Part 1: Orphanage in Milan: My Experience
Milan in the ’80s: Orphanage and the First Steps Towards Finding Meaning in Life
In the 1980s, Milan was the fastest-growing city in Italy.
I was born near the legendary San Siro Stadium, one of the most beautiful stadiums in the world, where two teams compete for city supremacy: Inter (or Internazionale) and AC Milan, known as the “Nerazzurri” (black and blue) and the “Rossoneri” (red and black), respectively. Inter and Milan are among the strongest teams in the Italian league and prestigious clubs on a European level.
From my house, you could hear the fans’ cheers, and from their intensity, you could tell how the match was going. A roar meant only one thing: Goal! On Via Paravia, it was common to see people in bars or anyone with a radio asking, “Who scored?” We knew someone had put the ball in the net, but not always who.
Every Monday morning on Via Paravia, there was a street market. Stalls selling meat, fish, fruit, and vegetables filled the street from 6 a.m. until late in the afternoon. By the end of the day, Via Paravia was littered with empty wooden crates, left on the ground, ready to be picked up by cleaning crews.
I remember some elderly women rummaging through the trash bins at the end of the market, looking for fruit or vegetables that were still good but discarded by vendors for being bruised or damaged. At the time, I didn’t understand why they humiliated themselves like that. Only later did I get it.
The neighborhood was inhabited by working-class families, with three- or four-story buildings housing small apartments between 30 and 70 square meters. Anyone with a two-bedroom apartment was considered lucky: a true luxury! Yet, despite the modesty, the buildings weren’t too old, and they all had a concierge who introduced you to a shared garden between the buildings. I
lived on Via Preneste, a small side street off Via Paravia, and although I grew up in public housing — apartments offered by the city at a reduced rate for families facing economic hardship — I thought my neighborhood was beautiful. San Siro was just a five-minute walk away, and just knowing it was so close filled me with pride.
In the 1980s, Milan felt like the biggest city in the world. Public transport — buses, trams, trolleybuses, and the metro — could take you anywhere.
The first shopping malls were starting to appear, and in the Duomo area, you could find the first modern multiplex cinemas.
The city was full of yellow taxis, zipping around, shuttling businessmen from one meeting to the next. For many Italians, Milan was the center of the world, and people from all over the country came looking for work.
In those years, Milan and Rome represented the Italian version of the American Dream. The ignorance of what was happening abroad was palpable: English was an unknown language, and those who knew a few words often butchered them to show off their “polyglot skills.” Madonna and Michael Jackson were the icons of the time, adored on the radio, and their music made us feel closer to the American way of life. Life seemed simple, and Milan felt like the best place to live it.
My father was a baker, but I rarely saw him. He worked at night and spent his days at the bar, playing cards with his friends. I was very attached to my father, almost to the point of reverence, and I couldn’t wait to see him every time. My mother left us shortly after hitting me with a broomstick. I had caught her in bed with our neighbor and threatened to tell my dad.
Her reaction was immediate and violent. I was only six when they took me to the hospital, my face covered in blood. I didn’t see her again for a long time, but I still remember her last words: “You have to tell Dad that you hit your face on the radiator.” That was the lie I had to tell at school the next day, too.
At the time, I was in first grade. When my teacher saw me at school with bandages and gauze, she immediately called social services. They came to pick me up that same day and took me to an orphanage for abused children. It was the second time I ended up in an orphanage.
The first time, I was too young to remember: social services had been alerted by the hospital when doctors had to use an electric saw to remove a calcified diaper that had fused to my skin and feces. I was about two years old. That was my first experience in an orphanage, and this time it was the same: they took me to the C.B.M., the “Centro Bambini Maltrattati,” which translates to “Center for Abused Children.”
Milan had changed. My “new” home, the landscape, the colors, and the people were completely different. I lived in the orphanage with many other kids, cared for by staff without any particular qualifications. It was an environment of total sharing, almost “communist” in the most basic sense: today, I wore an orange T-shirt that wasn’t mine, and tomorrow another kid would be wearing it.
Clothes, toys, and other items didn’t have fixed owners: everything belonged to everyone. I remember fighting over a marker I was using to color little toy cars: even the most insignificant things became a source of conflict in a world where everything was shared, but nothing truly belonged to anyone.
The C.B.M. was a medium-sized structure, probably repurposed from a kindergarten. It was entirely on one floor and was fenced off all around. At the entrance, there was a large hall connected to the dining room, which had long wooden tables and chairs. Next to the dining room was the TV room, where every day at 2 p.m., we could watch “Bim Bum Bam,” a TV show that aired cartoons for kids of all ages from 2 to 4. I loved Japanese anime.
There were only two bedrooms, but they were large, and they separated the boys from the girls. In the entrance hall, there was a huge couch and a carpet. My favorite game was to put books under the carpet and create a sort of track for my toy cars. I built a bridge and pretended it was the “Ghisolfa Bridge,” a bridge not far from where I used to live. Outside the C.B.M., within the fenced area, there was a garden that started on the left side of the entrance and extended to the back. Attached to a large tree was a swing.
On Saturday mornings, they took us to the market. We each had 1,000 lire (about 50 cents in American currency), and it was obvious what most of us would buy: a new toy car and a Uniposca marker to color it however we wanted. My mother visited me only once, accompanied by that neighbor: Nazzareno.
What a strange name. I’ve never heard it again in 43 years of life. They brought me a remote-controlled toy car and some batteries to make it work. I didn’t see her again for a while. My father, on the other hand, came often. I vividly remember him picking me up and tossing me into the air. “Again! Again!” I begged, and he humored me for a few more turns.
The days went by, though I wasn’t aware of how much time had passed. Soon enough, I would meet my new foster family.
I like to think that, even during those days, the lights of San Siro were still shining. The stadium filled with fans, and over seventy thousand people chanted for their team. The announcer called out the names of the players as they took the field, accompanied by the roar of the crowd. The match began: the ball at midfield.
End of Part One
To be continued…
I start this journey uncertain if my experiences and what has shaped me will interest anyone. I am just one among millions, a “nobody,” so to speak. I write with the hope that the stories of invisible people like me will resonate with others, offering a mirror to reflect on life’s experiences and a space to share them.
Everything I’ve written is real and based on authentic facts. No part of this story has been invented or altered.
I welcome any form of discussion. Feel free to contact me privately to share your experience or comment on the post with your reflections.
P.S: The title I wanted to give this text was “Luci a San Siro,” (Lights at San Siro) which is also the title of a song by an Italian singer (Roberto Vecchioni). The problem was that, paired with a photo of the stadium, it looked like a story about sports. Later, I changed the photo, removing the stadium and adding a swing instead.
