Culture Shock

Culture Shock

I grew up in a wealthy villa it Italy. I had a large family and even larger circle of friends. I went to pre-school following with first and half of first grade and surpassed everyone in my class which to me was an enormous achievement even for a six year old. Also, joining the swim team I had medals and articles in the local paper being such a great young swimmer. I had everything I wanted. A collie named Bella, a backyard that stretched for what seemed eternity, my grandmothers garden next door which I turned into my fantasy forest, toys, and the beach down the road.

Despite being in what I thought was the best place on earth my parents had convinced me that America was much better. I couldn’t believe there was a more spectacular place but my father explained that there is opportunity in America that is not offered in Europe. He said that if I continued doing well in school and swimming that in America it would count for something and regardless of what appeared to be riches in Europe it was pennies to the Americans. They lived in mansions, had millions of dollars, security, and a “better” life. This didn’t mean much to me at the time so he showed me pictures of the New York sky scrapers, bridges, and every picture that would excite me. I showed off to my friends that I was moving and now all I could think about was moving to my aunt, uncle, and cousins house in this amazing country!

Half way through school in January I said my goodbye’s and was on my way. As I got off the plane I never felt so excited in my life. After my aunt and uncle picked us up and we got to the house my excitement was fading. My family lived in a big, dirty, brown building in Brooklyn on the fourth floor in a tiny apartment. My parents, grandmother and I shared a tiny room with no heat, dust, and cockroaches in the Glenwood Projects in Canarsie. I wasn’t allowed to go outside because it was dangerous, there was no pool for swimming anywhere, my cousin whom I could barley understand picked on me, and my parents where stressed beyond belief.

Thinking this couldn’t get worse after the New Year’s holiday was over I was to start P.S. 276. I didn’t know anyone and because of a language barrier (despite my excellent math skills) had to be taken back a class. My mother walked me ten minutes to school everyday and that was the 6 months of my life.

It started with the principle asking my mother to leave and walking me to the class. I knew about five phrases in English and she just left me there with a full class of kids and the teacher. This teacher began asking me questions I didn’t understand in front of everyone and when I said “Good Morning” with my accent the room began to roar with laughter. I felt so self conscious and embarrassed. Not only did I not speak the language I was also the only person who was not Black or Hispanic. As I sat down not knowing at all what was going on around me I became the target of almost every kid.

Everyday consisted of me in the class all morning with the teacher saying things to me I didn’t understand and the kids throwing things at me and teasing. Then I would