My name is Donna Garibaldi. Like any well-bred Italian-American woman, I tell everyone I'm 29, although I've been 29 for a few years now. Oil of Olay is my best friend.
I was born in The Bronx, the third of four children. We lived on Arthur Avenue during my childhood in a tiny apartment my father's parents had owned. My father owned a deli he had inherited, with the apartment, from his father, and my mother stayed home to take care of us. We were a comparatively small family for being both Roman Catholic and Italian, but money and space were tight. Although my father spent endless hours at work, my parents were devoted to us and my mother filled in the time that my father was absent by reading to us, telling us old folk tales, and instilling a strong sense of duty, work ethic, and faith in us.
When I was nine, the day before my youngest brother Jimmy's First Communion, my older brother Paul was outside playing stickball in the street when one of the kids he was playing with was hit in the shoulder with a stray bullet. Mother was hysterical and when Father came home that night, they went straight to their room and spoke in hushed but rapid Italian for nearly two hours. My parents, intent on integrating us as Americans, never spoke Italian around us and none of us were in any way fluent – we knew some words, generally those that pertained to food or holidays, and we knew basic greetings and things like numbers, but none of us could follow the conversation, although we all stood outside the door, listening intently.
The next day, a grim-faced Mother bustled us into our Sunday best, and Father, his eyes scanning the streets like a hawk, rushed us to church and back home as soon as it was decently possible to leave without fear of facing the wrath of God.
We moved to Staten Island at the end of the week. None of us had been given any warning that we were leaving. This was in the middle of the spring and we were traumatised, having to leave our friends behind so abruptly, but if the truth be told, the school system in Staten Island was much better. Although we suffered some hardships in adjusting to our new neighbourhood, there were some kids who were kind enough to help us acclimate. However, that first summer, I spent all my time immersed in books, because the books, at least, didn't make fun of my accent or speech pattern, and didn't call me by derogatory names.
That summer gave me a life-long love of books and the written word. When school started again, I threw myself into creative writing and English classes, and eventually made a few close friends.
I never forgot my roots, though. I always remembered with fondness the sounds and smells of Arthur Avenue – to this day, the mention or smell of Genoa salami makes me think of when I was five, and sitting at a table in my father's deli, sipping a cream soda and eating a lemon ice, waiting for the Easter parade to approach.
When I was eighteen, I enrolled in the City University of New York, in their English teacher program. CUNY offers a great internship program for new teachers, and it offers free tuition for those seeking to become such.
As you can imagine, the cost of living adjustment from living on Arthur Avenue to Staten Island was phenomenal. Mother scoured sales for bolts of fabric to make clothes for us, and spent a significant amount of time altering clothes too large for us that she bought for pennies at thrift stores. We grew most of our own produce to save on the cost of fresh vegetables, and while we never starved or went without adequate clothing, even in the harshest of New York winters, we were certainly not affluent. Family vacations consisted of trips to the beach or staying with relatives, and we even made our own ices and ice cream.
In any case, I got my degree and began teaching English at a middle school in The Bronx. My classmates were horrified at my assignment, given my excellent grades, and the fact that I'd interned at some of the more upscale schools, and they pleaded with me for days to contest it. It wasn't until I smiled at them and told them that I asked for such an assignment that they relented, but they all gaped at me in shock. My entire family attended my college graduation, and both Mother and Father were sobbing incoherently with pride.
I've been teaching for a little more than ten years now (whoops, I just destroyed that whole "I'm 29" theory, didn't I!), and while it is certainly very trying, it's a job I truly love. In recent years, I've had to spend a great deal of my time teaching English at all to kids who don't speak it, as opposed to refining the techniques of kids who are native-speakers.
As is to be expected in an inner-city school, we do have our share of discipline problems. But many times, we are able to reach out to kids and the entire faculty tries to make a difference in the kids' lives. Most of them appreciate it, and several of my past students still keep in touch with me.
Having the summers off is something I delight in. I have a great appreciation of lounging on the sand or in a raft as the waves cascade gently onto the beach, and give me a chocolate ice-cream in the heat and I'm quite happy. Although, lately, my travel bug has been biting me; there are so many fabulous places you can explore during the summer months that would otherwise be off-limits during more inclement weather. Although a teacher's salary is modest, I have many years of background at scrimping and saving, which is something I greatly appreciate.
My parents are getting older now and my father has sold the shop. My sister and her husband live with my parents – Angela takes care of Mother and Father and Angela's husband Donny works construction. Jimmy is a network administrator with the State, and Paul owns a restaurant. We're all very close and talk no less than twice a week, and still gather at home for Sunday meals.
I live in a little more upscale area now, although it's a tiny studio apartment, but as I'm unmarried and have no children, it is the perfect size for me. My landlord, an old Italian man, has a great respect for school teachers and leases the apartment to me for half what he'd lease it to anyone else, and I've lived there for five years. In the evenings, there is a local bar I like to frequent, particularly while I'm working on lesson plans or grading papers. The food is decent and the environment is comfortable, and it's not so loud there that I can't get my work accomplished.
All in all, I feel like I'm doing very well.