Benedetta at Yale

Two summers ago I enrolled in a summer camp for children as a volunteer educator. This program was created by the Church near my house (Church of Santa Francesca Romana in Francesco Redi street, Milan) as an all-day activity for the neighborhood community. I believe this program is a great solution for both the children, aged 7-12, and the parents, who need to find something for their kids to do when they leave in the morning for work, since school is out.  The first time I heard about the opportunity to be a part of this project, I was with my friends, who were telling me about it with so much enthusiasm that I decided I would join them.  The first morning of camp I woke up early to walk to the Church, where me and the other educators waited patiently for the children to arrive. When I saw their smiling faces waving from the main entrance, I was overwhelmed by a sensation of joy, excitement and pride that lasted all throughout the first day and every day after.  Two summ...

My city. The buildings. My home, a big flat built right after the Second World War, its grayish cement facade that protects the warm apartments inside, full of friendly and loveworthy people. My old school, where I spent most of my childhood learning about the world, about our rich history, about numbers, letters, discipline, frustration, fun, friendship - love. My high school, its small classes with light blue walls that have seen me find my favorite subjects, my passions, my beliefs, my people - myself. The restaurants and bars, drinking caffe seated outside in the sun, sharing aperitivi with my friends every Saturday, eating pizza with my dad. My mother’s bookstore. My grandfather’s house. The swimming pool. The tennis court. The Duomo, the gold Madonnina on top of it. The trams. Their yellow exterior. I take them everyday, even though they are never on time. The trees. Big green plane trees in the park near my house, that offer me some shade when I am feeling hot in the torrid Ital...

My city. The buildings. My home, a big flat built right after the Second World War, its unattractive external appearance that protects the beautiful apartments inside, full of friendly and loveworthy people. My old school, where I spent most of my childhood learning about the world, about our history, about numbers, letters, discipline, frustration, fun, friendship, love. My high school, its small classes with light blue walls that have seen me find my favourite subjects, my passions, my beliefs, my people, myself. The restaurants and bars, drinking caffe seated outside in the sun, sharing aperitivi with my friends every saturday, eating pizza with my dad. My mother’s bookstore. My grandfather’s house. The swimming pool. The tennis court. The Duomo, the gold Madonnina on top of it. The trams. Their yellow exterior. I take them everyday, even though they are never on time. The trees. Big green trees in the park near my house, that offer me some shade when I am feeling hot in the torrid ...

 I wake up: a baby is crying on the plane, and their loud screams are torturing my tired brain. I look at the time on the tiny screen in front of me, and I am relieved to learn that the long flight is ending: thirty minutes until I arrive in New York.  The airport is crowded, and adrenaline rushes through my body as I get through customs, where they check my passport and my visa. I have officially entered the US. My dad is waiting for me outside of the airport, and as soon as I see him I wave and smile: it is nice to see a familiar face among many strangers.  We get to New Haven by car, and during the trip I already get a glimpse of my surroundings, which I notice to be really different from Italy. After we check into the hotel, I immediately fall asleep, exhausted but excited for what is waiting for me tomorrow. When I enter the Yale campus, I am instantly overwhelmed by the beautiful buildings and green areas around me, and I think to myself that nothing could have prep...