(the following eulogy was read by my friend, and fine actor, Bruno Ragnacci, during the Funeral Liturgy for my father on March 13, 2004, held at St. Pius X Church, in Loudonville, New York)
One day my father built me a kite. It was the summer of 1964 in Perugia, Italy,
only a month after my mother’s heart decided to come to a premature stop, leaving the two of us alone in a familiar yet suddenly unexplored territory of uncertainty and fear.
The kite my father built me followed the basic aerodynamic principles and design of freestyle flying; it was meant to ride with the wind, to dance with gravity, to let
the moment unfold, and to balance yourself with the forces of nature.
But in spite of all this, it was built with the wrong type of materials, and it proved too heavy for liftoff.
My father’s sense of craftsmanship struggled to follow procedures, and most of
the time procedures did not follow my father. During World War II, as a lieutenant
in the former King of Italy’s army, he would draw his pistol charging his platoon
forward only to find himself alone in the face of the enemy. The platoon would
not follow him. Neither the King of Italy…
He was later wounded by a stray bullet
ripping through his hand and part of his arm. He returned to Italy convinced to
never again follow procedures. He married Eleonora, my mother, and his ambition to become a banker lasted only one week. He left the Banco di Napoli
to follow his true vocation, and what would eventually become the only career
he’d ever pursue: the career of a teacher. But a very different kind of teacher…
The kite my father built me was very awkward. It looked like an overblown mangled flag of Panama. It would flap around on the ground most of the time,
striving for the freedom to express itself. It was a home-made device that
emphasized spontaneous self-expression, improvisation and creativity. The same
creativity that guided for almost 20 years his Italian classes at the University for
Foreigners in Perugia.
He taught Italian to a body of students coming from every corner of the planet.
His unique style of teaching was a crossover between “commedia dell’arte”
and a vaudeville show. Although he never acted professionally, he pioneered a
teaching method that would resort to theater games and stage props. He would
re-enact a typical Mediterranean heated domestic argument by playing both the
role of husband and wife, and ultimately crashing a real pile of dishes to the
ground in order to demonstrate the grammar rules. He would do just about
anything to keep his students entertained while teaching the convoluted
dynamics of the subjunctive, the architecture of the irregular verbs, personal
pronouns, and the sound of proper diction and pronunciation. The class
participation exceeded every expectation. There was a long line trying to get in
Professor Baratti’s class, and not enough seats. He quickly became a national
phenomenon. Even RAI, the Italian State Television, filmed a documentary
based on his lessons. After an intensive course with Professor Baratti, whether
you were American, Arab, Greek, German or from Africa, you’d be fluent in the
Italian language.
The kite my father built me was both imperfect and funny. The outdoor throw
launch proved to be a failure. Growing up with Mario was very dramatic,
oftentimes challenging. He was a formidable educator and a terrible administrator. He would forget things, numbers, policies, deadlines. Let alone
umbrellas and wallets. But he never forgot to laugh at himself, and make others
laugh at the absurdity of many obstacles life has in storage for all of us.
He was also an intimidating car driver. He got his car license late in life, after
failing the road test for five consecutive times. When he finally bought a small
FIAT, I remember holding my breath each time the car would go uphill. My father
never mastered the procedures of the manual shift, and would often forget how
to use his hand break. The car would inevitably start rolling downward.
The kite my father built me, in spite of its defects, was still an original artwork
carved in the wind. A labor of love. The same love he brought to Melba, his second wife, with whom he lived for almost 30 years during his American adventure, which he began as an immigrant at age 51. Mario taught Italian at the
State University of New York at Albany and at the University of Wisconsin in
Milwaukee. His view of America was always measured by the nostalgia he felt
for Italy and by the passion he felt for cooking pasta and his penchant for gardening, but a very different kind of gardening…
Over the years, after endless unfinished landscaping projects, Melba’s garden
was soon transformed into an asymmetrical botanical curiosity. It became an
irrational maze of bushes and flowers, surrounded by rocks and improvised
upside down Chianti flasks for decoration, with a fountain and several bird
feeders to attract blue jays, cardinals and doves. The enduring romance between
Mario and his garden created projects that a modest acre of land could not
possibly permit. Imagination, sometimes, is larger than life. From the distance,
Melba’s garden began to look like the Cambodian jungle. But in spite of this, it
was an original artwork carved in the earth. A labor of love.
Finally, the kite my father built me could not fly for another reason: there was no wind on that summer day. We tried, in vain, a few times. But to no avail.
That’s when Mario decided to reverse the natural order of the day: he told me
that he would become the wind, if I could become the kite.
He started to blow air out of his lungs -- I started to run down the prairie.
I ran and ran, and continue to run to this day -- with or without wind -- for the
better or the worse life can offer.
This was my father’s legacy.
Stefano Maria Baratti
