The Whole World Loves Italians

OK, so my name is actually French because my dad’s side of the family is French Canadian (well, French-Canadian-Louisianan-Canadian-American, but whatever). Once I took a road trip to Prince Edward Island with my fellow Anne of Green Gables aficionados, and was delighted to find a fish market on the north of the island with my grandmother’s maiden name on it. I made my friends stop the car so I could get out and meet my relatives. Inside the market were a couple of men, sorting fish, and as I excitedly explained to them how we were probably long-lost relatives and enthused about the beauty of my family’s home town, they mostly grunted or nodded and continued with their catch.

“How do you know they were your relatives?” one friend asked.

“Oh, they’re definitely family,” I said, sagely. “They barely talked, you notice that? The men in my family are the strong silent type. They never say two words. It’s genetic.”

Four years later, it dawned on me that they probably didn’t understand much of what I said. That side of the family speaks only French.

Anyway, I appreciate French things – mostly the food, but there are a couple painters I love, and French opera is rather enjoyable. But my loyalties have always been with my mom’s side of the family, because let’s face it, Italians are more fun.

Case in point: The Number Game.

My mother’s father is one of fourteen children, and she has something like fifty cousins, so by the time you get to my generation there are around two hundred of us. Imagine, two hundred Italians, all sharing my genes. Scary. Last Sunday, we all got together for a family reunion on my great-grandparents’ farm. Whenever my grandpa and his brothers get together, they play the Number Game.

I don’t know what the game is really called. When they say it, it sounds like Morra, which they insist means “ten” in Italian, but it doesn’t, and as none of the remaining fourteen actually speaks Italian, I guess I’ll never know. The game is simple, and from a distance looks like Rock-Paper-Scissors. Each person throws out a couple fingers and simultaneously yells a number. If your fingers and your opponent’s fingers add up to the number you called out, you get a point. Best of three wins.

Sounds boring, doesn’t it? In English, it is boring. I doubt my French relatives would even deign to waste their time on it when they could be eating pâté. But Italians understand that anything can be made fun if you add a bit of drama.

First of all, you have to yell the numbers, dramatically, with an Italian accent. “SET-te! OT-to! Se-iiiiiii!” This is accompanied by strong hand motions, preferably with a twist of the body for added panache. One of my uncles crouches down Elvis-style for his delivery, while another looks like he’s winding up to pitch a softball and then waves his fingers under his opponent’s nose. When you win a point, you keep track on your other hand – thumb, index, and middle finger – and you have to furrow your brows, nod once or twice in satisfaction, and wave that hand in your opponent’s face as if to say, “See that? I beat you! Ha!”

I want to teach the game to my friends so I can play it, too, although unless they’re willing to really get into it, it won’t be nearly so fun. None of us wears plaid pants hiked up to our armpits with brightly patterned shirts and alligator shoes, either, so that definitely takes away from the enjoyment of the game.