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Student says goodbye to Italy
By Susanna Satta
Staff Writer

Nervous. Body trembling. Sweaty Palms. Legs shaking. I wanted to run as far away as I could, but I was stuck. It was time to start my first day of American public High School, a day I will remember for the rest of my life.

Photo Courtesy of Susanna Satta

I was born in Rome, Italy where I spent 16 wonderful years surrounded by a huge, loving family and great childhood friends. I was a typical Italian teenager: waking up to an amazing cappuccino and heading off to an international private school where I learned to speak English and Italian. My friends and I would spend several hours of the day slowly walking up and down our main streets, glancing into windows, looking at the unattainable fashions of Prada and Gucci. Several weekends were spent downtown at dinner parties, surrounded by the best food and impeccable wine. Life was all about friends, family and having fun, I felt life could not get any better.

As if it were only yesterday, this vivid memory was more of a nightmare, one that I could never wake up from. My mom dropped me off. It felt like I was 4-years-old again, having to leave my mom for the very first time. I got out of the car very slowly. Instead of walking, it felt like I was slowly drifting, staring at the unknown environment. Confused and disoriented, I took my first steps through the gates of Paradise Valley High School, not knowing where to go next.

The summer after my sophomore year I was spending a week in Spain with my brother, my first real boyfriend and a couple friends. We spent the days wondering through the tiny streets of Madrid, shopping, eating and checking out the wonderful museums. The nights were spent going to extravagant dinners, different clubs each night and staying up until 4 a.m just talking with my boyfriend. We were young, full of life and in love. So far the trip had been perfect. It wasn't until one of the very last night's that I received the heartbreaking phone call that would change my life forever. My mom called me and hesitantly said, "Susie, we are moving to the States."

I followed the enormous and diverse crowd into the courtyard awaiting the first bell to ring, letting us know that class had begun. It felt as if I was staring in my own teen movie. I had grown up in a smaller school with an estimate of 60 kids in my grade. My first observations of PVHS were terrifying. There seemed to be thousands of students. It wasn't until later that I found out there were about 450 students in my new grade.


It seemed so cliché; everyone was separated into little cliques. The jocks and the cheerleaders were all standing around flirting, the punk kids, along with some group called “Emo” were all in a corner, the drama kids were huddled together, and the outcasts were off in the distance at a picnic table. What also surprised me, was the fact that Hispanics were completely separated from any of these groups. Instead, they sat near a wall criticizing everyone who walked by. I had no clue where to go or who to ask for assistance. I stood still and watched the massive student body float right by me as if I were invisible.

My mom and I had only two weeks to pack up our belongings, leaving my dad and my sister alone to pack up the house. We bought two tickets for the U.S, cherishing those last two weeks, which seemed to go by so fast. After growing up with the same friends for 16 years, having to say good-bye seemed impossible. We also had to say good-bye to my grandparents, all of my aunts and uncles and all of my cousins. The worst part was that I had fallen in love with my first real boyfriend, Alex Piscina. What would happen between us now? Seeing him cry when I told him I was leaving almost killed me. I have never felt so sick, so devastated; it seemed so unreal.

"I don't want to lose you. I can't imagine going to school without you next year" he said heartbroken. "I don't want to break up baby, I love you."

I burst out, trying to hold back the tears. "I'll call you every day," I promised.

"Well what if I come visit you in October and spend a week with you "Alex suggested, trying to make it work

Relieved that he wanted to still be with me, I told him I would be back at Christmas and stay with him for a month. Moving was hard enough. I needed his support. I needed him to tell me each day that everything would be all right. I spent every day of those last two weeks with him. The night of August 8, 2005, my family boarded our plane, leaving behind the only home I have ever had.

My first couple of classes seemed to last forever. I was counting down to the time when my mom would pick me up, and I could go to my new house, curl up in a ball and cry myself to sleep. No one talked to me, and why should they? The school was so big it was impossible for everyone to know each other. How would anyone know I was new?

I had never had to make friends before; it seemed so strange to have to introduce myself. Third period slowly passed by; it was time for the most dreaded and feared part of the day—lunch. I was shaking when I entered the cafeteria. What would I do? Where would I go? Food at the time sounded sickening.

When I looked to see what they were serving, all they had was greasy pizza, chicken sandwiches and tatter tots. Fast food was new to me; I had been spoiled with amazing Italian food, so I refused to eat. Luckily, I ran into a girl who sat by me in fashion class. I put aside my pride, terrified for some reason to be rejected and asked her, “Can I sit with you at lunch? I don’t know anyone.”

Without even hesitating she showed me to her table with a group of Hispanic girls and started introducing me. I had survived my first lunch break.

The plane ride was impeccably long. For about 9 hours, I stared blankly out the window, hiding my tears from my mom. She must have been going through the same experience, but luckily, she was stronger then me and held my hand with comfort. Alex, who was a drummer in a band, had written me a beautiful song and sang it to me in a talent show my sophomore year. It was the sweetest and most romantic thing any one had ever done for me. All I did was push the repeat button on my CD player.

"Hey there, Susanna, It's been a week since you've been gone. Hey there, Susanna, rest assured because I'm here. Hey there Susanna, you’re adored by everyone. I won't cry. I won't die like this. Hey there, Susanna, I'm sorry I let you down again. Hey there, Susanna, you're like an angel from the sky."

I tried to find comfort from his voice. Finally, when there were no more tears to be cried, I fell into a long and deep sleep, wishing that this was all a dream.

I was experiencing a drastic case of culture shock. Finally, it was time for algebra, the last class of the day. I snuck in quietly and sat at the first available desk open. Before I had even realized it, a sweet, innocent-looking, blonde girl tapped my shoulder and said, "Do you mind if I switch seats with you. My ex-boyfriend sat next to me and I refuse to talk to him."

I reluctantly stood up and took her seat, so I was sitting between her and her “ex.” Before class began she flipped her shiny long hair over her shoulder turned around and introduced herself: "I'm Tiffany, what's your name?"

“Susie" I replied, astonished that someone was actually talking to me. Perhaps I wasn't as invisible as I had thought.

After some meaningless chitchat, she began telling me all the drama with her “ex.” I had never met someone so blunt. She had cheated on the guy sitting behind me with his best friend. A couple months later she got pregnant and had an abortion. She told me as if it was a completely natural topic. I stared at her in disbelief. Not only had I attended a Catholic school, but we hadn't even been taught sexual education until ninth grade. If you had gotten pregnant before marriage in Italy, you would probably be shunned from the family. Finally, class began. I sat back in my uncomfortable chair, taking in everything that I had just heard, seen and experienced on my first day of American high school.

I slowly rubbed my eyes. The blaring sunlight from the window was blinding me. " If everyone could go back to their seats and fasten their seatbelts, we are about to land," said the anonymous voice over the intercom. I peeked out the window. All I saw was desert and the occasional greenery.

"Welcome to hell," I said under my breath. After the terrible turbulence, the plane finally came to stop.

"Thank you for flying British Airways. We have arrived at our final destination. Welcome to Phoenix, Arizona," said the anonymous voice.

That night when there were no more tears to be cried I realized that I had been living in a bubble. I felt so sheltered, never had I been exposed to everyday, American, teenage drama. In Italy all the girls I had grown up with were identical to me. We dressed alike, behaved in a specific way and even had the same taste in guys. We were taught how to act, talk, even think. The U.S encourages people to be individuals. All I ever knew was how to conform. I was so naive. It was time for me to grow independently. It was time to think on my own, dress the way I wanted to dress and act the way I wanted to. Perhaps moving to the states, no matter how hard it would be, would help me discover who I really am and what I want in life.