Defending Irene by Kristin Wolden; Nitz Page A

“The vacation was too short? I believe you. Too bad. There is much to do today. But first, I must present myself to Irene Benenati, our new student from the United States. I am Professoressa Trevisani. Welcome, Irene.” She waved a hand in my direction.
    Heads swiveled. Everyone picked me out with ease, even though my walking shorts and T-shirt seemed to blend in with what everyone else was wearing. But it was a very small school with ninety students per grade. I might have been the only unfamiliar face.
    â€œThe principal has told me that Irene speaks Italian very well. Now, for Irene and for those who have forgotten everything they learned during the vacation, I will review some of the rules from last year. First, I am not the mamma maestra of the elementary school; I am the professoressa, the prof . You will address me in that way. “You will not give me the ‘tu.’ You will always say ‘lei.’ You will demonstrate respect to all the teachers in this way.”
    I pressed my lips together. This part had me worried. “Tu” is how Italians say the word “you” to children, friends, and family. “ Lei” is for almost everyone else. We always used the familiar “tu” forms at home. Dad had gone over the long list of exceptions and the proper grammar for the polite forms with Mom and me before we came to Italy. There is nothing in English quite like this.
    â€œWith your first mistake, you receive extra homework,” the professoressa continued. “The second time, we send a note home to your parents; on the third, suspension.”
    Harsh. I couldn’t imagine anyone back home being suspended for using the wrong pronoun and verb conjugation to a teacher.
    â€œIrene, please remain after class. We will speak of how it will go with you.”
    I nodded.
    During the hour that followed, teachers came and went, discussing their plans and expectations. Except for art, gym, music, and science, the teachers would come to us. I wrote down the varying times and days for those subjects as well as Italian, English, German, mathematics, history, and religion in my student diary. We all took religion. Separation of church and state is not an Italian concept.
    I understood almost everything that was said. Some words were unfamiliar, but then Dad and I never talked about the Pythagorean Theorem, the Second Law of Thermodynamics, or the Counter-Reformation at home. I would have to learn a lot of new definitions for old concepts. How hard could it be? English would be a boring breeze, but there was a gleam in the teacher’s eye when she looked at me that suggested I would be helping to teach the class.
    Then the German teacher, Professorin Schneider, walked in. I got lost after “Guten Morgen, Klasse” and “ Willkommen , Irene Benenati.” She spoke in clear, almost conversational-speed German. Everyone else laughed at her jokes.
    Toast. I would be complete toast in this class.
    For five minutes I listened intently and picked out some words that were close to their English counterparts: Buch , book; studieren , to study; Minuten , minutes. But eventually, my thoughts drifted as the incomprehensible waterfall of syllables washed over me.
    Glancing at my watch, I wondered what my friends were doing back home. It was nine thirty-four. Second period would have just ended at my old middle school. I could picture Lindy, Kristi, and Deb chatting in the crowded, noisy hallways, slamming their locker doors shut or cramming for a quiz during those five minutes between second and third periods.
    No. Wait. It was only two thirty-four a.m. at home. My friends would all be sleeping. It would be hours before their hands reached out from under their covers to slap the snooze alarm for five more crucial minutes. With the bright, morning sun shining in through the windows, it was hard to imagine that darkness still hung over my old corner of the world.
    In an attempt to