All Is Well That Ends Well
written by: Rosa Arlotto
Maria lived a few doors down from me. Our street swept down into the town in a wide-sloping curve that overlooked the brown and green mountains ahead of us. Since then a childish sense of joy comes up at the sight of mountain ridges and the face of a girl who loved the rain and sparrows and poppies.
“This is an agreeable place to live, once people get to know you,” she would say about our hometown when I complained about the boredom and tedious atmosphere of such a confined place.
Maria was convinced that luck could be passed from neighbour to neighbour like biscuits and chocolate and that if she was born lucky, then I was lucky too.
Maria looked older than her age of 10. She was already stunning with her cascading blond hair, her white creamy skin, and deep blue eyes that would stay blue, and she had toned legs.
She usually wore designer sportswear, tight tops, and short skirts and looked more like a teenager.
Her body language changed whenever a group of young boys approached to admire and check her, which they did without fail.
This was her milieu; she walked about like an Italian princess, a bit stuck up and snobbish. And oh boy, Maria was spoiled, undisciplined, and unruly. She felt privileged and acted as if the world owed her everything—she took everything she wanted and took everything for granted.
One thing I learned from that time up there is that if you stay somewhere long enough, people will get used to you. I would cater to Maria. I would always come to her rescue every time the other kids picked on her, and they did often. I did because it was obvious that no one else would, and after all, I was the one to find a dead mouse on her doorstep and get rid of it.
When we started school, she came home in tears because the kids called her stuck up and a troublemaker. She was otherwise fearless, except for our teacher. There existed a common hate between these two, and I was often caught in the middle.
Maria would act up in class, and she would often get the strap and be made to stand in a corner of the classroom with her face turned to the wall.
I always felt for Maria and was terribly protective of her, and our teacher suggested I tutor Maria in her assignments.
Maria was smart. Whenever at home with me, she could solve math problems, recite poetry by heart, and know her geography and history. When she practiced at home with my help, she was in her element and was even brilliant. But back in the classroom, like amnesia, she seemed to forget everything she had learned. She would freeze in front of the blackboard, become speechless, bite her lips, and then break down and cry.
Our teacher was frustrated and mean and often engaged in corporal punishment to punish misbehaving and slow children. Back then, there were broad rationales for the use of corporal punishment. School beliefs, based on traditional religion, suggested that adults had a right, if not a duty, to punish misbehaving children. There was a philosophy that corporal punishment built character and was necessary for the development of a child’s conscience and their respect for adult authority figures. It was believed that teachers needed and had a right to punish children physically, and specifically, corporal punishment was essential to maintaining order and control in the classroom.
Our teacher picked on Maria constantly as she was usually disruptive. She would use the strap and beat her in every way possible, causing her a lot of pain. On one occasion, she grabbed Maria by her hair and smashed her forehead against the blackboard.
Maria, however, got good results in writing compositions, so she made up her mind then to have a go at writing stories for children.
However, problems linked with exposure to violent acts began to show. Whenever children are exposed to traumatic events, their responses may vary. Maria was no exception.
She became moody and fearful over time. She preferred to stay at home and had trouble sleeping and concentrating. Her appetite changed too, and she often complained of headaches, stomachaches, and other vague symptoms. Even minor changes in her daily routine could upset her terribly.
Children who are exposed to violence on a regular basis often experience the same symptoms and lasting effects for a long time, sometimes for the rest of their lives. Maria could feel emotional and physical ‘aftershocks’ for months or years. She could relive the event again and again in her mind and be able to function less normally in her day-to-day life. She could even become aggressive, violent, and self-destructive.
Even though Maria was experiencing violence in many settings—at school by our teacher, bullying, and harassment by peers in the schoolyard, and what I also suspected at home by her oldest brother who might have been sexually harassing her—Maria still felt privileged and got off on being her natural self and the center of attention.
One day, she confessed that the assignment she handed in class was not hers.
She didn’t need to work so hard, she said. The truth was that she copied her older sister’s compositions and handed them in as her own. She turned to me expecting admiration and approval, but I was stunned instead and replied quietly:
“You are to earn your marks like everyone else. I didn’t know you were a cheat!”
“It’s not cheating when everyone else is doing it.”
“That does not make it right, and everyone else is not doing it.”
“People aren’t going to tell you, are they?”
I wondered if our friendship could overcome her cheating on top of her superego, but her telling me explained why she could watch an entire series of Rin Tin Tin the night before the composition and still get an A for her work.
She wasn’t really bad. She was lively, though she kept getting the strap for being disruptive in class and fighting with our classmates.
“It wasn’t me, Mommy,” she would say. “It wasn’t me.” Whenever she got in trouble, she blamed the other kids.
Her parents drummed into her to behave well at all times, and although her mother regularly marched from school to school to complain, nothing was ever resolved.
One time, I was waiting for her at the school gate and saw two older girls pick on her and push her around. Maria didn’t fight back, and brave little me rushed towards the girls. But Mr. Pasquariello, our principal, got there first. He grabbed Maria by the cuff of her blazer and marched her into the school building while the bullies laughed, grabbed their bags, and walked scot-free out of the gates.
Maria often initiated games to get the frustration out of her system.
Her favorite games were hopscotch, tug-of-war, Catch Me If You Can, jump rope, fetch the frisbee, and badminton.
But ultimately, it didn’t matter which game we chose to play. What mattered was the quality of time we spent together and the memories we made.
Maria wrote in her diary at 10 years old that she was brimming with vivacity and heading toward a wonderful life that stretched gloriously before her.
One chilly evening during one of our sleepovers, while lying in her new single bed in the wee hours wrapped in her duvet, Maria exclaimed:
“I have never kissed a boy!”
“But you will,” I replied. “You will kiss lots of boys when we are grown up.”
“But I don’t know how. I won’t know what to do.”
“I am sure it all comes naturally.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Maria!”
“Just once. And I’ll never ask again.”
“I don’t think that is a good idea. I’m not a boy.”
Then she turned toward me. By the glare of the night lamp, she took my face in her hands and brought it close to hers. As our lips met, I closed my eyes, and we kissed.
And it was the greatest adventure of my tenth year.
Eventually, she moved from our hometown to Milan to work as a correctional officer until her retirement at 65.
I asked Maria what made her decide to become a prison guard.
She said she had wanted to help and make a difference.
“The short answer to how it feels to be a prison guard?” she continued.
“Sometimes it’s disgusting. Sometimes it’s violent. It’s always stressful and sometimes tragic. But it can be hilarious and occasionally uplifting. Above all, it never ceases to surprise, it’s a front-row ticket to the weirdest show on earth and to borrow a phrase it ain’t for the faint at heart, but I wouldn’t trade the years I have spent as a correctional officer for anything.
Being a prison guard I gained much greater insight into human behaviour, and became a much better observer of behaviour. I saw how criminals aged and the damage the lifestyle did to them and their families. I lived it all, I saw it all, and I cannot begin to tell all that I have lived, but I’ve learned to be receptive to all kinds of individuals no matter their walks of life, I’ve learned to accept people as they are and if they show respect toward me I can accept anybody for what they are.”
- All Is Well That Ends Well - March 1, 2025
