International Aid

In which a friend in Italy helps pull the Well Worded editor out of her malaise.

“One’s destination is never a place,
but a new way of seeing things.”
― Henry Miller

Trigger alert: The introductory words contain excessive whining. Proceed at your own risk.

Those who know me (and probably many who don’t) can take a stab at why I haven’t posted in while. I’ve been sulking. Paying attention to language niceties has seemed sort of pointless when our leaders cannot grasp how to use words that exist, much less where to place them in a sentence, or indeed form coherent sentences at all. So Well Worded fell on my list of priorities, below doom-scrolling, writing postcards to voters, screaming at the walls, and sleeping excessively.

Plus, friends of mine have had the ill manners to die, or get sick, or behave in other unacceptable ways.

In other words, unlike every single other human being on the planet, I Was Not Happy. Where’s that violin?

But then. Somebody I’ve known for some time sent me an email that was carefully neutral and scant on details. It asked me to respond “if I was Anne Welsbacher from East High School.” He wanted me to confirm that I was still alive, still me.

Another friend I see only briefly when her travels bring her this way mentioned that she enjoyed my newsletter. I’d had no idea she ever read it. A Spanish teacher friend I lunch with occasionally, who doesn’t have time to sulk because she’s busy living, said the same thing.

Gee whiz. I have been guilty of dereliction of duty. If I were you, I would demand my money back.

Oh, wait.

So...consider this a toe dipped back in the water. It’s kind of cheating, because once more I’m leaning on friends to supply the good stuff. (See the May 16, 2025 issue. Seriously. Even if you already read it. Cheer you right up.)

My expat friend in Italy shared a list a while back, which I in turn shared with you. That list spoke eloquently of change, letting go, love.

Gary has permitted me to share another note, which I do below. It helps me ease back into Well Worded after my long absence.

Thank you to all who have dragged me back, and especially to those who love good words.

---

Jean, my partner for about 30 years, worked for USAID in Washington.

It was a magnificent program.

The US gov’t would invite foreign nationals or small groups to America, thrash out a month-long itinerary, give them a stipend, an interpreter (Jean), a fistful of airline tickets, and say, “Hit the road.”

The only requirement was that when you got home, you’d write a report.

Jean was an excellent linguist (six languages) and was given some pretty amazing assignments; with gov’t ministers, scientists, writers, professors, cultural types, farmers, or cattle ranchers — anybody the American government thought needed to see the American perspective.

It was eye-poppingly magnanimous.

(Trump has since defunded the project.)

Francesco Merlo, a budding international journalist for the Corriere Della Sera, was an invited guest. His friend Eva tagged along.

Francesco wanted to visit university journalism depts, newspapers, book editors, even a printing press … whatever related to journalism. Jean translated, drove rental cars, facilitated appts, juggled hotels, explained how things worked.

So Francesco, Eva, and Jean went to Montgomery, Alabama. (Not sure how or why.) This was in the early 1980s. They went to the white newspaper. Had a dry discussion. Got their perspective on the race issue.

Jean decided to call the competing black paper. Would they be available to meet a young, foreign visiting writer?

They were reluctant, thinking it was a ruse. But they got a call from the State Department, and it was arranged.

Eva said the first thing she noticed in the editor’s office when they walked in were the bullet holes in the wall. Editor said they stopped repairing them, vigilantes would only return and shoot up the offices again.

Anyway, they had a wonderful afternoon discussion. (Francesco wrote about the meeting subsequently.)

Eva, at the end, wondered what to do in dusty Montgomery that night. The editor looked at Jean, looked at Eva, looked back at Jean. To Eva: “Little lady, I do know where we can get some good barbecue ribs.”

Dangerous. A group of whites in a black club. Dangerous. A group of gov’t guests in a black club down south.

Jean said, “What time?”

This type of meeting wasn’t the meat and potatoes of USAID. This was the gravy.

Eva said she ate ribs and drank beer.

Fifty years later, we were at lunch yesterday in Eva’s elegant apartment. In Rome. She’s old. Jean is dead. But she remembers how divinely the editor danced with her that night.

© 2025

---

Lagniappe: Here in Doo Dah (Wichita to you non-locals), we have a magnificent library system. Unlike the library being planned for the 47th president, it does not have an airplane or an adjacent hotel; some of its branches don’t even have all weekdays open. But it nevertheless is magnificent. (This is not a good well-worded example because calling any public library “magnificent” is redundant.)

Like many of its siblings throughout the U.S., our libraries will celebrate Banned Books Week October 5–11. So will our magnificent local independent bookstore, Watermark, hosting a Banned Books Week Read-In.