Italian for Barbie

At 21 years old, I land my dream job working on a congressional campaign in a tightly contested race. I slave for months, spending 16 hours a day coordinating volunteers, handing out flyers, attending meet and greets, tying up yard signs… You name it, I do it and I do it all happily. When we win on election night, I squeal with glee and celebrate until the wee hours of the morning.

The next day, I show up at the office to tackle the aftermath of the campaign. I won’t ever forget that moment. I walk up to the door, stick my key into the lock and it doesn’t turn. It doesn’t move even a smidgen. I stand in shock, looking around to make sure I’m not at the wrong place. After a few minutes, it opens and the Finance Director ushers me into the empty space. He explains to me, in not so nice terms, that he’s the only one being kept around. Everyone else has been fired, myself included, with no explanation and certainly no parting gift. His last words are, “Welcome to politics, little girl. If you can’t stomach this, then this life isn’t for you.”

That was the first time anyone ever said, “you can’t do this job,” and it didn’t just fill me with righteous indignation. It burned a hole into my stomach, the kind made by the effort of swallowing down the cold, hard truth: if this was what it was like, then I hated my dream.

Twenty-one years old and suddenly rudderless, I did the only thing a carefree youth can do – I packed a suitcase and moved to Italy. I took a job as a nanny for a little family in a picturesque town in the hills of the Veneto. My father drove me to the airport with his own burning stomach, handing me an envelope full of traveler’s checks as I got out of the car. “You can come home. You can come anytime you want. If things aren’t right with the family, go tour around with this money and then get on a plane. If nothing else you’ll have an adventure.” I look back now and wonder how he had the strength to let me go.

I moved into a life that could not have been further from the one I’d left behind. Rising at 8:30, watching the three-year-old until 12:00 and then the afternoons free to wander and explore on my own. I am not a kid person, but somehow the blue-eyed, golden-haired child worms her way into my heart. She asks a million and one questions, as only a child can do.

“Next year I’ll go to school, did you go to school?” “My papa works in an office, do you want to work in an office?” The questions roll on, day after day, frequently inspired by whatever activities our Barbies happen to be undertaking. “Today Barbie is a doctor. Can you find her doctor dress? Are you going to be a doctor?” “Barbie needs a ponytail so she can play tennis like my mama. Do you play tennis?”

With each day and each new Barbie activity, my Italian vocabulary grows, but so do the thoughts in my head. She is my very own language course, “Italian for Barbie,” and my personal life coach as well. Barbie and the three-year-old make me believe again that I can be anything I want when I grow up. Spring turned into summer and summer into fall and finally it was time to go back home. I had got to stop trying careers on Barbie, it was time to try a few of these new dreams on for size.

I’m thirty-six years old now, married to a handsome Italian and raising two blue-eyed, golden-haired children of my own. I am living my dream. Just like years ago, I find myself playing Barbies again. With the help of my trusted friend, slowly but surely I’m teaching my girls a course in “Italian for Barbie” all of my own.

Dream big and dream often and never let the unexpected turns in life get you down.