After 7 years, 3 universities and $27,000.00 of debt, I never finished undergrad. The education portion of my resume is ambiguous and I have indeed lied about having a degree when filling out work applications. I only confide in my closest friends...and even then, I never utter the words above a whisper.
My shame was vindicated in 2008, during the presidential campaign, when my own party dragged Sarah Palin's educational background into the media to further discredit her. I joined in, laughing the loudest and the longest... "5 colleges before she got her degree...we don't want a moron like that to be second in command....HA HA HA HA HA...ahem" But at night, when I was alone and no one was looking all I could think was "Wait, she actually got her degree." I don't have mine. I could still win. I could get my degree in 4 colleges! Not ideal, but better than 5. Ha ha...she's an idiot...5 colleges...what a dummy!
Long before the Sarah Palin fiasco of 2008, I had decided I was going to go back to school to get the illusive bachelor's degree. Being older and wiser I had conditions:
1. I wanted the college to be local, and
2. It needed to be cheap.
I was already paying off a ton of debt from my other 3 colleges and didn't want to add any unnecessary financial strain. I patted myself on the back for being so smart and pragmatic and started looking. My search lead me to The City College of New York - the first and oldest of the CUNY schools - described by Wikipedia as "The Harvard of the proletariat" - I liked the sound of it, that's where I wanted to go.
I began my online application with the enthusiasm of someone on the precipice of unlimited potential. I could see my future unfolding before my eyes. I would major in a respectable subject like biology, math or some other subject that I have historically sucked at, and then apply to med school or veterinary school where I would graduate with honors and gain the love, respect and adulation I deserve.
I paid the $65 application fee, attached all the necessary documentation and pressed send an entire month before the application deadline. It was only a matter of time before my acceptance letter came floating through the mail slot. This time would be different, this time I would not tell tall tales about having abortions or cancer or AIDs to get out of final exams, this time I would sit quietly at the head of the class and pay attention, study diligently, finish all my assignments well in advance of their due dates and make something of myself.
I waited a couple months before making my first phone call.
"City College Office of Admissions"
"Yes hello my name is Rachel Biello...how are you today?"...silence
"What do you want?"
"Yes of course, I applied, using your online system...which is very convenient by the way...and I was wondering if by any chance..."
"Hold..."
No hold music just emptiness, I couldn't tell if she had hung up on me or if she was still on the line...so I waited...another voice comes on, a male this time... I restart my introduction...
"City College Office of admission..."
"Yes hi, my name is Rachel Biello and I was wondering if you could give me the status of my application"
"You'll get a letter when they get sent out"
"Thank y..." click
I think I left a good impression.
I waited months during which time I had a dozen identical conversations. They knew me by name - things were already different this time around.
Finally, weeks before school was scheduled to start, confident I had been admitted, but confused by the lack of correspondence, I decided to call:
SC: "City College Office if Admissions"
ME: "Yes, hi, I was wondering if it's safe to assume that I should have heard from you by now regarding the fall semester"
SC: "Yeah"
ME: "My name is Rachel and blah blah blah"
...only this time
SC: "You don't show as having ever applied"
WHAT?!
SC: "Oh I see the problem"
I knew it, a tiny solvable glitch.
SC: "You went to school in a foreign country and we need proper documentation"
A foreign country, what foreign country?
SC: "Colombia"..
ME: "No no no I went to Columbia University, with a U - the one that is 20 blocks downtown from your school"...silence....
SC: "Please hold"
...silence.
SC: "You should come to Admissions immediately if you intend to attend school in September"
I arrive exactly 45 minutes later to a line 5 people thick and 20 people long. I wait 1 hour before a woman finally helps me. Apparently, the reason I haven't heard anything yet is that I need a transcript from Barnard to which I explain I never went to Barnard, she tells me to wait, and disappears for 20 minutes returning accompanied by a man who appears to be in charge. He looks at the screen and, in very broken English, gives me a completely different interpretation, of what he see,
SC: "You need to take English profish test"
ME: "Fine."
He then makes me reapply as a late applicant. Apparently late applicants find out then and there if they have been accepted. I pay another $65, he "expedites" the process, and reads my fate from the magic screen:
SC: "Thank you for application to City College of New York. After careful review of application, City College of New York office of admission regret inform you no have been accepted for Fall 2009 semester"
What do I need to do? What am I missing? I exceed the 2.0 required GPA required for transfer students.
I need a math credit...he suggest I go get it at LaGuardia Community College...he also suggests I apply today, since it is the last day for all CUNY registration for the 2009 fall semester. So I run like a bat out of hell, to the subway, to Long Island City. I ask someone who appears to be a student, if they know where LaGuardia Community college is. They point to a decaying warehouse. I thank them and run to my future.
I walk into a giant foyer, where hundreds of people are waiting. A banner saying "registration" reassures me that I'm in the right place. I get in the long line. 1 hour passes and before I arrive at bored woman number 1, I tell the woman the purpose of my visit, to which she responds
BW1: "You'll have to talk to that woman over there".
The woman over there was sitting inches away from bored woman number 1. I turn to look at bored woman number 2, she is texting, 20 seconds pass, she reluctantly looks up.
BW2: "Yeah?"
I tell her the purpose of my visit, she keeps texting, when she's ready she looks up and tells me I need to take a number. I take one...my number is 96...now we're getting somewhere.
I take a seat in the sea of people... I wonder what number we're on. A woman appears at the far corner..."11" she yells "11!" 11 gets up and goes over. Shit, we're only on 11. I won't quit now. I have come so far, a few more hours isn't going to kill me. A man appears at another corner..."36" he yells, "number 36!"...we're on 36! Much better!
3 hours pass. I've read all the pamphlets, had some coffee, snoozed, met some of the other applicants, my future classmates...some of whom have documentation from the New York State department of corrections. Suddenly, another man appears and yells "95, number 95" Oh my god we're on 95, we're almost there...he continues "95 number 95 are you here 95" I'm getting very excited. 95 may have given up and gone home...bad for 95 good for me! "97, number 97" I jump out of my seat and scream:
ME: "How the hell are you people counting...how can you go from 95 to 97, I'm 96, I've been here for 3 hours, I'm 96 godammit and I want to register for math, and I want to do it now. 97 stay right where you are because it's my turn!"
The room fell silent, you could hear a pin drop. No one spoke. I could see the face of the admissions officer looking past me, as though sending a message to someone far behind me. I looked to my fellow applicants and did not see solidarity on their faces. Instead they all seemed in agreement, that I had broken some moral code, I was stepping outside the way things work...or don't work, and I was wrong. I reiterated, only calmer this time "96 comes after 95, I've been here for 3 hours, I just want to get this over with right? I'm sure you all feel the same way" Looking for support among my fellow applicants.
Suddenly, a firm hand gripped my upper arm, as I felt myself being dragged away. I started screaming "Let go of me, I've been waiting for hours, this is crazy, there's a number system, I may not have fulfilled your basic math requirement but I know full well that 96 comes after 95... don't touch me...I went to Columbia University, Columbia, with a U..."
See my yelp review of The City College of New York
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Sunday, December 20, 2009
Friday, November 28, 2008
R.A. + R.B.
Officially, I lost my virginity when my hymen broke in a freak accident with the ledge of a pool. The damage was done – fast, hard uneventful. But my most memorable sexual experience happened several years later. I was eleven when I fell for him.
Raggedy Andy was a life size, handcrafted rag doll who had been around since I could remember, but on this particular day I looked across the room into his black embroidered eyes, and something came over me. Always dressed to impress, he looked dashing in his red and blue double-breasted polyester pantsuit and that sailor's hat he wore. Why hadn’t I noticed him before? Sometimes what you’re looking for is sitting right there on top of your dresser. I could no longer ignore his constant gaze, and, suddenly, I understood what he wanted, because I wanted it too.
I walked over to him and, without a word, flung him into my arms. He surrendered to the touch of my lips against his permanent grin. What the hell was he grinning at? I didn’t care, it turned me on. I ripped off his sailor hat and ran my fingers violently through his bright mop of red yarn, tugging and pulling violently. His clothes were conveniently attached with Velcro; I tore them off in a passionate rage, threw him on my bed, tore off my own clothes and let him have his way. Raggedy Andy was in control, I was overcome by feelings of sheer ecstasy.
Andy was anatomically incomplete, but we were not about to let an oversight at the factory ruin this moment. I looked up and saw a fist size Ziggy sitting on my night stand wearing a tee-shirt that read "Happy Easter". Happy Easter indeed! I doused Ziggy in the Johnson's Baby Oil I had stored at arms length and placed him strategically between Andy's legs. Problem solved.
Suddenly, a paralysis came over me. The world stood still, my body twitched and my vision blurred as I dropped breathless next to Andy, my heart beating in my ears – La petite mort!
While I lay silently next to Raggedy Andy, I noticed a red heart with the words ‘I love you' embroidered on his chest. Such craftsmanship, such detail! I love you too Andy, I love you too.
Some time later, we stopped meeting that way. We could never quite recapture the magic of that first encounter. It was a romance destined for failure, I see that now. He was a rag doll, settled, content. My life soon changed. I joined the volleyball team where we would go on to win the C division championships. I never regret the times we spent together, but it’s hard to see him these days. I've since moved away. He still lives in my bedroom at my parents' house, perched on that dresser, sporting that same grin. I've been replaced by Raggedy Ann, who sits constantly by his side. I'm a jealous woman, but I've come to accept them. We'll always have that passionate evening marked by the baby oil stain no laundering or stain remover could ever erase. Our little secret.
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Raggedy Andy was a life size, handcrafted rag doll who had been around since I could remember, but on this particular day I looked across the room into his black embroidered eyes, and something came over me. Always dressed to impress, he looked dashing in his red and blue double-breasted polyester pantsuit and that sailor's hat he wore. Why hadn’t I noticed him before? Sometimes what you’re looking for is sitting right there on top of your dresser. I could no longer ignore his constant gaze, and, suddenly, I understood what he wanted, because I wanted it too.
I walked over to him and, without a word, flung him into my arms. He surrendered to the touch of my lips against his permanent grin. What the hell was he grinning at? I didn’t care, it turned me on. I ripped off his sailor hat and ran my fingers violently through his bright mop of red yarn, tugging and pulling violently. His clothes were conveniently attached with Velcro; I tore them off in a passionate rage, threw him on my bed, tore off my own clothes and let him have his way. Raggedy Andy was in control, I was overcome by feelings of sheer ecstasy.
Andy was anatomically incomplete, but we were not about to let an oversight at the factory ruin this moment. I looked up and saw a fist size Ziggy sitting on my night stand wearing a tee-shirt that read "Happy Easter". Happy Easter indeed! I doused Ziggy in the Johnson's Baby Oil I had stored at arms length and placed him strategically between Andy's legs. Problem solved.
Suddenly, a paralysis came over me. The world stood still, my body twitched and my vision blurred as I dropped breathless next to Andy, my heart beating in my ears – La petite mort!
While I lay silently next to Raggedy Andy, I noticed a red heart with the words ‘I love you' embroidered on his chest. Such craftsmanship, such detail! I love you too Andy, I love you too.
Some time later, we stopped meeting that way. We could never quite recapture the magic of that first encounter. It was a romance destined for failure, I see that now. He was a rag doll, settled, content. My life soon changed. I joined the volleyball team where we would go on to win the C division championships. I never regret the times we spent together, but it’s hard to see him these days. I've since moved away. He still lives in my bedroom at my parents' house, perched on that dresser, sporting that same grin. I've been replaced by Raggedy Ann, who sits constantly by his side. I'm a jealous woman, but I've come to accept them. We'll always have that passionate evening marked by the baby oil stain no laundering or stain remover could ever erase. Our little secret.
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Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Hubba Bubba New Shit Flavor
Ricky Dipoli was everything every girl could ever want in second grade; he was dangerous. "He'll only hurt you!", they warned, and they were right, hurt so good. I was madly in love with the young Dipoli, he had a perfect bowl of shiny brown hair and a skinny little frame sculpted by 8 years of undiagnosed ADHD. Our love was complex, all the best ones are.
Hubba Bubba new shit flavor were the first words Ricky Dipoli ever uttered my way, and as my fist landed on his jaw, I could feel myself falling in love. From that moment on, I was no longer "below the radar". Nope, according to Ricky, my bum was so ginormous, I was obscuring his view of everyone. He often described my wedgies as, "so deep they pulled the fabric of time." If Ricky was standing on that fabric, then that metaphor was OK by me. We were a great team. Like Cagney and Lacey, Joanie and Chachi, Hall and Oats or Simon and Simon. He needed me as much as I needed him, and vice versa.
I looked forward to mornings in the playground before school, when Ricky greeted me with his daily string of insults; "Smelly Jelly Belly", "Superpudge", or a class favorite "Blubberlicious". This scenario would repeat itself at recess, and then again on my way home from school at 3:30.
I was floating on air, not unlike a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Balloon, but I wasn't satisfied. I needed more than this daily exchange of profanities. One memorable morning, amidst a heated battle, I ran up to Ricky with the intention of confessing "I LOVE YOU RICKY", instead, I squared him in the groin with all my might, sending him to the hospital with, what I would later learn to be, a swollen left testicle. I had no idea what that meant, but I hoped whatever it was, he was thinking about me as much as I was thinking about him and vice versa. Deep down, I knew he was.
Our romance had joined the ranks of Cathy and Heathcliffe, Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde or Daredevil and Electra - we would be punished for the crime of love. The week following Ricky's accident, Mrs. Gideon sentenced me to facing the corner for 10 minutes each day after the final bell. If loving Ricky was a crime, than I was honored to do my time. Not unlike St. Valentine, Mrs. Gideon's shackles could not keep me from my love. I concluded that Ricky would be mine forever during those hard moments of solitude.
Ricky didn't come back for several weeks, during which time my fondness for him grew stronger. For reasons beyond my understanding, Mrs. Gideon declined my generous offer of delivering Ricky our daily class assignments. I was devastated, and left with nothing to do but wait.
The weekend before Ricky's anticipated return I busied myself in preparation. That Saturday morning I woke up bright and early and began rummaging through my closet for the perfect outfit. Naturally, I wanted to look my best. I tried squeezing into my purple Jordache jeans, the same pair I had worn during our first fight. I wondered if he'd notice the gesture. Well, no matter, because try as I might, I couldn't get them above my knees. With nothing to wear and Ricky's return quickly approaching, I pleaded with my mother to take me to Sears. This Monday was not just any Monday mother dear.
The pretty plus rack, nestled deep within Sears's Junior Girl's Fashion Department, had an air of exclusivity. Visited by a chosen few, I being among them. Mom had once explained Pretty Plus as "an attitude, a state of mind. Pretty Plus cannot be defined, it must be lived. It means, you're pretty and then some. It means you have more to offer than just your ravishing good looks. it means you appreciate good food. You take up a little more real estate so you're worth more. Pretty Plus means it takes a little extra fabric to cover your fabulous little figure. While the other girls are an A you are an A+. It means you're the kind of girl that needs a little special attention, so Mr. Sears himself designed an entire collection dedicated to little girls like you." From what I could tell there weren't many of us.
I settled on a lovely pink and green polyester cotton blend pantsuit, with pink suede elbow patches and a comfortable elastic waste band. Why not? This was a special Monday, this was the Monday Ricky was coming back to me.
Sunday wedged itself like an endless barrier between me and my special Monday. Casey Casem counted down the hits, while I counted down the hours, as a prisoner counts down the years.
I braced myself as I got set to hear the number 1 song in the USA...
As the familiar anthem swelled for a second week in a row, I fashioned a microphone from a nearby brush, pushed Pat Benetar out of the way, looked into the mirror, deep into Ricky's eyes:
"We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder.
We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under.
Whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better.
We belong, we belong, we belong together."
As I dosed off, Casey Casem tucked me in with those famous last words, "Remember, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars."
When I got to school the next morning, I found Ricky leading a pack of wild boys towards mischief. He looked in my direction. I coquettishly looked away. I could feel my heart leap into my throat. "Yes Ricky" I thought, "It's me, of course it's me. I waited for you." He paid me no mind. "Ricky, it's me. Hubba Bubba, the belly that sunk the titanic. Ricky. RICKY! What happened to you? What did they do to you in there? With a heavy heart I ran to line up at the sound of the bell. Mrs. Gideon demanded that we line up in alphabetical order, which suited me just fine, since it put me closer to my Ricky. While I stood there, waiting to gain admittance, I felt a warm breadth at the nape of my neck and heard the words, "Beluga Biello" - only one boy had such talent for alliteration. I turned around to find Ricky standing there grinning from ear to ear, and punched him in the gut as hard as I could, knocking the wind out of him fro what felt like minutes. My heart leaped with relief back into my chest. We were back together again, and now I knew that all those weeks apart, while I was thinking about Ricky Dipoli, Ricky Dipoli was thinking about me, and vice versa.
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Hubba Bubba new shit flavor were the first words Ricky Dipoli ever uttered my way, and as my fist landed on his jaw, I could feel myself falling in love. From that moment on, I was no longer "below the radar". Nope, according to Ricky, my bum was so ginormous, I was obscuring his view of everyone. He often described my wedgies as, "so deep they pulled the fabric of time." If Ricky was standing on that fabric, then that metaphor was OK by me. We were a great team. Like Cagney and Lacey, Joanie and Chachi, Hall and Oats or Simon and Simon. He needed me as much as I needed him, and vice versa.
I looked forward to mornings in the playground before school, when Ricky greeted me with his daily string of insults; "Smelly Jelly Belly", "Superpudge", or a class favorite "Blubberlicious". This scenario would repeat itself at recess, and then again on my way home from school at 3:30.
I was floating on air, not unlike a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Balloon, but I wasn't satisfied. I needed more than this daily exchange of profanities. One memorable morning, amidst a heated battle, I ran up to Ricky with the intention of confessing "I LOVE YOU RICKY", instead, I squared him in the groin with all my might, sending him to the hospital with, what I would later learn to be, a swollen left testicle. I had no idea what that meant, but I hoped whatever it was, he was thinking about me as much as I was thinking about him and vice versa. Deep down, I knew he was.
Our romance had joined the ranks of Cathy and Heathcliffe, Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde or Daredevil and Electra - we would be punished for the crime of love. The week following Ricky's accident, Mrs. Gideon sentenced me to facing the corner for 10 minutes each day after the final bell. If loving Ricky was a crime, than I was honored to do my time. Not unlike St. Valentine, Mrs. Gideon's shackles could not keep me from my love. I concluded that Ricky would be mine forever during those hard moments of solitude.
Ricky didn't come back for several weeks, during which time my fondness for him grew stronger. For reasons beyond my understanding, Mrs. Gideon declined my generous offer of delivering Ricky our daily class assignments. I was devastated, and left with nothing to do but wait.
The weekend before Ricky's anticipated return I busied myself in preparation. That Saturday morning I woke up bright and early and began rummaging through my closet for the perfect outfit. Naturally, I wanted to look my best. I tried squeezing into my purple Jordache jeans, the same pair I had worn during our first fight. I wondered if he'd notice the gesture. Well, no matter, because try as I might, I couldn't get them above my knees. With nothing to wear and Ricky's return quickly approaching, I pleaded with my mother to take me to Sears. This Monday was not just any Monday mother dear.
The pretty plus rack, nestled deep within Sears's Junior Girl's Fashion Department, had an air of exclusivity. Visited by a chosen few, I being among them. Mom had once explained Pretty Plus as "an attitude, a state of mind. Pretty Plus cannot be defined, it must be lived. It means, you're pretty and then some. It means you have more to offer than just your ravishing good looks. it means you appreciate good food. You take up a little more real estate so you're worth more. Pretty Plus means it takes a little extra fabric to cover your fabulous little figure. While the other girls are an A you are an A+. It means you're the kind of girl that needs a little special attention, so Mr. Sears himself designed an entire collection dedicated to little girls like you." From what I could tell there weren't many of us.
I settled on a lovely pink and green polyester cotton blend pantsuit, with pink suede elbow patches and a comfortable elastic waste band. Why not? This was a special Monday, this was the Monday Ricky was coming back to me.
Sunday wedged itself like an endless barrier between me and my special Monday. Casey Casem counted down the hits, while I counted down the hours, as a prisoner counts down the years.
I braced myself as I got set to hear the number 1 song in the USA...
As the familiar anthem swelled for a second week in a row, I fashioned a microphone from a nearby brush, pushed Pat Benetar out of the way, looked into the mirror, deep into Ricky's eyes:
"We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder.
We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under.
Whatever we deny or embrace for worse or for better.
We belong, we belong, we belong together."
As I dosed off, Casey Casem tucked me in with those famous last words, "Remember, keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars."
When I got to school the next morning, I found Ricky leading a pack of wild boys towards mischief. He looked in my direction. I coquettishly looked away. I could feel my heart leap into my throat. "Yes Ricky" I thought, "It's me, of course it's me. I waited for you." He paid me no mind. "Ricky, it's me. Hubba Bubba, the belly that sunk the titanic. Ricky. RICKY! What happened to you? What did they do to you in there? With a heavy heart I ran to line up at the sound of the bell. Mrs. Gideon demanded that we line up in alphabetical order, which suited me just fine, since it put me closer to my Ricky. While I stood there, waiting to gain admittance, I felt a warm breadth at the nape of my neck and heard the words, "Beluga Biello" - only one boy had such talent for alliteration. I turned around to find Ricky standing there grinning from ear to ear, and punched him in the gut as hard as I could, knocking the wind out of him fro what felt like minutes. My heart leaped with relief back into my chest. We were back together again, and now I knew that all those weeks apart, while I was thinking about Ricky Dipoli, Ricky Dipoli was thinking about me, and vice versa.
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Monday, November 10, 2008
My earliest memory
We were in the Italian Alps, parked precariously close to the edge. Probably millions of feet above sea level. OK, at least 10,000. We were above the clouds, too high up to be careless, we were children. He was 5, my older brother, and for some reason, had been entrusted with the keys to the car. I tried to make sense of it. He was older, he was smarter; nope, even at 4 years old, I didn't think this was a very good idea. I would be proven right by the events that followed.
Joseph, we'll call him Joseph to protect his identity, and because that's actually his name, Joseph looked out of place in this mountain setting. I'm sure we both did, but I couldn't tell you what I was wearing that day. He wore his Montreal Expos baseball hat; they've since been traded to Washington DC where they're known as the Washington Nationals, leaving Canada with one lonely major league baseball team: The Toronto Blue Jays; his shiny blue wind breaker, bright blue flare jeans, red and blue plaid shirt and sneakers. He looked flashy, tacky, dare I say, North American. He was dressed flashier than mom would have dressed us back home, but we were in old country.
When we visited Italy, Mom always overdressed for every occasion. She tended to wear all her jewelry at once. Her hands always well manicured with Revlon's signature bronze metallic nail enamel, and her decolletage giving a sneak peak, but not too much, she is a practicing catholic after all. Mom wouldn't be caught dead looking sexy at 76 San Pedro Drive, Hamilton Ontario, L9C 2C6, but here, she let it all hang out like a movie star. You could look, but you couldn't touch, she is Mom after all. Mom wanted the old country to see how well she had done for herself, she wanted old country to know that she had made the right decision to leave, she wanted old country to be a little jealous of what it had lost, because deep down inside, she still loved old country more than new. So feast your eyes on Mom's glamor old country, and her two, typically overweight, North American children. Mom was living the dream.
The events that followed are a blur, peppered with anxiety and memories of my sheer determination to survive. Joseph patiently turned the key to the ignition, his feet barely reaching the pedal, and put the car in reverse. My terror allowed me to witness the event from both the first and third person. In the car we bounced like rag dolls as my life tried to escape in the form of vomit. The car scraped and jolted over mountain rocks, down the hill toward a flock of sheep. We bounced violently in the front seat, my brother never taking his hands off the steering wheel or his eyes off the scenery that kept getting further and further away with every rocky bounce.
Outside, my uncle screamed something in Italian and ran towards the escaped 128, or was it a 500? Whatever car my brother was "driving" was small, European, and stick shift, they're all the same.
Thud, the car came to a stop that jolted my head forward missing the dashboard by a fraction of a centimeter. We were surrounded by sheep, and I realized we had been stopped by a sacrificial lamb. The herd seemed not to notice us. We sat among the herd, welcomed as a suitable replacement for sheep we had just murdered. I could hear my aunt, uncle and mother yelling frantically as they approached the car. My brother remained nonchalant, while I sat nonplussed, incapable of saying a word. As the adult voices came into focus, I could hear their amusement. It calmed me and reassured me that I was alive. My uncle seemed impressed with my brother's bravado. My uncle's pride left me sore, because I knew, had I orchestrated this life threatening event, the reaction wouldn't have been nearly as positive.
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Joseph, we'll call him Joseph to protect his identity, and because that's actually his name, Joseph looked out of place in this mountain setting. I'm sure we both did, but I couldn't tell you what I was wearing that day. He wore his Montreal Expos baseball hat; they've since been traded to Washington DC where they're known as the Washington Nationals, leaving Canada with one lonely major league baseball team: The Toronto Blue Jays; his shiny blue wind breaker, bright blue flare jeans, red and blue plaid shirt and sneakers. He looked flashy, tacky, dare I say, North American. He was dressed flashier than mom would have dressed us back home, but we were in old country.
When we visited Italy, Mom always overdressed for every occasion. She tended to wear all her jewelry at once. Her hands always well manicured with Revlon's signature bronze metallic nail enamel, and her decolletage giving a sneak peak, but not too much, she is a practicing catholic after all. Mom wouldn't be caught dead looking sexy at 76 San Pedro Drive, Hamilton Ontario, L9C 2C6, but here, she let it all hang out like a movie star. You could look, but you couldn't touch, she is Mom after all. Mom wanted the old country to see how well she had done for herself, she wanted old country to know that she had made the right decision to leave, she wanted old country to be a little jealous of what it had lost, because deep down inside, she still loved old country more than new. So feast your eyes on Mom's glamor old country, and her two, typically overweight, North American children. Mom was living the dream.
The events that followed are a blur, peppered with anxiety and memories of my sheer determination to survive. Joseph patiently turned the key to the ignition, his feet barely reaching the pedal, and put the car in reverse. My terror allowed me to witness the event from both the first and third person. In the car we bounced like rag dolls as my life tried to escape in the form of vomit. The car scraped and jolted over mountain rocks, down the hill toward a flock of sheep. We bounced violently in the front seat, my brother never taking his hands off the steering wheel or his eyes off the scenery that kept getting further and further away with every rocky bounce.
Outside, my uncle screamed something in Italian and ran towards the escaped 128, or was it a 500? Whatever car my brother was "driving" was small, European, and stick shift, they're all the same.
Thud, the car came to a stop that jolted my head forward missing the dashboard by a fraction of a centimeter. We were surrounded by sheep, and I realized we had been stopped by a sacrificial lamb. The herd seemed not to notice us. We sat among the herd, welcomed as a suitable replacement for sheep we had just murdered. I could hear my aunt, uncle and mother yelling frantically as they approached the car. My brother remained nonchalant, while I sat nonplussed, incapable of saying a word. As the adult voices came into focus, I could hear their amusement. It calmed me and reassured me that I was alive. My uncle seemed impressed with my brother's bravado. My uncle's pride left me sore, because I knew, had I orchestrated this life threatening event, the reaction wouldn't have been nearly as positive.
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