The Italian Dilemma: Is the "Good" Enough to Erase the "Bad"

As a Nigerian living in Italy, I often find myself at a psychological crossroads. It’s a place where I constantly ask: Is the good enough to erase the bad? Why do the two horrible interactions I’ve had live rent-free in my head, while the 50 + amazing, patient, and loving members of my Italian family and friends start to fade in the heat of a single negative moment?

My father-in-law once told me, "What we have in this family is special because it is different out there." At the time, I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted my independence; I wanted to be "out there." But the more I push for that independence, the more I encounter the side of Italy that makes a Black person reach for the word "racism"—a word I refrain from using unless it is absolutely necessary. I prefer other adjectives, but I cannot help but wonder: Would I be treated this same way if I were white?

The Shield vs. The Reality

Even though I married into an Italian clan, I am painfully aware that the lens through which my husband sees me is not the same lens the world uses. Every time I step outside my "shield," I feel the need to have all my guards up. These unkind interactions drain me. They make me feel small and out of control—largely because I am still learning to articulate my defence in Italian as fluently as I do in business or life.

I’ve had people speak about me on the phone in dialect right in front of my face, assuming I’m "dumb." I’ve learned to clear my throat just to let them know I understand their "dumb ass," watching them awkwardly pivot to small talk I refuse to join. But the most recent sting happened where I should have felt safest: the hospital.

The Emergency Room: Hard Skills vs. Soft Skills

After a kitchen accident with an eggplant and a slicer left me with a deep cut, my journey for help was a series of hurdles. From being turned away at a pharmacy to finally reaching the ER, the physical pain was manageable. The emotional pain, however, was just beginning.

The doctor in training was professional, but the senior doctor who came to assist was anything but. As he burned the wound to stop the bleeding, he yelled at me for moving. "Put your fingers firm!" he barked. Sir, you are roasting my finger—what do you expect? He eventually concluded I didn't understand him, asking how long I’d been in Italy. I remained mute. I stayed in my head, wondering: Who raised you? Does blood even run in your veins?

He had the "hard skill" to fix my finger, but he lacked the "soft skill" to be a human. He announced to the room that he had been there since 6:00 AM, as if his exhaustion gave him a license to be vile to people in pain.

The Waiting Room Revelation

Days later, back for a follow-up, the anger was still weighing on me. I felt oversensitive. I felt crazy. Then, I saw a high-ranking anestesista (anesthesiologist) stop to talk to an OSA (healthcare assistant). Despite the hierarchy, he showed genuine concern for her. He was younger, she was older; he was a specialist, she was staff. Yet, he treated her with dignity.

After he left, a nurse nearby spoke the words that finally evicted that ER doctor from my head. She compared that man to the others, saying:

"He is the most respectful, humane person. Not like these other doctors who think they are Gods. You can be well-read, but you must be a person first. The people we work with are not animals or a flock of sheep."

Finding Home in the Truth

In that moment, I wasn't the "angry one" or the "oversensitive foreigner." I was validated. Italy is a place of high ranks and "God complexes," but it is also a place where nurses see the truth and anesthesiologists show heart.

I am learning that thriving here isn't about the bad disappearing. It’s about building my own shield—not one made by my family, but one made of my own voice. I don't need to be "God-like" to stay here; I just need to keep my humanity intact while I push forward.

Did I miss something? Let me know in the comments.