Read Waiting to Be Heard: A Memoir for Free Online Page A

hours, five days a week. Besides grammar and pronunciation, I had a third class, in Italian culture. We all went home for lunch at noon, and I spent the rest of the day and night doing whatever I wanted. My teachers didn’t give homework, so I’d sit on the terrace or, when the days cooled, at my desk with a grammar book and a dictionary, making my way, one word at a time, through the Italian translation of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets .
    A lot of people would have traded places with me in a nanosecond. I was living in Italy, young and unfettered. But I quickly found that, for me, all the freedom came with a downside: the empty hours made me feel irresponsible, and I knew I needed somehow to fill them.
    When I told my roommates in early October that I wanted a job, Laura arranged a meeting for me with a friend of hers. After lunch one day, she walked me over to Piazza Grimana, by the University for Foreigners, and introduced me to a scruffy young guy. “Juve, this is Amanda. Amanda, this is Juve. Good luck!” she said, turning to walk away.
    Juve smiled and shook my hand. He spoke perfect, albeit stilted, English. “So you are looking for a job?” he said.
    “Yes, I have experience as a barista.”
    “You are American?” he asked.
    “Yes, I’m from Seattle.”
    He put his arm around my shoulders and started walking me down the street, away from the university. I felt awkward, because I was looking for a job, not a boyfriend. “My boss, Diya Lumumba—people call him Patrick—owns a new bar, Le Chic,” Juve said. “It’s a good place, small, and we are building up our clientele. I give out flyers during the day and bring in customers in the evening. I make sure business happens.”
    “Is that where we’re going?” I asked.
    The answer was no.
    Instead we walked to Juve’s apartment, where he made us espresso and we took turns playing his guitar. It was the weirdest job interview I’d ever had. I wasn’t sure what to say or do. Was I supposed to talk about my work experience pulling coffee at a café and working for a Seattle caterer? Or were we two coworkers just hanging out? I’d expected him to ask me questions, but I had the feeling I’d already gotten the job on our handshake. Like so many other experiences in Perugia, this one made me feel off-balance.
    “About the job,” Juve finally said. “It is straightforward and easy. I will give you flyers to hand out in school. Invite your classmates to come to Le Chic. Keep asking them. Around nine P.M. , we will meet at the bar, Patrick will open the doors, and we will help him get ready. Then we will go to Corso Vannucci and hand out more flyers and direct people to Le Chic. When we have no flyers left, we will help Patrick get drinks, stock snacks, and make sure people are having a good time. When customers leave, we bring in more.”
    I was hired to work at the bar from 9 P.M. to 1 A.M. , making €5.00—about $7.25—an hour. “Handing out flyers doesn’t count as work time,” Juve said.
    “Okay,” I answered. “So, what’s next?”
    “You need to meet Patrick. I will tell him I know you and will teach you how to do the job.”
    I met Patrick at lunchtime the next day, at the university snack bar. He was originally Congolese and spoke Italian but no English. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asked.
    “Pretty well,” I said.
    Like Juve, Patrick wasn’t interested in my work experience. Looking back now, I’m sure they hired me because they thought I’d attract men to the bar. But I was too naïve back then to get that. I still thought of myself as a quirky girl struggling to figure out who I’d be when I grew up. I now realize that the point of the job “interview” was to see if my looks were a draw or a liability.
    Patrick said, “Sometimes the job is serving, sometimes cleaning, sometimes being friendly and welcoming.”
    “I’m outgoing,” I said, still trying to sell myself as a hard worker. “I love