Italian 110, Draft 1

“Buongiorno!” my part-time Italian professor would say if he were still here, adding a dabble of French. But he's not. He was thrown in jail in the beginning of November for the possession of child pornography. In America, that's a felony, especially if one person possesses over 100,000 photos of adults raping children covered with duct tape. And it's definitely not a mistake if these photos are organized into specific folders.
Girls.
Boys.
Duct tape.
This guy had the nerve to go to George Washington University, where he also worked, with his external hard drive in hopes of wiping all the viruses from it. Instead, he received handcuffs and a lot of disgusted students. “I can't believe this guy!” a twenty-five year old woman in my class shouted.
Well, at least you don't have the body of a twelve year old girl at the age of eighteen.
At least you didn't think he was a decent human being in the first place.
The night before next class, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned and finally decided to get out of bed at three in the morning. I wondered if I should've gone to class; I didn't know if I wanted to take Italian anymore. I really thought I hated this guy. Who could ever enjoy watching someone rape a child? All I could think about was child pornography and Italy. Italy and child pornography. I wanted this guy to rot behind bars. I wanted Italy to burst into flames.
A lot of child molesters or abusers were molested or abused as children. These victims either grow up and stop themselves from hurting others, or these victims find that what happened to them as children is okay.
There was an alcoholic father who had two sons; the first son grew up to be an alcoholic, and the second son grew up to be a normal guy. The second son said, “I saw what alcohol did to my father, and I didn't want to end up like that.”
The first son said, “Well, I guess I learned how to drink from my father.”
I don't know my Italian professor's back story, but something else could've attributed to his possession of child pornography. Maybe a family member molested him; it's not impossible.
After three weeks of trying to forget about him, I realize that I don't hate him anymore. Our new Italian professor told us he was cooperating and was now wearing house arrest jewelry. He had a five mile limit in D.C. “He could totally come back and teach us!” someone shouted as a joke. There was some nervous laughter.
And now that it's Thanksgiving, I can only imagine what he would be doing. He's probably home alone in his apartment complex on a day that millions of Americans drive for miles and miles to see their families. He's probably miserable—staying home, wearing house arrest jewelry, mulling around his apartment with nothing to do. Nothing's open on Thanksgiving. Almost everyone's out of town.
Fasolini, have a Happy Thanksgiving.
Wherever you are.