Friday, September 13th, 1974

On this muggy, miserable morning, instead of waking up to loud knocking from our strict, 6 AM drill Instructor, we were woken up to the horrid screeching of our ever-so-soft-spoken history teacher. 

“BOYS! WAKE UP!!!” The aging Englishwoman, who should be in a retirement home by now, harshly barked as my fellow Canadians shot out of bed in a panic. “This morning, you are to march to our gymnasium for a critical discourse from the genius brains of our cherished Headmaster. Hurry it up, you disgraceful boys!”

Rising like zombies from our maple-themed bed sheets, James and I looked at each other in complete annoyance. We both knew this was going to be a long day if our history teacher was the one giving orders for an apparently “life-changing” speech from a bitter old man with a bald head.

 “I couldn’t sleep last night… Jacques Cariter, this day’s going to be a pain.”  Holding his aching head with one hand, Christopher threw his soft, white pillow to the ground and snatched his thick, rounded glasses from his nightstand, covered in notes and red pens.

I should write that I have a bit of a different morning routine from my male counterparts here in this prison. Every morning, we’re all woken up at 5:30 AM sharp by our drill sergeant. But I wake up half an hour earlier, sneak into the hallway bathrooms and bind my chest with tape. And yes, it’s just as painful and uncomfortable as it sounds. Seriously, I’ve already noticed grooves on my back and leaving the tape overnight is somewhat irritating my skin. 

But I promised Mama back home I’d do what I could to stay here, and I quietly sighed as the boys got ready for the day, leaving me alone in the main dorm room.

… 

As we exhausted freshmen lined up in a row in our grey gymnasium, our ears were subjected to jive-talkin’ from good ol’ Mister Giovanni and why this academy exists in the first place. 

Seemingly, this prison was the brain-child of President Harry Truman and other European leaders to unite young students in one place after the horrors of the Second World War. Our Headmaster passionately recalled Truman’s speech in 1950 about the academy opening for the sons of important men. He went on and on about how this prestigious school was meant to stand tall for generations. Eventually, Mr. Giovanni slammed his fists on the gymnasium’s stage podium as he finally instructed us, uninterested freshmen, to stand tall and recite our Academy’s anthem.

At the dawn of the new era, the youth stand proud,

Hailing from freezing tundras to burning arid dunes,

We, the students, are united in peace and justice, 

Trampling injustice and sins from abroad,

Heaven and Mother Earth are on our side,

Praise our teachers and the military protecting us, 

We wave the same proud flag, we march to our red drums,

This is our new home, where we embrace all,

Bless the Academy of International Pride.

As the gymnasium valiantly echoed the word “pride”, the scent of dust, cologne, and terrible B.O stung my lungs. To distract myself from the rancid scent, I closed my eyes and thought of back home to relax my nerves. 

In my head, I saw the shadow of my late Father from four years ago, who was leaving for his post in Italy. Despite that early summer day being warm with beautiful, clear skies, that day it may as well have been thundering with heavy downpour. As a little girl dressed in white, I looked up to my old man with big tears in my eyes. The sounds of my baby sister Tamara softly crying could be heard, as my two other sisters were also in tears.

"Dad, come on, please don't go! I really wanna watch another comedy special with you! Robin Williams is performing tonight!" I clung to my Dad and cried into his leg.

In complete understanding, my Father gently patted my tiny head and pulled me into a hug. Though he remained silent for a little bit, my old man spoke up again as the sun peeked in the sky.

“Sorry, kiddo. As much as I love Mister Williams, you know your old man’s gotta listen to his boss' urgent orders.” My father hummed with his usual warm, pacifying tone. “But, you know that I’ll be back in time for next Christmas, so don’t you worry your silly little head, Cocoa. Everything’s gonna be alright-”

“But Dad, what if someone tries to hurt you and your friends like you told me in your old stories?”

My father’s grey eyes widened, but he tried to smile through the shock. 

“Cocoa, you sillybilly of a goose, I already explained over and over that World War Two is over. The northern Italians aren’t gonna hurt me. If anything, my best friends and I will be sharing a glass of wine with them, now that Western Europe is at peace! Next time you see me, I'll bring you a souvenir and a big ol' boot filled with wine!”

That was one of the last big phrases my Father had said before he drowned off the coast of Italy.

For the rest of the first year's time in the gymnasium, I kept quiet, feeling horrible that my brain decided to replay such an unhappy memory.

…

As the students were dismissed for our 7 AM breakfast, most freshmen were just glad we skipped our usual 6 AM military training and caught some extra “Z’s” during the speech. I asked my fellow Canadians what they thought about what Mr. Giovanni declared during his speech. Both boys were uninterested and changed the topic to why our Headmaster was so passionate about Harry Truman. Deciding to change the mood away from being bored, I cracked a joke.

“Mr. Giovanni and Truman probably sent each other love letters.” I snickered under my breath as James and Christopher chuckled along to my stupid gag.

“Huh, that’d make so much sense, with the way our Headmaster was smiling like a kid on Christmas instead of his usual stank face,” James added on before he finished chewing on this morning’s extra flaccid pancakes. 

“I wonder if they were actually friends?” Christopher pondered out loud. 

“Of course they were. How did you think my Godfather became our beloved Headmaster?” 

Our trio, sitting by the cafeteria’s corner window table, slowly turned our gazes to see Vincenzo crossing his arms at us. Someone clearly wasn’t happy, and our hearts sank at the idea of that Italian brat overhearing our entire conversation. 

“Uh, he got the job by wishing on a star?” I nervously grinned before both James and Christopher nudged my shoulder. “Ow, sorry, sorry, I was just kidding!”

“I pray you were just kidding, friend. I do not appreciate the disrespectful nonsense you three were chatting about earlier. My Godfather is a man of God and of great accomplishment, something you three could only wish to achieve.” Vincenzo rolled his eyes at us and walked away from our group. 

If only he were a chillaxed guy, we’d be offering him pancakes to eat with us and joking about our lives as if we'd known each other for a lifetime. But instead, that brat looked down upon us like a vulture eyeing weaker creatures, and in return, we glared at him while his back was turned.

Watching Vincenzo talk to the other Italians from a distance set off an angered blaze in my head. The young twin’s expression seemed so calm and pleasant, and he was obviously laughing out loud at a joke his older twin told. 

Though it seemed the Canadians weren’t the only ones to continue glaring at this piece of work, as I caught students from France, Mexico, Turkey, and Japan disdainfully darting at the infamous pair of twins.

One of these unhappy students so happened to be Sergio Hernandez, who was sitting just two tables away from ours. The mauve-eyed boy, hailing from Mexico, had finished his plate of pancakes and repeatedly tapped on his jam-covered fork. My subtle crush closely scrutinized Vincenzo, who suddenly stood up from his seat. My nemesis, along with the two other first-year Italy representatives, strutted toward the Mexican students and cleared his throat; many students watched Vincenzo Fiorello closely.

Aw, snaps, it’s about to go down!

Quickly tapping on the shoulders of my friends, I signalled James and Chris to keep their heads down, but their gazes on Vincenzo and Sergio.

“What are you staring at, Sergio Hernandez?” The rich-kid smirked as his twin brother and another blond Italian looked down at the sitting Mexicans.

“Hm? Staring at what?” The mauve-eyed boy plainly replied with a hand on his chin. “I was looking over the cafeteria’s menu, if that is what you are asking.” 

“Yeah, he was just checking out the menu… We want no trouble.” Osvaldo Garcia, a Block C freshman from Mexico, reassured with a solid shake of his curly-haired head. Marco Delores, the third Mexican freshman with light brown hair and intense blue eyes, shuffled close to Osvaldo. He appeared the angriest of the trio, but he strategically kept his mouth sealed. 

“Hmph. Non fissatemi di nuovo, bastardi.” Vincenzo muttered under his breath and turned to leave.

Christopher, James, and I, with barely raised heads, looked to each other in momentary relief.

“Hold on! The fuck did you say, meatball boy?!” Freddie Greys, an American first-year from Block B, suddenly stood up and crudely pointed at Vincenzo. The peace we felt was washed away into panic as the rest of the American students stood up from their seats with riled-up expressions. 

“Crisse, leave it to the Americans to poke their nose into someone else’s business.” James’ shoulders tensed up as Christopher and I nervously watched the argument near our table instantly turn sour. Fists were raised, lots of screaming happened between the Americans, Italians, and Mexicans, and worst of all, it was very awkward to be at the table right beside the drama. 

Poor Christopher looked like a frozen deer in headlights, and James was remarkably close to throwing our red-themed table at the bickering Italians, but I quickly talked him out of that shitty idea. 

“Dude, if we’re called to the office, we’re fucked!” I shout-whispered to James, who had to walk away from the whole ordeal. I dragged Chris by his arm and followed our Quebecois friend out of the cafeteria.

Huh, some unity this academy demonstrates.