So I guess I’m Italian. Growing up I saw nothing special about being Italian. Anyone can boil pasta and toss some meatballs in a dish, right? Wrong! There’s just something fascinating about being Italian. And I didn’t realize it until I was in the ninth grade. Starting my first year of high school was as stressful for me as it was for everyone. I wanted to be cool and impress the ladies, you know? I was too cool for my old name, “Joey”. No way...now I wanted to be referred to as “Joe”. That sounded much cooler. My first day went well, except for one minor hiccup: Greenery class. I was one out of three freshman in the class, surrounded by upperclassmen who, in my eyes seemed corrupted by the social and academic pressures of high school. I had never been more uncomfortable in my entire life. These upperclassmen looked at me with complete and utter disgust. It seemed as if they hated me just for existing, and I later found out this was true. I mean after all, I was a freshman. …show more content…
He took every opportunity that he could to make our time in that class a living hell. So, when the teacher went to take attendance that first day, he called my name: “Joe Caruso?” I responded with a subtle nod, but from the back of the class I heard a chuckle. I looked to see what the laughter was about, and as I turned, my eyes met those of the very hateful classmate. He smiled at me in the least genuine way possible and said, “Joe Caruso? That sounds like the name of a real guido! Is that you? Are you Italian? Yeah! Look at you, you’ve got the hair and