Giulia Castellani

Last week, something happened that’s been stuck in my mind.

I’m from Rome, Italy, born and raised, and last week in my systems architecture class, our professor surprised us with a group assignment—design a basic CPU scheduler simulation. Groups formed instantly, the usual clusters of guys gravitating toward each other. I lingered for a moment, then quietly joined a group of three who barely noticed me beyond a polite nod.

We met that afternoon to brainstorm. I suggested using a priority queue for efficient task scheduling. Lorenzo, one of the guys, gave me a faint smile and said, “Let’s not overcomplicate things.”

It wasn’t the first time.

I’m well aware of how I look. People often say I’m attractive, and I can tell when that’s the only thing they see. Somehow, it feels like that cancels out everything else in their minds. As if being pretty and being competent can’t exist in the same person. It’s frustrating—especially when I know I’m good at what I do.

So I stayed quiet and let them take the lead. But later, I opened my laptop and built the solution the way I knew it should be done.

On presentation day, their version barely worked. Mine ran smoothly.

When the professor asked about the optimization, Lorenzo casually said, “We decided to implement a priority queue after all.”

No mention of me. No acknowledgment.

I packed my things and left without a word.

Walking through Trastevere that evening, the streets were buzzing—people laughing, the smell of food in the air, lights flickering on cobblestones. But I felt detached, invisible in a way that had nothing to do with the crowd.

I’m twenty, and I know this shouldn’t bother me. But it does.

Sometimes I wonder how many times I’ll have to prove myself before they realize I’m more than just a face.