this improbable utopia.

Except for my mother, the majority of my family was from a rural background and therefore less inclined toward much reflection but more inclined toward social activities or financial achievement.

Members from an Italian Immigrant home are integrated from birth into strong, cohesive groups that throughout their lifetime continue to protect them and demand unquestioning loyalty. A strong sense of obligation to family and family events: Whenever my parents attended any of the family events, they would later criticize the way things were done or what was said. Acts of extraordinary generosity and hospitality were typically tied to high expectations that the generosity would be rewarded.

My mother also had always been the intermediary so all family events were inevitably coordinated through her. My father, sister and I got so used to her taking the initiative, that we still show passivity in this area. I tend to be solitary and usually leave it to my wife to initiate social contacts and activities.

I had visited Italy three times during my summer vacations. During my first trip at age seven, the relatives seemed so united and happy. On my second and third trip (age eleven and sixteen), I saw the other side, where many of the relatives were divided and had cut off communication.

Reflection as a result of my family journey:

Looking at my Italian roots is intrinsic to my life and it has proven interesting and challenging to think about the ways that being Italian has affected the course of my life. Today I value conversing at a profound level and wish that my relatives could have shared this joy. Unfortunately, my relatives were illiterate when it came to being communicative. Even today, when I visit Toronto, some of my relatives receive me as if I had never left Canada or ever lived in Costa Rica. There is rarely any curiosity. I see this as a bit of a contradiction, because my family and relatives possessed wonderful qualities such as passion and love for life, family, food, art and music, our distinct brand of humor, liveliness and intensity.

I suppose conversation means so much to me because I had so little of it during my childhood. Among the thousands of Immigrant Italian families in Toronto, conversation was not part of the menu. If only someone had stopped to ask, “What’s going on in your heart? Perhaps I would not have grown up as a stranger to my Italian heritage. My relatives simply repeated the customs and patterns of their own ancestors. I think part of recovering my Italian heritage involves the art of conversing, because we not only become aware of the strengths and flaws of our family roots, but validate each other and are saying that the persons we converse with are worthwhile and interesting to us. [1] While my parents (and other first generation immigrants) continue to keep close contact with relatives in Italy, my sister and I (second generation) did not establish nor maintain any such contact.My parents embarked on the most difficult, almost unimaginable journey any of us can think of – immigrating to another land. They left their familiar world of sunny Italy to settle in the cold northern city of Toronto. Although I accompanied my parents as their story unfolded - experiencing it in my own way - I don’t think I can ever really understand the courage it took for them to take that fateful decision. If I had to name the most powerful effect upon me, it would be the impact of watching an Italian community carve out a new life, for themselves and their children.[1]

Italian Roots...

Several years ago, I watched “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” just to appease a friend. I didn’t expect to enjoy it, since I find most North American comedy movies annoying. It was not only humorous, but I also identified with the star, Nia Vardalos who played the major role and even wrote the screenplay herself. Vardalos stars as Toula, a Greek woman questioning her old-world culture's expectations -- the conflict between her collective family versus her individual personal growth. The Portokalos family express their worry about Toula coz she is shy and rather plain. Her aunts, uncles, and cousins regularly interfere in the most personal details of each other's lives. Her family believes Greeks only marry Greeks and many other Old World views. Toula, however, dreamed to accomplish more than her family had planned for her.

Many elements of the movie were autobiographical and therefore refreshingly reflected reality. It depicted an authentic portrait about the disparity between first generation Greek immigrants and their children’s divergent ways of thinking. The movie is a light-hearted parody of gratification/pain contradictions. Examining the film has allowed me to contemplate my own gratification/pain contradictions coming from an Italian immigrant heritage.

As “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” had illustrated, the Southern Italian culture is also composed largely of people who are typically loud, extroverted, hard-hitting, intrusive, paternalistic and often not very reflective. My family was no exception, and yet in the midst of this dominant personality trait, I was born: someone different: introverted, sensitive, inconspicuous, quiet, and reflective. I enjoyed reading, writing, drawing and painting. Most everyone else thrived on social gatherings. Whenever anyone celebrated a birthday, baptism, first communion or graduation, everyone enthusiastically attended in large numbers to show their support and warmth, so that food, music and dance were the center of those family events. I preferred to be either alone or with a few friends than with the multitude. My relatives were good at telling me how bothered, leaving me to feel stigmatized.

Examining my Italian roots has proven challenging -- to think about the ways that being Italian has affected the course of my life. I suppose conversation is significant to me because I had so little of it during my childhood. Among the thousands of Immigrant Italian families in Toronto, deeper-level conversation was rarely part of the menu. If only someone had stopped to ask, “How are you? What’s going on in your heart? Perhaps I would not have grown up as a stranger to my Italian heritage.

My passion for writing came about as a result of my need to find recovery from an emotionally void childhood. I began to do internal work on emotional / spiritual issues, seeking to understand how the effects of my childhood interfered and frustrated the my adulthood, piecing together not only how a quiet and sensitive individual survived in an extroverted family, but now seeking to see it as a strength rather than a defect.

-- TR © 2005