Intense smells of sweat and smoke fill my nostrils as the crowds of men, women, and children scramble beside me to step off of the boat. 

“Welcome to America!” a light-skinned tall man screams from the end of the dock. 

“Hurry off and get into the shortest line,” he exclaims, pointing to the dozens of people behind him.

The non-English speakers, including myself, look around confusedly. They all continue through the door and down the dock nonetheless. 

Once I am finally able to exit, my heart beats with excitement. After eight weeks of being on a rocky boat and twelve years of dreaming, I am finally in America. The golden sun feels like a burning rag on my pale, dry skin. People back home talked of America like it was a country of gold. Seeing the greens and blues of the island and the red and white building, I wish I could tell them they were right.

I walk off of the dock and look around at the surrounding civilians filing into the building. I never really stared too often while being on the boat. I just kept my head down and my eyes closed, imagining the American life I would soon be living. But only now am I seeing the diversity; the color. There were Scottish men in green and brown checkered kilts, Swedish children with tall hats, an Algerian man in a turban, a Slovakian family with detailed shirts and skirts, and a Ruthenian woman in beads. I had never seen so many fabrics and linens.

An hour passes before I get to the front of the line. I’ve watched people cry as they are denied entry, families getting separated, and luggage being stolen. I just want to walk through those oak doors and be an American. It’s all Madre ever wanted for me. It’s all I ever wanted.

“Name,” a brute-looking man asks.

“Beatrice Gallo,” I say softly.

He traces his pen across a large book and, once finished, looks around me as if I had become invisible. 

“You’re alone?” He asks with a stern tone. 

I try to make sense of what he is saying--trying to remember the words madre had taught me before my trip. Alone…? A-l-o-n-e. Ahh! Alone! I smile and nod, his thick eyebrow raising like a jumping caterpillar. He taps the blonde man’s shoulder beside him and they stare at me while spitting out phrases I had never heard of. Madre couldn’t have taught me enough words to help me understand what they were saying. Sembre incomprensible! Pazzo!

The blonde man then comes around his desk, lightly grabbing my arm as if to say seguimi! I do so, tightening the grip on my luggage. Madre had not told me something like this would happen. My heart began to beat intensely in almost every crevice of my body, and I think the man had noticed. He turned his head to me and smiled as we continued to walk towards una linea di panche. Only now am I realizing that this man’s features are much softer than the other one. His light eyes remind me of the Polish man I stood next to on the boat. I smile back, my heart beginning to sink into its normal rhythm. 

He sits me down on la panca and smiles at me once again before walking through the crowded lines and back to his desk. I lay my luggage on my lap and begin to pick at my fingernails. Madre would yell at me and smack my hands, but I cannot help myself. I don’t know what is going on or what is going to happen to me. She would know what to do--how to calm me down. Oh, I just wish she were here to comfort me. 

I feel a large, warm hand on my back and my body jolts. The stranger behind me begins to laugh.

“I apologize for scaring you. Hi, I’m Augustus Sherman. Pleasure to meet you!” He says excitedly with an extended arm, his dark eyes peeking through his dangling curly locks.

I only caught a name, everything else was utter il borbottio, but I extended my hand and shake his. Madre says it’s a common thing American men do to introduce themselves. I find it quite odd, though. A kiss on the cheek would be sufficient to me, I guess Americans like their distance.

“I was wondering if I could take a picture of you,” he smiles.

I furrow my brows and widen my eyes to show him I don’t understand. He then clears his throat and points to a camera and backdrop behind him. 

“Oh, la fotographia?” I ask timidly.

He nods aggressively and opens his hand up for me to grab. I laugh, pick up my luggage, and place my hand into his. He brings me to his improvvisato studio tucked in the very back of the building. Grabbing my belongings, he places them gently against the wall and grabs a comb from his jacket pocket. Then he points to a stool and looks at me with sparkling eyes. I smirk and walk over to the chair, sitting down and placing my hands on my lap. He begins to comb my hair to each side. I guess the wind from the boat had messed it up. Madre would be so embarrassed by me. 

He gives me a thumbs up and places the comb back into his pocket. Then, he walks behind the camera and places his eye into the eyepiece. He brings his arm up beside himself and puts up 3 fingers, then 2, then 1--and a large flash is set off. I chose not to smile. Madre always said the flash would show off all the divets around my mouth and below my eyes. 

“Perfect!” he says before grabbing my luggage and handing it back to me. 

“Uh… what this... for?” I try to say in the clearest voice.

His lips begin to raise at the sides as he begins to laugh nervously. Madre always said I had a thick accent for a Puglian girl. I never believed her until this very moment. 

“Why… picture of me?” I repeat, hoping these words roll easier off my tongue

“Oh! It is for a book. Just for me,” he says and stares down at my feet.

This was the first time I had seen him anything but excited. I tilt my head and am about to ask why he seems so nervous before I hear my name being called from the crowd.

“Mrs. Gallo?” I had never heard my name come from an American man. It sounded so harsh; so bitter.

I nod and tighten the grip on my luggage, waiting to hear what he has to say.

“Your screening is over. Everything is clear. Welcome to America!” he exclaims and hands me a thick card with all my information on it.

I turn back to the cameraman and he smiles brightly. 

“Congratulations!” he says loudly and extends his hand out once again.

I push it away and kiss both of his cheeks before walking towards the oak doors in the back of the building. I look behind me to see Mr. Sherman staring at me with blushed cheeks, his curly locks now brushed behind his ears. 

I smirk and look forward once again. I can’t wait to see the life I will be living beyond those doors. Madre would be so proud. Lei vive per sempre nel mio cuore.