Tell us about the prom you went to (or skipped!), your epic graduation celebration and why it meant to much, the first time you traveled without a family member, that lease you signed all by yourself…
In the winter of 1993, I took part in student protests against the "Jervolino" education reform in Italy. It was the first of a series of reforms which, with the excuse of "rationalizing" the school system, cut funding and reduced benefits and job security for teachers. As part of the protests, we occupied the school and declared "autogestione," i.e., self-management. Meaning, we did not allow access to most school personnel, and we barricaded ourselves inside the school, day and night.
It was a really important rite of passage for me. The first time I really defied institutions. My parents, teachers, and the state. The protest did not accomplish much, and the reform opened the floodgates to many other reforms in the following years. One more damaging than the next. But I was 17, and many events during those days have become part of my story and my identity.
After considering myself a writer for over fifty years, in the fall of 2024, I finally began submitting my personal essays to lit mags. Four months later I received my first acceptance from the Rumpus (ENOUGH). For me that was a huge milestone. Seeing my story come to life in a highly regarded magazine gave me the confidence to keep writing the hard stuff and to keep pressing SEND.
This was my New York City Apartment rite of passage.
Living in New York, everyone has apartment horror stories, from nasty neighbors to lazy landlords. But after 10 years and three shoebox apartments, I'd navigated the indiscriminate minefield of NYC real estate with the luck of a Squid Games contestant crossing the finish line. Until one night, I heard the unmistakable shuffling of those tiny little feet.
Now, I'd had plenty of mice in my time as a New Yorker. You don't escape that. You are quickly taught that one rodent does not the infestation make. So when I returned from a soccer game about 10 p.m. one evening and heard the mouse, I was more salty than skeeved out. I was going to have to sign up on the building's shared exterminator sheet, arrange a time to let them in during my work day. Just when I was mapping out the well-rehearsed logistics, I heard something on the other side of the room. And then behind me. That's when I turned around to see two mice (plural) scurrying along the window ledge, treating family photos like an American Ninja Warrior course.
I left. I couldn't stay there. I took a train to my parents' house, two-and-a-half hours away. The next morning, I called the landlord. He assured me the exterminator would take care of it. They didn't. I went back and saw mouse feces indiscriminately scattered throughout the apartment. We had a problem here. A big f'ing problem. I left again.
Again, the landlord assured me it had been cleaned. Again, it wasn't. This pattern repeated itself until I called a service that specializes in cleaning up homicides, suicides and, yes, infestations. They confirmed my suspicions. This was, indeed, a big f'ing problem. I told them, "I'm going to step out for a few hours. Anything you wouldn't want in your apartment, just throw it out. Haul it off. I don't care what it is." I had a two-year-old son who was with his grandparents at the time. But when he and my wife returned, I could not subject them to a den of disgust.
When I returned, about 80 percent of my family's possessions were in the back of the exterminator's truck. A rodent-induced purge we didn't know was coming. We called our insurance. It's the landlord's fault. We called the landlord. Call your insurance.
Days were long. My family sequestered at my in-laws, while I waged war against an invasion that would not relent. Finally, another exterminator did what his predecessors had not and diagnosed the source of the problem. The neighbor below us had parrots (again, plural). He gave it to me straight, "The mice go down there and feed on the bird seed, then they come up here and poop. There's no amount of wire I can stuff in this brick to prevent them from getting in. He gets rid of those birds, or you need to get rid of this apartment."
We knew the neighbor. He operated on his own frequency. But was polite and harmless. Sort of like a SoHo Cosmo Karmer, without the charm. We appealed to him to please at least let an exterminator come in and try and mitigate the amount of mice that were treating his birdseed like the chocolate fountain at The Golden Corral. No dice, he said. He was on a City lease and paying well under market value. If an exterminator reported any type of violation to the landlord, he'd lose that sweetheart lease.
And so my family did the only thing we could. We packed up what was left of our belongings and moved on. That's life in New York City. Real estate roulette. Play long enough and your number will be up.
And while we convinced the landlord (while showing him pictures and videos we'd taken of the apartment's condition) to return our security deposit without question, we were leaving with something even more valuable: our first New York City apartment horror story.
The first time I discovered I was seeing a married man, I realized I'd probably been the other woman many times before. Rings come off and no one asks questions if you don't give them a reason to. It shaped my sense of self-confidence in profound ways-being the other woman, even inadvertently. For a long time I worried that there was something wrong with me. I was only enough to be girl on the size. After years of reflection, I've also come to appreciate that I don't project a "marry-me" sense of stability or even a desire for an institution I was taught to strive for. Fascinating.
I signed my first lease by myself at 19; it was in Italian, which I was just starting to learn. It was 1993, so there was no internet to help me translate. The more I think about it, my initial rite of passage that landed me on that island was joining the military, which I’d never considered, since I didn’t know anything about it and had never met anyone who had been in. Leaving my sheltered little life in the Midwest to see the world, which I never would’ve had the opportunity to do otherwise, was a step I never thought I’d take.
Wow! This all sounds like a book. What island? Where in the Midwest? I left mid-Missouri for Rome, Italy at 22. I'm always curious about other peoples' stories of crossing oceans, especially when we are locked between highways or rivers at best, and the ocean isn't even in sight.
Sardinia, and left Iowa. We love Italy and frequently go back. Italy is such a magical place. There’s something for everyone there, it’s no wonder people love to travel there!
How ironic! I live in SC now. (Although I lived in CT, CA, and IA first, but we can ignore that part) it’s just interesting that now we’re both here. To be fair, I would prefer to still be in Sardinia if I could. Did you want to leave? Don’t you miss it? Maybe it’s a grass is greener thing, and things are nice here, but, the Costa Smeralda…
I am no longer in SC. I am back to Europe, living in Ireland, although at this very moment I am spending my holidays visiting friends and family in Sardegna.
I left for many reasons. Mostly, I always had a dream to go to grad school in the US and when an opportunity came along to study in Clemson, I took it. I ended up staying for 5 years, developing a strange love/hate relationship with SC and the US in general.
I think I miss every place I lived in. But Sardegna is my land and roots go very deep here, as you probably know. I don't miss the beach as much as I miss the history, the food, and the traditions. How was it for you? I often joke with friends that moving from Sardegna to rural SC was less of a culture shock than moving from SC to the pacific north-west :D
I guess I fell in love with every part of it because I was so young, although, after all these years, it's still a magical place for me, that I've now introduced my entire family (parents, kids, husband) to, and they love it. Although we love Italy in general (we were in N. Italy last September and Apulia/Basilicata this January), Sardegna always holds a special place in my heart because I lived there for three years.
I miss the people, sailing the incredible waters, because I did that almost every day, the food, the lifestyle, the way I feel so relaxed when we visit.
I get the love/hate relationship with the U.S. And yes, we have vast differences in culture, food, and everything here. We've thought about moving to Italy in retirement for the past 8 years or so, and talk about it a lot, but have no ties there, so it's a lot of red tape and wouldn't be easy, but would be worth it. I imagine you're enjoying living closer to family and friends now.
Getting pregnant and having an abortion at nineteen I consider my biggest rite of passage. Every woman in my family has experienced this and I was incredibly fortunate to have all the love and support I needed at that time.
I was pretty excited when I got my new business cards with Editor-in-chief on them after 6 years at a small publishing house. But 5 years later, in 2011, I printed my own cards: just my name and contact info and the word Editor...wow! The freedom of freelancing. I still love it.
I have a story I could submit. I no longer am a paid subscriber, however. I never did submit anything, except for the contests and never heard back about the submissions.
So, can I still submit something based on the rite of passage prompt?
Hi Tom, Sure, anyone can submit something. And it's not complete essays we're looking for for this. We're just asking people to share a brief anecdote right here in the comments, in the hopes that maybe it will inspire you to work on a larger piece for yourself later on (or not, no rules). It's just meant to inspire really. Good luck!
In the winter of 1993, I took part in student protests against the "Jervolino" education reform in Italy. It was the first of a series of reforms which, with the excuse of "rationalizing" the school system, cut funding and reduced benefits and job security for teachers. As part of the protests, we occupied the school and declared "autogestione," i.e., self-management. Meaning, we did not allow access to most school personnel, and we barricaded ourselves inside the school, day and night.
It was a really important rite of passage for me. The first time I really defied institutions. My parents, teachers, and the state. The protest did not accomplish much, and the reform opened the floodgates to many other reforms in the following years. One more damaging than the next. But I was 17, and many events during those days have become part of my story and my identity.
After considering myself a writer for over fifty years, in the fall of 2024, I finally began submitting my personal essays to lit mags. Four months later I received my first acceptance from the Rumpus (ENOUGH). For me that was a huge milestone. Seeing my story come to life in a highly regarded magazine gave me the confidence to keep writing the hard stuff and to keep pressing SEND.
Something that was a very big deal : the first time I went to a restaurant for dinner and didn't order a cocktail, or a beer, or a glass of wine.
My substack focuses on my recovery/sobriety and that was a huge hurdle!
Mice feces everywhere.
Locked in a battle with my landlord.
No sleep in days.
This was my New York City Apartment rite of passage.
Living in New York, everyone has apartment horror stories, from nasty neighbors to lazy landlords. But after 10 years and three shoebox apartments, I'd navigated the indiscriminate minefield of NYC real estate with the luck of a Squid Games contestant crossing the finish line. Until one night, I heard the unmistakable shuffling of those tiny little feet.
Now, I'd had plenty of mice in my time as a New Yorker. You don't escape that. You are quickly taught that one rodent does not the infestation make. So when I returned from a soccer game about 10 p.m. one evening and heard the mouse, I was more salty than skeeved out. I was going to have to sign up on the building's shared exterminator sheet, arrange a time to let them in during my work day. Just when I was mapping out the well-rehearsed logistics, I heard something on the other side of the room. And then behind me. That's when I turned around to see two mice (plural) scurrying along the window ledge, treating family photos like an American Ninja Warrior course.
I left. I couldn't stay there. I took a train to my parents' house, two-and-a-half hours away. The next morning, I called the landlord. He assured me the exterminator would take care of it. They didn't. I went back and saw mouse feces indiscriminately scattered throughout the apartment. We had a problem here. A big f'ing problem. I left again.
Again, the landlord assured me it had been cleaned. Again, it wasn't. This pattern repeated itself until I called a service that specializes in cleaning up homicides, suicides and, yes, infestations. They confirmed my suspicions. This was, indeed, a big f'ing problem. I told them, "I'm going to step out for a few hours. Anything you wouldn't want in your apartment, just throw it out. Haul it off. I don't care what it is." I had a two-year-old son who was with his grandparents at the time. But when he and my wife returned, I could not subject them to a den of disgust.
When I returned, about 80 percent of my family's possessions were in the back of the exterminator's truck. A rodent-induced purge we didn't know was coming. We called our insurance. It's the landlord's fault. We called the landlord. Call your insurance.
Days were long. My family sequestered at my in-laws, while I waged war against an invasion that would not relent. Finally, another exterminator did what his predecessors had not and diagnosed the source of the problem. The neighbor below us had parrots (again, plural). He gave it to me straight, "The mice go down there and feed on the bird seed, then they come up here and poop. There's no amount of wire I can stuff in this brick to prevent them from getting in. He gets rid of those birds, or you need to get rid of this apartment."
We knew the neighbor. He operated on his own frequency. But was polite and harmless. Sort of like a SoHo Cosmo Karmer, without the charm. We appealed to him to please at least let an exterminator come in and try and mitigate the amount of mice that were treating his birdseed like the chocolate fountain at The Golden Corral. No dice, he said. He was on a City lease and paying well under market value. If an exterminator reported any type of violation to the landlord, he'd lose that sweetheart lease.
And so my family did the only thing we could. We packed up what was left of our belongings and moved on. That's life in New York City. Real estate roulette. Play long enough and your number will be up.
And while we convinced the landlord (while showing him pictures and videos we'd taken of the apartment's condition) to return our security deposit without question, we were leaving with something even more valuable: our first New York City apartment horror story.
The first time I discovered I was seeing a married man, I realized I'd probably been the other woman many times before. Rings come off and no one asks questions if you don't give them a reason to. It shaped my sense of self-confidence in profound ways-being the other woman, even inadvertently. For a long time I worried that there was something wrong with me. I was only enough to be girl on the size. After years of reflection, I've also come to appreciate that I don't project a "marry-me" sense of stability or even a desire for an institution I was taught to strive for. Fascinating.
I signed my first lease by myself at 19; it was in Italian, which I was just starting to learn. It was 1993, so there was no internet to help me translate. The more I think about it, my initial rite of passage that landed me on that island was joining the military, which I’d never considered, since I didn’t know anything about it and had never met anyone who had been in. Leaving my sheltered little life in the Midwest to see the world, which I never would’ve had the opportunity to do otherwise, was a step I never thought I’d take.
Wow! This all sounds like a book. What island? Where in the Midwest? I left mid-Missouri for Rome, Italy at 22. I'm always curious about other peoples' stories of crossing oceans, especially when we are locked between highways or rivers at best, and the ocean isn't even in sight.
Sardinia, and left Iowa. We love Italy and frequently go back. Italy is such a magical place. There’s something for everyone there, it’s no wonder people love to travel there!
I did almost the opposite. Left Sardinia for South Carolina at 30.
How ironic! I live in SC now. (Although I lived in CT, CA, and IA first, but we can ignore that part) it’s just interesting that now we’re both here. To be fair, I would prefer to still be in Sardinia if I could. Did you want to leave? Don’t you miss it? Maybe it’s a grass is greener thing, and things are nice here, but, the Costa Smeralda…
I am no longer in SC. I am back to Europe, living in Ireland, although at this very moment I am spending my holidays visiting friends and family in Sardegna.
I left for many reasons. Mostly, I always had a dream to go to grad school in the US and when an opportunity came along to study in Clemson, I took it. I ended up staying for 5 years, developing a strange love/hate relationship with SC and the US in general.
I think I miss every place I lived in. But Sardegna is my land and roots go very deep here, as you probably know. I don't miss the beach as much as I miss the history, the food, and the traditions. How was it for you? I often joke with friends that moving from Sardegna to rural SC was less of a culture shock than moving from SC to the pacific north-west :D
I guess I fell in love with every part of it because I was so young, although, after all these years, it's still a magical place for me, that I've now introduced my entire family (parents, kids, husband) to, and they love it. Although we love Italy in general (we were in N. Italy last September and Apulia/Basilicata this January), Sardegna always holds a special place in my heart because I lived there for three years.
I miss the people, sailing the incredible waters, because I did that almost every day, the food, the lifestyle, the way I feel so relaxed when we visit.
I get the love/hate relationship with the U.S. And yes, we have vast differences in culture, food, and everything here. We've thought about moving to Italy in retirement for the past 8 years or so, and talk about it a lot, but have no ties there, so it's a lot of red tape and wouldn't be easy, but would be worth it. I imagine you're enjoying living closer to family and friends now.
Getting pregnant and having an abortion at nineteen I consider my biggest rite of passage. Every woman in my family has experienced this and I was incredibly fortunate to have all the love and support I needed at that time.
I was pretty excited when I got my new business cards with Editor-in-chief on them after 6 years at a small publishing house. But 5 years later, in 2011, I printed my own cards: just my name and contact info and the word Editor...wow! The freedom of freelancing. I still love it.
I have a story I could submit. I no longer am a paid subscriber, however. I never did submit anything, except for the contests and never heard back about the submissions.
So, can I still submit something based on the rite of passage prompt?
Hi Tom, Sure, anyone can submit something. And it's not complete essays we're looking for for this. We're just asking people to share a brief anecdote right here in the comments, in the hopes that maybe it will inspire you to work on a larger piece for yourself later on (or not, no rules). It's just meant to inspire really. Good luck!
I see: "The Year Was 1968 and for the first time in my life I was truly on my own. It would change the course of my life."
That's the story and now I need to write it. I guess I could condense it, but it's a long story.