My Favorite Word

The cookbook A Tuscan in the Kitchen, by Pino Luongo, is distinguished by not giving measurements for the recipes, and by the stories Luongo tells in between the recipes. In a section of the book called “Grandpa’s Nets and Grandma’s Pots” Luongo tells of his grandfather, a fisherman living in Orbetello during World War II:
My grandfather was a fisherman. His name was Ettore, but everyone called him “Bo,” which is an exclamation in dialect that means “Beats me” or “Don’t ask me” or “How should I know?” Like the rest of the family, he was anti-Fascist. During World War II, the Fascists put him in charge of all the civilians in Orbetello, and it was his responsibility to report anyone who did anything against the uniformed soldiers who occupied the town. They would say something like, “There is a man up in the hills. We are looking for him. Do you know where he is hiding?” And my grandfather would shrug his shoulders and say, “Bo?” So he was known as Bo Solimeno until the day he died.
After we read that, in Florence, Italy, in 2005, Jim and I spent the next two weeks rudely blurting “Bo!” every time one of us asked the other one something. Luckily we did not try it out on anyone else; my friend Paola later told me ‘be careful who you say it to, it’s not polite.’ But we did listen to see if we could hear someone saying ‘Bo!’ on the street.

Finally, one day I was trying on some shoes at a shoe store where a girl was trying to return some shoes at the counter. I couldn’t understand a word she and the saleswoman were saying to each other; my Italian stinks at the best of times and they were not talking slow and simple for me the way people usually do when they realize I’m a tourist. But it was obvious what was going on: The girl had changed her mind; the saleswoman wanted to know where her receipt was. The girl puffed out her cheeks, let loose a puff of air, shrugged and said “Bo!”
My next goal was to get someone say it to me. But since most of the things I say to Italians when I travel are along the lines of “Where is the bathroom,” “Campari-soda, please,” and “Where’s the Laurentian library,” and since I’d usually ask someone who would know, this didn’t happen.
Not until last fall in Rome. Thanks to Maisie, we had a lot more interactions not based on directions or commercial transactions. People would come up to talk to her and call her “Carina!” and “Bellissima!” and chuck her under the chin and sing her the song about clapping hands because Daddy was coming home with cookies, and then they would scold me for my rotten mothering skills, which included letting her sit in her stroller barefoot in October (it was over 75° every day) and letting her head slump when she slept in the stroller. It was very sexist—they wouldn’t scold Jim, though he’d be standing right there. They would only scold me. It doesn’t take a village, it takes an entire ancient capital city. So one day we were at Piazza Mancini pretty far north, near where we were staying, to catch the tram that would take us downtown. Usually there are two or three trams lined up to go, but on this day there were none. We waited fifteen minutes. There was only one other person waiting, a woman standing there with what looked to be her three-year-old grandson. Finally, I said “Dove tram? E un sciopero?” Which more or less translates (I think) as “Where tram? Is a strike?”
And she said: “Bo!” Which obviously meant, “how should I know, you dimwit, you can’t even put socks on your baby’s feet!”
The great thing about "Bo!" once you start thinking about it is that it seems to be the perfect answer to every question. Like the ones you get at post-reading Q&As.
How long did it take you to write that poem?
When did you start writing poetry?
Where do you get ideas for poems?
Bo!