Less than two years after that fateful first day of school, I had all but learnt how to fluently speak English. But despite my objections, I was still forced to go to ELD (English Language Development) several times each month. In the beginning I dreaded each session, but I began to grow accustomed to them, and to my astonishment, they helped me tremendously.
At one of the first sessions I remember being shown images and being told to say the English words for them. What sticks with me most, to this day, is the image of a strawberry. On the card, the strawberry was bright red and covered in little seeds, presumably orange. It seemed so juicy and sweet, and my mouth watered at the thought of eating it.
Of course I immediately recognized what it was, I mean, I love strawberries! In fact, back in Belgium, when strawberries were in season, we would visit a nearby strawberry farm to pick them ourselves. “Alleen de beste,” my mother would tell me. And I would listen, taking great care to pick the best to take home. Looking at the image held up in front of me, the Flemish word for a strawberry coursed through my head: aardbei, aardbei, aardbei. But I could not think of the English word for it, even though I recalled having heard it only recently. I began to grow anxious; my heart fluttered and my face flushed bright red, just like the image of that strawberry.
The teacher smiled encouragingly; “It’s all right,” she told me.
I replied, in my broken English, “Wait, I think I can remember it.” As I looked at the strawberry, I racked my brain for the word. Aardbei, aardbei, aardbei. I pushed at the walls of my memory, combing through the list of words that I knew and remembered. English and Flemish jumbled together and I could no longer think straight. Aardbei, aardbei, aardbei. After what seemed like minutes, I gave up. It seemed that my best efforts were not enough, and I sighed with obvious disappointment. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember.” I said.
“That’s all right,” she said. “It’s a strawberry.”
A strawberry! Hoe kon ik dat niet weten? I felt so ashamed of myself, as if I had let down everyone that had been working so hard to teach me English; the ELD teacher, my class teacher, and my parents. It seems so silly now, but I almost cried because of it. I remember just being able to keep the tears back, while my face was still red with embarrassment.
The teacher, hoping to make me feel better, quickly held up another card, and in turn I gave her the word. We repeated this for several minutes more until it was time to go back to class. “Good job today,” she told me as I got up to leave. I smiled, but did not feel pleased. The image of the strawberry remained in my head, and words flew through my head at the speed of light. Aardbei; aardbei; aardbei.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Chapter 5: A Change of Setting
I remember the first day of school, just days after having made the flight from Belgium to California, my new home and a pivotal change of setting. It would be weeks before all of our possessions (except several suitcases with clothes and the like) would complete the trip overseas.I only knew a handful of English words and phrases; not nearly enough for me to understand a conversation. “Hello, my name is Helena,” was the longest sentence I could say, albeit in a thick European accent.
With a hug goodbye and an encouraging, “het zal allemaal wel oké zijn,” from my mother, I entered the classroom. The first thing I noticed was the wooden spoon dolls hung up on the walls across the room. One, I remember, was meant to resemble a Spanish dancer: a purple pleated skirt and white blouse conveyed as much. I realize now that this doll was most likely made by a child’s parent or parents, because it was one of the better ones in the room. But what was more significant was the fact that this doll was an outsider too. That comforted me more than the friendly smile the teacher gave me when she saw me standing in the doorway.
“Welcome,” she said as she came over to take my hand. She was wearing a long black skirt and a white top; her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She seemed nice enough. “Class,” she said facing the rest of the students, “I would like you to meet our new classmate, Helena. She just moved here from Europe so please make her feel welcome.”
She led me to one of the scattered tables and sat me down at an empty seat. A boy with sandy brown hair sat to my left and a chubby Asian girl to my right. The girl smiled at me, and, seeing that I had no pencils with me, gave me one of hers to use for the rest of class. She was to be my first school friend.
Several days after my first, the teacher asked me if I had an atlas at home, or if I needed to borrow one. Our class was to complete a geography assignment and apparently everyone else already had one.
“An atlas?” I asked. It was a word I had never heard before, and I could not imagine what it could possibly be. For all I knew, it was an orange, or a bird.
“Yes,” the teacher said. She tried to explain; “A book, with, uh, pictures of the world, pictures of different countries.”
A book? Een boek! I thought. Ik heb er zo één! I smiled and nodded my head. The teacher seemed relieved. Although some of the students looked at me quizzically, I couldn’t help smiling; I had understood what the teacher had said! It wasn’t until much later that I realized what she had actually asked me for, but by then I was too shy and embarrassed to tell her.
With a hug goodbye and an encouraging, “het zal allemaal wel oké zijn,” from my mother, I entered the classroom. The first thing I noticed was the wooden spoon dolls hung up on the walls across the room. One, I remember, was meant to resemble a Spanish dancer: a purple pleated skirt and white blouse conveyed as much. I realize now that this doll was most likely made by a child’s parent or parents, because it was one of the better ones in the room. But what was more significant was the fact that this doll was an outsider too. That comforted me more than the friendly smile the teacher gave me when she saw me standing in the doorway.
“Welcome,” she said as she came over to take my hand. She was wearing a long black skirt and a white top; her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She seemed nice enough. “Class,” she said facing the rest of the students, “I would like you to meet our new classmate, Helena. She just moved here from Europe so please make her feel welcome.”
She led me to one of the scattered tables and sat me down at an empty seat. A boy with sandy brown hair sat to my left and a chubby Asian girl to my right. The girl smiled at me, and, seeing that I had no pencils with me, gave me one of hers to use for the rest of class. She was to be my first school friend.
Several days after my first, the teacher asked me if I had an atlas at home, or if I needed to borrow one. Our class was to complete a geography assignment and apparently everyone else already had one.
“An atlas?” I asked. It was a word I had never heard before, and I could not imagine what it could possibly be. For all I knew, it was an orange, or a bird.
“Yes,” the teacher said. She tried to explain; “A book, with, uh, pictures of the world, pictures of different countries.”
A book? Een boek! I thought. Ik heb er zo één! I smiled and nodded my head. The teacher seemed relieved. Although some of the students looked at me quizzically, I couldn’t help smiling; I had understood what the teacher had said! It wasn’t until much later that I realized what she had actually asked me for, but by then I was too shy and embarrassed to tell her.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Chapter 4: Water, Water Everywhere
I can't remember the first time I went swimming. Not remembering is like trying to reach out in an abyss into which I have already fallen. As far as I know, I have always loved the water and, in the sanctuary of my mind, I like to imagine that I was reveling in the water's magnificence the first time I entered it.
Ironically, my mother is and always has been afraid of the water. Perhaps fear is too strong of a word, but certainly she has a strong aversion to anything wet. But it is this dislike that, I believe, fueled her desire to have her children learn how to swim. If anything, her children would grow up without a phobia of the water. My first lesson, she tells me, was learning how to stay afloat (on my back, of course). She recalls my excitement, saying that I would not want to get out the water: "you were like a fish; the water was your home away from home," she says with a smile.
As she sits in front of me, I notice just how beautiful my mother is. She may not be a swimmer, but she is far from inactive. At an older age than she cares to admit, my mother is more fit than anyone I know. Just the other day, she completed a 100k race, or 63 miles. That's almost two-and-a-half marathons, more than many people will run in their life time. Straight as a ruler, she sits with her muscular arms relaxed beside her. Her faded red hair and light blue eyes are reminiscent of her youth, and remind me more than anything of myself.
For me, learning how to stay afloat in the water was only the beginning. At the time, I had become convinced that swimming was one of the most important skills that one should attain, and I took it upon myself to teach others. My victim was my younger brother, Ben, who was barely a year old at the time. He was a pudgy little boy with light brown tufts of hair. He had just begun to walk and talk and was now about to learn how to swim.
He was by the edge of the pool with our mother, as was I, ready for the day's lesson. Impatient as I was and often still am, I wanted to hurry things along- I mean, why couldn't he just swim already? A push was all it took to send him down into the depths of the shallow end of the pool. There, that would teach him. Unfortunately, my mother and the instructor were not quite so pleased as I was. Whereas I believed I had successfully taught my brother how to survive in the water, they believed I was trying to hurt him. Almost immediately, they managed to rescue the flailing, sputtering little boy by fishing him out of the water. Tears poured out of his little blue eyes even as my mother wrapped him in a towel to try and comfort him. The lesson for the day was canceled and that, more than anything, angered me. I was confounded when I was told I could not swim that day. It was punishment, my mother had explained. I was to never do anything like it ever again. Even though I still believed swimming was an essential skill, I promised to never push anyone in the water.
Ironically, my mother is and always has been afraid of the water. Perhaps fear is too strong of a word, but certainly she has a strong aversion to anything wet. But it is this dislike that, I believe, fueled her desire to have her children learn how to swim. If anything, her children would grow up without a phobia of the water. My first lesson, she tells me, was learning how to stay afloat (on my back, of course). She recalls my excitement, saying that I would not want to get out the water: "you were like a fish; the water was your home away from home," she says with a smile.
As she sits in front of me, I notice just how beautiful my mother is. She may not be a swimmer, but she is far from inactive. At an older age than she cares to admit, my mother is more fit than anyone I know. Just the other day, she completed a 100k race, or 63 miles. That's almost two-and-a-half marathons, more than many people will run in their life time. Straight as a ruler, she sits with her muscular arms relaxed beside her. Her faded red hair and light blue eyes are reminiscent of her youth, and remind me more than anything of myself.
For me, learning how to stay afloat in the water was only the beginning. At the time, I had become convinced that swimming was one of the most important skills that one should attain, and I took it upon myself to teach others. My victim was my younger brother, Ben, who was barely a year old at the time. He was a pudgy little boy with light brown tufts of hair. He had just begun to walk and talk and was now about to learn how to swim.
He was by the edge of the pool with our mother, as was I, ready for the day's lesson. Impatient as I was and often still am, I wanted to hurry things along- I mean, why couldn't he just swim already? A push was all it took to send him down into the depths of the shallow end of the pool. There, that would teach him. Unfortunately, my mother and the instructor were not quite so pleased as I was. Whereas I believed I had successfully taught my brother how to survive in the water, they believed I was trying to hurt him. Almost immediately, they managed to rescue the flailing, sputtering little boy by fishing him out of the water. Tears poured out of his little blue eyes even as my mother wrapped him in a towel to try and comfort him. The lesson for the day was canceled and that, more than anything, angered me. I was confounded when I was told I could not swim that day. It was punishment, my mother had explained. I was to never do anything like it ever again. Even though I still believed swimming was an essential skill, I promised to never push anyone in the water.
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