Giorgia Meloni: ‘I've never let being a petite blonde stop me'

Times

6 days ago

I owe everything to my mother. Of course, every child could say that, but with mine, these words are even more profound. The truth is, I wasn't even supposed to be born. When she became pregnant, my mother was 23, already had an 18-month-old daughter and was in a struggling relationship with my father — and he already had his suitcase packed, one foot out the door.
The story she tells me is always the same. The morning she was scheduled to undergo routine pre-abortion tests, still fasting from the night before, she began walking towards the clinic. As she reached the door, she hesitated and asked herself: is this truly my choice — to give up on the chance to become a mother for a second time? Her answer came instinctively: 'No, I don't want to give up. I don't want an abortion. My daughter will have a sister.'
All that remained was to solidify her decision somehow, in whatever way she could. She noticed a café across the street and went inside. 'Morning. A cappuccino and a croissant, please.' With that, her fast was over, the lab tests abandoned and the scheduled abortion averted.
There are so many things I never knew about her early life. I never even asked her how her relationship with my father began, how it evolved or why it fell apart. When my mother was discharged from the hospital after giving birth to me, my father — an accountant from Rome — didn't even come to pick us up. Suffice to say, he wasn't exactly the ideal partner.
When I was still very young, he decided to take off for the Canary Islands on a boat named Cavallo Pazzo (Crazy Horse). He set sail and vanished from our lives.
I don't remember the day he left. Frankly, I can't remember ever living with him.
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I do remember the day our mother lost the house — and a few years off her life in the process. That day my sister, Arianna, and I had one goal: to organise a night-time party. We built a makeshift fort in our room, filling it with toys, dolls, snacks and drinks. When we finished, we looked at each other. What was missing? Light. But it had to be a dim light, otherwise Mamma would know we were still awake. We eventually came up with a solution: a candle. It was my sister who found it, but I was the one who lit it.
It was only four in the afternoon, so we had to wait for nightfall to have our party. To kill time, we went to another room to watch cartoons. We left the lit candle behind.
How much time went by? I'll never know. All I remember is that, in the middle of an episode of Candy Candy, we heard a deafening crash from our bedroom. The three of us — my sister, mother and I — ran to see what had happened. Opening the door, we were nearly engulfed by flames. There it was: a panda burning along with all our toys. The noise we'd heard was the shutter collapsing.
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The fire consumed the entire apartment. We fled with nothing but a single bag hastily packed with pyjamas, two pairs of pants and a T-shirt. All of a sudden we were out on the street, alone and homeless. My mother had to start from scratch. A gargantuan task. Looking back, I sometimes joke that this experience is what gave me the courage many years later to rebuild a political house of my own after ours had gone up in smoke. After all, I'd already seen it done when I was 4 — why couldn't I succeed at 35?
Arianna and I were remarkably independent. We even travelled by plane alone as children to spend a few weeks' holiday with our father in the Canary Islands. The flight attendants would tie red envelopes with the necessary documents around our necks, and we would board the plane that would take us to Madrid for a stopover. One time we were stranded because the airport staff member who was supposed to meet us never showed up. We found ourselves lost in the seemingly enormous terminal. While I was in a daze, Arianna took my hand and somehow got us onto the correct flight. I'll never understand how she managed it. Our parents argued bitterly about that misadventure.
It may be hard to believe, but I was quite introverted. As a child, I always wore a sullen expression — the same one I have today when I prepare to answer questions from the press. To anyone who mocks my brazen and grumpy demeanour, I can show them a pre-school photo where I look exactly the same.
I've always been on the defensive. A friend of my mother recently told me I was the kind of child who couldn't tolerate fairytales, disliked being teased and observed adults with mistrust and a raised eyebrow. When asked, 'What kind of kid were you?' the answer is always the same: 'A serious one.' That description still lingers in my mind today.
I had a difficult temperament, and making friends never came easily to me. I was a textbook Capricorn: not shy or distrustful, but fiercely and stubbornly protective of my personal space. In other words, I was not an exuberant child, something I see even more clearly now as I watch my daughter, Ginevra, laughing, chatting and befriending everyone she meets. I, on the other hand, spent most of my time with my sister and a small circle of others. At school, I would stand my ground when provoked. I remember snapping at a classmate who refused to talk to any kid who didn't have a father. Yes, I was prickly, quick to retort, and my looks certainly didn't help my social life.
My grandmother was the kind of person who believed that a bit of extra weight was a sign of good health. Every night, dinner included milk and cookies. As a result, by the time I was nine years old I weighed more than 10st. My mother was also a member of this 'anti-beauty conspiracy'. For practical reasons, she kept our hair short in an unflattering Eighties hairdo that looked like a banana boat. Not even Charlize Theron could pull off that look, let alone me. To make matters worse, they sent us out into the world wearing tracksuits. Unsurprisingly, I wasn't considered attractive. And children, as we all know, aren't exactly politically correct when it comes to teasing someone because they're fat, poorly dressed or whose family situations aren't the norm.
I found being bullied extremely tough, but it shaped me and drove me to change so I wouldn't be such an easy target. One day I was at the beach in my bathing suit. Some kids were playing volleyball and I asked to join them, but was rebuffed as they shouted back at me, 'No, fatso. You can't play.' And they threw the ball so hard, it hit me in the face.
Now that time has passed, I'm grateful to those idiots — they were the first to teach me that enemies can be useful. They spur you on to overcome challenges, to push past your limits and to correct your mistakes. Of course, Plutarch explains it much better when he says, 'A sensible man will receive profit even from his enemies… But since friendship has nowadays become very mealy-mouthed in freedom of speech, voluble in flattery and silent in rebuke, we can only hear the truth from our enemies.' It's also thanks to those kids that I developed a resilient personality to tackle both hardships and fears. I decided to go on a diet and lost one and a half stone in three months. I was going to play volleyball, all right, that was for sure. And I did, before the end of the season.
I credit my strong character with saving me from falling into a spiral of eating disorders. Until I was 30, I didn't think to blame my father for my problems as a child, believing his abandonment had no impact on me. But eventually, I realised I was lying to myself.
I realised that all that my father had done was deeply significant. It wasn't just his abandonment of our home — after all, many fathers still remain a part of their children's lives after a separation. No, what hurt the most was his indifference to us. His lack of love is what scarred me.
Which is exactly why, at the age of 11, I decided I never wanted to see him again.
It was my choice, but I must admit that he didn't seem especially bothered by it. The last summer we visited, my father thought it was a good idea to leave for a week. He left us with his partner who, understandably, wasn't jumping for joy at the prospect. When he returned, instead of apologising to her or us, he gave us a talk that I have never forgotten. It was the death knell for our relationship. He made it clear we were not his priority when it came to love. He insisted we had to behave accordingly whenever we stayed with him.
That marked the end. Or perhaps the real and final end was two years later when he sent me a telegram for my birthday. It was signed, 'Happy birthday. Franco.' 'Papa' was evidently too personal.
The constant need to meet high standards, especially in male-dominated environments, along with my fear of disappointing those who believe in me, probably stem from the lack of my father's love. I grew up convinced that I didn't deserve anything. My reaction was to strive relentlessly to prove otherwise.
Each day I grapple with fear — fear of inadequacy, of falling short in the eyes of others. But this fear is also my strength; it drives me to keep studying and learning, to strive for the highest marks in every subject, even when I'm starting from scratch. This fear fuels my attention to detail, my stubbornness, my commitment, my willingness to make sacrifices. Competing with men (not with women), seeking their approval, the friendship and the esteem of my colleagues, plus all the men I respect and have met throughout my life… All of it is the result of that wound.
If this is who I am today, it is thanks to my father — for better or worse.
When he died a few years ago, I felt nothing. Writing those words is still painful. When I heard the news, I was furious that I felt nothing. I realised then just how deep a black hole I had buried my pain in — the pain of not being loved enough.
I'm sure that, over the years, some have wondered deep down, 'Where will we end up with a woman leading us?' But if they did, no one ever let it show. On the right, being a woman has never been a barrier to achieving the highest roles. In fact, it was the right in Italy that helped the largest number of women to emerge and secure prominent positions.
That said, I did have some challenging moments. Moments when I too had to confront ridiculous stereotypes. One instance that stands out was when I announced I was expecting my daughter.
It was early 2016. I had learnt just two weeks earlier that I was having a baby. I was at a rally when, with a mixture of happiness and euphoria, I instinctively shared my pregnancy news with a reporter who was interviewing me. She looked at me in disbelief, aware that I was giving her a scoop. 'Really?' she asked. 'Yes,' I replied.
A few hours later, the news had spread and insults soon followed, ferocious and relentless. I'm used to being insulted — sometimes to such a degree that I've become immune to the nastiness — but not this time. Reading comments that someone hoped I would miscarry was deeply hurtful. Not for me — I've never been intimidated by keyboard warriors— but for the life I was carrying, which had unwittingly triggered such hostility. In that moment, I felt as though I'd failed my very first mission as a mother. I can still vividly recall the comic actresses who regularly appeared on TV, the fixtures on talk shows who couldn't resist recycling offensive, hackneyed lines. For those self-proclaimed progressive thinkers, those modern, liberal women, I had no right to proudly announce my pregnancy, simply because I was unmarried.
Between ultrasounds, I visited neighbourhoods across the city, my belly growing with each passing week. Sadly, it wasn't just my belly that expanded. Between electoral dinners and croissants offered at cafés, the result of the campaign was more than one stone gained in a single month. And like so many other mothers, it took me years to shed those pounds. This, too, became fodder for ridicule. I remember the actress and director Asia Argento snapping a picture of me in a restaurant and posting it online with the caption: 'Back fat of the rich and shameless — #fascistspottedgrazing.' Perhaps Asia had inhaled a bit more than just dinner at the restaurant. I wouldn't have responded if her words hadn't also insulted every woman struggling to lose pregnancy weight. So, I shared her post with my reply: 'I'm sharing this post by Asia Argento regarding a picture that she secretly took of me (how brave of her) because, aside from her tiresome insults that don't concern me, I was struck by her reference to my 'back fat'. I share this to tell every woman who has recently given birth and doesn't sniff cocaine to lose weight to ignore any poor soul who mocks her body. Putting on a few pounds was worth it, a million times over.'
Being a petite blonde woman might have been perceived as an obstacle or a weakness, but I never let this stop me. I simply had to prove I had more courage — and I realised that sometimes a bit of madness proved useful.
Another time I remember indulging in a moment of weakness, purchasing an elegant two-piece suit by a famous Italian designer. I was probably the only one who loved its iridescent fabric (maybe with the exception of Platinette, a famous cross-dresser on Italian TV in the Nineties and Noughties). When I bought it, I couldn't have imagined it would become my attire for my swearing-in as a minister. In any case, it seemed the perfect time to show it off.
It wasn't. I became an easy target. Gossip magazines feasted on photos of yours truly entering and exiting the Quirinale, gleefully comparing me to car reflectors with legs. This went on and on for weeks.
As if that weren't enough, in the official photograph of female ministers, someone decided to line us up by height, like in primary school pictures in the Fifties.
The result? Not only was I the shortest, but I also stood out for having the weirdest outfit. Someone even made a fantastic photomontage, swapping me with Kermit the Frog from The Muppets. I use the word 'fantastic' because I adore the Muppets. Still, I didn't let it get to me. What's most telling about these incidents isn't the photomontages themselves; it's the fact that so many people believed them. Similarly, I spent years battling the fallout of a viral video from the founding of the People of Freedom party. In it, you can hear [the late prime minister Silvio] Berlusconi summoning me to the front with the words, 'Where's the little one?' (Piccola in Italian, as he probably couldn't remember my name.) However, due to audio distortion, it sounded like he said zoccola — a slang term meaning 'whore'. To this day, I struggle to comprehend how anyone in their right mind could believe I would accept such an insult with a smile in front of millions of people.
Personally, I have never liked the limelight. It may seem paradoxical to describe me as shy, but I am truly reserved. If I walk into a store and notice people staring at me, I leave. If I'm in a restaurant and realise that conversations stop as people look at me, I feel anxious. What makes me especially nervous is when someone secretly takes a photo of me with their smartphone. I can't help but assume that if someone takes a picture of you without asking, it's not for a good reason. When I catch someone doing it, I often approach them and ask, 'Did you get my good side?' Over the years, I've grown somewhat accustomed to these situations but, at the beginning, they were really hard.
Looking at the typical electoral campaign schedule, you can't help but wonder if the person who planned it has any grasp of the laws of physics and the space-time continuum. The itinerary might call for a rally in the morning, two more in the afternoon and another in the evening — all in three different regions. Remarkably, I somehow manage to follow these absurd schedules, though often at the expense of basic needs like eating, drinking or fixing my make-up. And after all this effort, my mother's supportive evening critique often comes like this: 'Sweetheart, I saw you on the news today. You're good, but you need to put on some make-up — you look like a toad.'
Over the years, many professionals have approached me with advice on how I should present myself in public, especially on TV — what I should wear, how I should do my make-up. But I won't do it. I refuse to wear clothes that don't feel like me. Those who work with me know it's futile to try to persuade me to do something that doesn't feel right. If I'm asked to promote an event on TV that I don't believe in, even if you put me in front of a prompter with all the words in capital letters, I wouldn't be able to do it. My brain simply freezes if what I'm being asked to say hasn't first passed through my heart.
It's not necessarily a strength. This part of my personality has, at times, prevented me from addressing some shortcomings. For instance, the way I gesticulate like an octopus when I speak, or how, when I'm deep in thought or concentrating, I frown and end up looking angry. Or the fact that I'm so emotional that my passion sometimes gets the better of me and I start shouting. And then there's the way I talk too fast. I still remember the desperate expression on the face of a sign-language interpreter at a rally, sweating profusely as they struggled to keep up with my pace. Now, whenever I know a sign-language interpreter is present, I make sure to apologise in advance.
Could I smooth out these flaws? Probably. No doubt it would improve my public image. But would that really be me? In the end, I believe a public persona cannot be fake. Over time, you can't hide who you truly are, for better or for worse. And even if you could, it wouldn't be right. People need to believe in you for who you genuinely are, not for who you pretend to be. Eventually, the façade will crumble and people will see through the bluff. I've seen politicians who were meticulously crafted, with one face in public but the complete opposite as soon as the spotlight is turned off. They never lasted.
Extracted from I Am Giorgia: My Roots, My Principles by Giorgia Meloni (Skyhorse Publishing, £25), published on August 14. To order, go to timesbookshop.co.uk or call 020 3176 2935. Free P&P on online orders over £25. Special discount for Times+ members