Standing in line outside the immigration office on the outskirts of Rome (two buses and an hour later), under an awning but blown by the rain and the wind, appointment at noon and the hour approaching 3, waiting to be fingerprinted, to have documents triple checked and registered, legal resident status to be confirmed (“come back in 40 days and pick up your papers”), cold and a little miserable, thinking about migration. An ocean away from my monolingual extended family all clustered together in the same state in the USA, descendants–close descendants, in some cases one, in some two generations– from immigration themselves, their parents speaking three maybe four languages maneuvering across the same number of countries, now this family again rooted in a narrow geographic space, state boundaries, almost More
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