She Didn't Speak English and Nobody Understood Her Pain transcript

[Music] A few days after my arrival in the United States, I was brought to a high school in Manchester, Connecticut, the town where we were staying with my aunt and uncle. I was very apprehensive and I did not have my mama near me because she had been in the hospital since the second day of our arrival. My uncle being an American who also spoke Italian was the only one who could help me and introduced me to this new experience.

So on a Monday morning, he brought me to the school. When I entered the building, I noticed how modern it was with long gray hallways and some kind of closets in the halls. I later found out that they were called lockers where students could place their coats, books, or anything they didn't want to carry to class. I also passed a large room with tables, which I later discovered was the cafeteria. A strange concept to me.

In America, students ate at school instead of going home for lunch. And I wondered, what do they eat? I wanted to go home and not eat this food, which had an unfamiliar smell. I arrived at the principal's office. He seemed kind, but I couldn't understand a word he was saying. I could only read his expressions, body language, and friendly face. He looked over my papers from my Italian high school and informed me that since I didn't know the language, I would have to go back to elementary school.

I somehow understood this and my immediate response was that under no circumstances would I accept it. I would speak to my parents about this situation. I stood firm. There was no way I was going back to elementary school. I had already faced too many shocking experiences since my arrival, and this was not going to be another one. The principal had a conversation with the staff in the office, then decided to call a French teacher to communicate with me as I had studied French for the past 3 years in Italy.

Mr. Guadano arrived, smiling warmly. We had a brief conversation about my academic status. He must have explained to the principal that I had enough credits to continue in high school. In fact, I had more than enough to meet the American systems requirements. After some discussions and arrangements, a young girl appeared in the principal's office. She must have been asked to help me because her family was Italian and she spoke the language.

She looked just as frightened as I was and introduced herself as Teresa. It was then decided that I would follow her to all of her classes to familiarize myself with the American school system. I was also told that if after one year I could not complete my assignments and speak English, I would have to go back to elementary school. The deal was made and with much apprehension, I followed Teresa to her classes for the rest of the day and every day that followed.

Everywhere I went, students stared at me as if I had come from another planet. I was the only foreign student in the school, and to them, I must have seemed strange, maybe even because of the way I dressed. Well, I thought they looked strange, too. And they were very loud in the hallways. Something that would never happen on school grounds in Italy in those days. There, you had to remain silent unless spoken to by a teacher.

All I wanted was to go home and never return to this bizarre place. Everything about the environment felt strange. Students moving from one classroom to another, which was the complete opposite of Italy, where teachers came to our class, and we had the same classmates for every subject throughout high school. Why don't the students stand when the teacher enters the room? I thought in Italy, we did. It was a sign of respect.

Even the classroom seating arrangement felt odd. Nothing about this place seemed right to me. And why were the students so loud in the hallways running and slamming doors? The ones called lockers. Okay, I had to admit having a place to store your belongings was nice, but the noise was overwhelming. It didn't feel like a school at all. I couldn't wait to tell my mama when I visited her in the hospital. I hoped she would help me make sense of it all, or at least calm me down, and she did.

In fact, my stories and descriptions made her laugh. She told me to do my best to learn the language as it would help me integrate. Then once she recovered from surgery, I could teach her English, too. I was also eager to write to my friends in Italy and tell them all about the American school system. They would surely find it fascinating. The principal decided that I should be assigned to an English teacher, Mrs. bill for extra help after school and I was also to continue studying French.

I didn't like any part of this American system, probably because I didn't understand the language. I also didn't like the way people kept staring at me everywhere I went. Some students tried to talk to me, but I didn't understand what they wanted. Even after I had learned a few words, I sometimes pretended not to understand. I was also trying to find my own identity. I didn't want to be with Teresa all the time. It felt uncomfortable.

I needed to be on my own and experience my own struggles, even if it meant failing. Teresa was a popular student with many friends, and people would often stop her in the hallways to chat. But they weren't my friends. I wanted my own. Little by little, I started walking to my classes alone, choosing a seat not too close to Teresa and doing my best to understand the teachers and their lectures. When my mama finally came home from the hospital, I told her that I didn't want to go to school anymore.

Sometimes it was just too overwhelming and I would run away in the middle of the day. When I did, I would find my way home by showing a piece of paper with my aunt's address to the bus driver who would make sure I got off at the right stop. Meanwhile, the school would call my uncle at work to inform him that I had run away, wanting to ensure that I had made it home safely. The next day, everyone would stare at me even more, now with added curiosity, knowing what I had done.

When I arrived at my aunt's house, my mama would be waiting for me. She understood. She would embrace me, and we would both cry from all the stress and negative experiences. But she would always encourage me to go back the next day, reminding me that this was only temporary. I used to make her laugh when I described what I had for lunch. Such strange food eaten in a giant cafeteria. One of the strangest experiences for me was taking a yellow school bus from my aunt's house to high school.

The reason for the bus ride was that the high school was far from our house. But still, why a yellow bus to go to school? Every morning, some students would try to talk to me when I got on, but I had no interest. Just get me to this school and let the day go by quickly, I thought. One day after a few months in the United States, my mama told me that my papa had agreed that Carlo, she and I would return to Italy at the end of the school year.

Until then, we would continue living with my aunt. This was wonderful news. Mama encouraged me to do my best to learn English and make the most of this year. My attitude changed. I now knew that soon I would leave this school and go back to Italy, back to my friends and classmates. Mama was also learning English on her own, and I could see that she was doing really well. She was a smart woman, determined to make these final months a positive experience.

Everything seemed to be falling into place. It felt like my time in America would bring me nothing but unexpected challenges, and that was exactly what happened next. One rainy day in April, in just 5 hours, my mama passed away unexpectedly. My world stood still. What will we do? Where will we go? Why did America keep testing me every single day? And Carlo, how would we tell him that his mama was gone? Days passed in a days, leaving me disoriented, scared, and lost in a neverending nightmare.

We moved to an apartment near the high school, and now I could walk to school. No more yellow bus, no more noise, just a quiet walk with my own thoughts. The day I returned to school, I felt like even more of a stranger. I realized that everyone knew about my mama's passing, but no one knew what to say or do. More difficult days lay ahead. That was certain. The students just stared at me, unsure of how to approach me.

From what I had observed, they all seemed to live normal lives, private homes, cars, mothers waiting for them when they returned from school. They also seemed so carefree, only focused on sports and after school activities. It was nothing like school in Italy. I missed my school, my friends, and most of all, my mom. I now knew that I had to learn English. I had no choice. I needed good grades. I had promised my teachers in Italy that I would make them proud.

And most importantly, I could not let myself be sent back to elementary school. On top of that, I had to take care of the house. and most importantly, my little brother, who had just started kindergarten. Yet another introduction to the American school system. Luckily, Carlo's school was right across the street from our apartment, which made it easier to keep an eye on him while trying to manage my own schedule. Carlo adjusted quickly and picked up English faster than I did.

Being a little child, he adapted easily. That was at least one positive thing. I even had to attend a PTA meeting, parent teacher association, as Carlo explained. Apparently, this was just another part of American school life. The teachers always told me that Carlo was the best behaved and cleanest child in the class and that he was very polite. I felt proud. My papa did not speak English, so I was the one who had to represent the family and learn about the system.

One more responsibility on my shoulders. Papa worked 6 days a week, long hours taking buses to reach work. We had too many expenses from the cost of our trip to the United States to the funeral of my mama. So, he had to work hard, yet he earned very little as a tailor in a large shop. Too much stress for Papa. I knew I had to finish school so I could work and help him soon. Skipping school was no longer an option. Little by little, I started making my own friends at school.

Some of them would come to my house to help me with homework and English. And sometimes they even took Carlo and me to the grocery store on Saturdays in their car. I became friends with a schoolmate named Steve. His family was originally from Egypt and his mother was kind to Carlo and me. Whenever Steve picked us up and brought us to his house, his mother treated us as if we were her own children. I cherished those moments and so did Carlo.

I also had a friend named Carol. She became my best friend and many times she would pick up Carlo and me and we would go for a ride. Carlo was always with me. I never did anything alone unless my papa was home and allowed me to go out, which was rare. The lives of my schoolmates were very different from mine. They had after school activities, house parties, beautiful clothes, and most of them drove their parents' cars.

The girls dressed differently than I did, and the boys all seemed tall, loud, and athletic. So different from my schoolmates in Torino. I found them good-looking, but I felt they had no passions beyond sports. When I wrote about all this to my friends in Italy, they couldn't believe it. They always asked me about the boys. Were they like the ones in the movies? My answer was no. They were nice, but I didn't know much about them because I never participated in after school activities.

I had a home to take care of and a little brother to look after. In any case, most activities were out of my reach. But strangely enough, I never felt like I was missing out. It was never my dream to be like them. My only goal was to learn English and make my own way. Some activities took place in the evening, like school dances, which were a big deal. In the spring, there was the spring dance, a very important event.

All the girls were excited, hoping to be asked to go and dreaming about wearing beautiful dresses, looking like princesses. There was a lot of competition among them to be invited by the most popular boys, and even better if the boy was an athlete or an upper classman. All of this was very strange to me. I listened as the girls talked about who had asked them, what they would wear, where they would get their hair done, and all the other little details.

I had far more important things to think about than a dance or finding the perfect dress. However, I understood their excitement and found it a little interesting. But I never felt jealous. I only felt different from them. After the dance, many stories spread through the school hallways on Monday morning. It was amusing to listen to the conversations. Some girls even ended up going steady with the guy who had taken them to the dance.

Going steady meant that the girl would now wear the young man's sweater or class ring so that everyone would recognize they were a couple. This tradition seemed strange to me. I wondered, if I like a boy, why would I need to wear his sweater to prove it? It must have been the American way of showing love, I thought. The first year of school finally ended and I felt confident enough to continue in high school without being sent back to elementary school as the principal had originally suggested.

Little by little, I made my own friends and I was even asked out by some of the boys. This, however, was difficult to explain to my papa. When the night came for me to go out, I was only 16 years old. My papa scared all the boys who came to pick me up, warning them that I had to be home early. No excuses. These dates were fascinating to me, especially as the young men tried to figure out who I was and how to behave around me, given how different our lives were.

In Italy, a girl my age would never be allowed to go out alone with a boy from school, especially in a car. My papa had a serious problem with this American custom. And later in life, I came to understand his concerns much better. The next day, I always shared my experiences with my little brother, Carlo, telling him that one day when he was older, he would be the one asking a girl out. I had a crush on a schoolmate who was an upper classman and a star on the basketball team, but he had a beautiful cheerleader as his girlfriend and was not interested in me.

During our school years, he was always kind to me and he probably knew I had a crush on him. Many years later, I did go out with him, but nothing ever came of it. By then, I had grown up and was working while he was attending university. By my last year of high school, I had formed my own circle of friends and no longer spent time with Teresa. She didn't really want me around anymore because she thought I was trying to take her boyfriend, Michael, away from her.

But that wasn't true. Many of the boys were fascinated by me simply because I was different and to them it was a challenge to be with me. One Friday night, a schoolmate who played guitar in a band asked me to come see him perform at a concert at the Manchester Armory. He was the idol of many of my female classmates and mine, too. His name was Jimmy. He had blue eyes, jet black hair, and drove a black Mustang. Sometimes he even took Carlo and me for rides in it.

How amazing was that? A popular boy asking me to his concert. I walked to the armory and when I arrived, Jimmy came to the door to meet me. I spent the rest of the evening at the side of the stage watching him play. Many girls were jealous and talked about it on Monday, but I paid no attention. Gossip never interested me. Jimmy was a good friend to me, and many times after graduation, I thought about him and hoped he would have a great future in music.

I knew that I would graduate at the age of 16 just before turning 17. I was the youngest student in a class of 810 and I had completed 4 years of high school in just three. Everyone was talking about their future, about the universities they had applied to and how excited they were to move away from home and gain independence. I however knew that I would start working to help my papa with all the expenses and that was fine with me.

I wanted to stay home with my brother and take care of him. He was still a little boy who needed a lot of attention. The class president and soccer captain, Buddy, asked me to go to the senior prom, the most important dance of graduation year. I was excited, but also unsure of how I would afford a gown for the event. I had saved a little money from babysitting, but not enough. The dresses were too expensive, and I had no idea where I could find one that was affordable.

I remembered that on Saturdays, Carlo and I often went to Hartford to a store called Brown Thompson where we would have a piece of cake while waiting for Papa. In the basement of that store, they sold clothes at discounted prices. So, one Saturday, Carlo and I went there and I found a beautiful white gown that I could afford. I felt so proud and couldn't wait to show it to my papa. He made no comments about it. He didn't really understand the importance of the senior dance.

In Italy, we would simply celebrate receiving a diploma, perhaps with a special dinner with relatives, but certainly not with a formal dance. The night of the prom arrived, and Buddy picked me up in his father's car. Before heading to the dance, he brought me to his house to meet his parents. They were kind and welcoming, which made me feel comfortable. We took many photographs and had dinner together before leaving for the prom.

The night was interesting and I tried to blend into the atmosphere, but I still felt out of place. Buddy was wonderful to me and made me feel special. Many girls came over to say hello, but deep inside I knew I was different from them. I wasn't sure exactly how, but I felt it. The night ended with the coronation of the prom king and queen. Both beautiful people, but I wasn't particularly interested in that part of the evening.

After the dance, many students went to a friend's house for more dancing and food. I joined for a short while, but I had to be home early as my father had instructed. The next day, most of the students went to the beach in Rhode Island, but I didn't go. I had responsibilities at home, and spending time with Carlo was more important. Besides, my papa would have never allowed it. One week after graduation, I started working at an insurance company in Hartford.

Meanwhile, most of my classmates were preparing to leave for college in different states or enjoying vacations with their families. Looking back on those years, I have some good memories. I remember certain students being especially kind and friendly to me. But deep down, I always knew that I would not be one of them in the future. They would go on to experience new adventures, meet different people, and perhaps even marry someone they met in college.

My life, however, would follow a different path. Some of them reached out when they came home for breaks, calling me and stopping by to see me. But our lives had taken such different directions that we no longer had much in common. I listened to their stories, their experiences, knowing that mine could never compare to theirs. And that was okay. I had responsibilities toward my family and I was never jealous of my classmates lifestyle.

I simply didn't think about it. Instead, I made friends at work where I had more in common with the young people around me. The years passed and all the students I had known either moved away, completed college, got married to someone they met at school, or simply vanished from my life. As for me, those early years in the United States remained a significant memory, a time of transition, learning, and self-discovery.

I came to understand that I would always be different, but in the end, that was not a bad thing. Being different is valuable. And above all, being true to yourself is what matters most. A few years later, I attended a high school reunion and realized once again how much my life had taken a different path from that of most of my classmates. Some approached me and admitted that back then they had struggled to connect with me and had felt sad about it.

However, they also told me that my life story had left a lasting impression on them. Many had shared my experiences with their own children, using my journey as an example to teach them that the life they had was not something to take for granted. They remembered the foreign girl who had fought for everything at school and made it. [Music]