The English teacher at school told the class today to write a dissertation about their families. Luis held his hand on the air and asked:
“Can I start it with my name and age?”
“Yes, you may, Don Luis.” The teacher remembered with a smile about the apple that Luisito had left over her table at the Teacher’s Day.
“My name is Luis Obando…I am ten years old.”
“What should I write next?”
All the others were too concentrated over the blank pages to even lift their heads up. One of them got up and said:
“I finished!”
“Very good. Let me see that,” said the professor.
Luis was frustrated. He could not write more than ten words to describe his family,
“What am I doing here anyway?” he asked disappointed to himself.
He was going to write about his life. Then he realized that in order to write about his family he had first to write how and why he was there in the first place:
“We came from South America to live in the US as immigrants. It is still America. Here they say that we are Latinos. But I came here so young that I do not know if I can be called a Latino anyway. I am American and period.
I was five years old when my parents decided to move here. My brother Joseph was three. He didn’t feel the impact as much as I did for he was too young. He now is eight and he is in the same grade as I am! He is quite at easy with the way of life here and he also speaks perfect English. Just like a “gringo”. I, in the other hand, have many anecdotes and tales to tell…I came from Peru, and there we only speak Spanish. At that time I spoke no English. And my parents had to put me into a special school where I could learn some.
Now I am ten and I just started the elementary school. It is called “Rachel Carson Elementary School” named after a very famous scientist who helped to open the eyes of people about environmental problems.
I like it here. It is pleasant and now I have many friends that I made while learning. But it was not so when I first went to school. After I finished Kindergarten I went to that special school and they didn’t allow us to speak Spanish. So I became quite frustrated because I wanted to speak my native language and I also wanted to communicate and it was really hard.
Now at home we speak no Spanish at all. My parents, they do! And my brother and I, we both answer them in English although they want us to speak Spanish. They don’t want us to forget of where we came from.
My father repeats a lot until we respond in Spanish. He wants us to speak Spanish. But we don’t do that on purpose. It is just that our friends and colleagues from school and neighborhood they all speak English. And it became quite mechanical. I am repeating the word “quite” quite a lot. I just learned that word and I like it QUITE a lot!
My brother and I, we both are quite ashamed of speaking Spanish. Our friends speak only English and I want to be part of my new world. And teachers here, they say that you have to adapt yourself to the country where you immigrated. You know, to get their habits and forget where you came from…that I would never do.
My mother thinks that it is such a pity that we do not want to speak her language. She is afraid that I do not consider that my language too. But what can I do? I wish I could please my mother, but I had such a hard time to learn English that I forgot a lot of words in Spanish.
By the way, do you know that when you first learn a language that is QUITE different from the one you know, you kind of forget the other language you learned? Just like my mother. She said that to learn English she had to forget the French that she had learned before coming here. It was hard for her too! Just now I realized that. I think it was even harder for her than to all of us. You know, my brother came little and he didn’t feel much. My father already spoke English and he came to work anyway.
On the other hand, I also had to learn just like my mother did. It was the same for both of us. But she had many friends there in Peru, who she still tries to get in touch.
Sometimes I see her crying over the phone. I think she must miss her country a lot. I came here relatively young, so I didn’t have as many friends in Peru. I don’t miss that much. I still feel that that is my country. But I also feel that America is home. So, it is QUITE hard to explain. It is very confusing. I mean, quite confusing, sometimes.
I am late in comparison with my colleagues here in this Elementary School. I just started the first grade and I am ten. My colleagues are between seven and eight years old. But I also feel important. They all respect me for I am the oldest among them.
When I first arrived here it was really hard to get what people said. They also could not understand what I was trying to say. In the end I always read the signals they did with their heads and hands. And most of the time I knew what they meant when I could read the movements instead of listening to the words.
My father got transferred here to work for an American Enterprise. I still do not know what my father does. He told me that a zillion times. But for me it is still too complicated. When people ask me what my father does I simply reply:
“He works.”
And if they insist too much with those grown-up-hard-to-answer questions I add:
“He gets up every morning. He takes a shower. He has breakfast. He brushes his teeth. He kisses my mom good-bye and goes to work.”
If they still insist on asking what he does, I say:
“Next? He comes back home. He has dinner with us. And he puts his pajamas. He launches his big belly into the sofa. He watches TV. And he sleeps…”
I take a deep breath to give a strategic pause. And then I say:
“Then he goes to sleep.”
I still get in trouble with English. But I am learning little by little.
Sometimes when I am with my friends I say “jello’, when I mean, “yellow”. And they all laugh. They say,
“So you want a jell-o?”
I also use the c instead of g QUITE often. When I call my friend Victor and I say Bictor.
And they all crack up, saying that “Bictor” has a Bic factory. Then I am not sure if they say that for the pen Bic or they mean a big factory, anyway.
On Thanksgiving my family, the one that lives in Peru, comes to visit us. It is QUITE neat! I have such a “bic” family…grannies, mamas and papas, cousins and uncles and aunts, and parrots and dogs, they all come along. It is such a “bic” feast. And I simply love the Peruvian food that my grandmother cooks when she comes here to help my mother.
When I correct something my father says wrongly, he gets mad. He says,
“Do not correct me.”
“OK. I will be quiet.”
“And stop saying quite. It is QUITE annoying!” I laugh. My father also gets confused with words.
I tell daddy that this is the only way you can learn to speak correctly, by repeating the words.
“By repeating the same mistakes?”
“No, dad. But you have to correct them as soon as you can. And once you got it right you won’t repeat them anymore.”
Then, he pretends he doesn’t hear me and he continues to read his paper.
Once he also got confused with the adjectives and he said to mom,
“What a ceviche delicious…”
I laughed and I said,
“It is a delicious ceviche. It is not the contrary, daddy. Please!”
“In mathematics they say that the order of the elements do not alter the result.”
So that is what my father does: he spends his day working through complex mathematic formulas!
“But I am talking about English not Mathematics.” I finally say.
So imagine the mess that is to live in my house! It is a salad of languages. The adjective always comes first! It’s an exquisite food. I am talking about my mommy’s culinary.
“Esquisita!” And she sends me a kiss back.
Although by now my English has improved a lot, it can still be a problem. I got some very embarassing moments when I say "I have relations with Spanish people" when what I really want to say is that I can relate to my Spanish ancestors.
Otherwise, I can still practice some Spanish with my relatives. Because I speak two languages I can also have some advantages: I am going to South America next month and I can meet some “chicas” there too!
I think I just exaggerated and, instead of a dissertation, I guess I'd rather write a book about my life here in America. I think I just excelled. My English is QUITE good now.”
The teacher was so surprised that she wrote a big A with her “Bic” on Luis’s work. Then she asked him what he wanted to be when he becomes big:
“When I become “bic”?” And the whole class just cracked out.
“I want to become a writer. I also want to be an English Teacher and create a school in South America to teach English for children. So that if one day their parents decide to move here, they already know how to explain what their parents do.”
That was the best present a teacher could hear: to know that their students excel.
She looked at Luisito and she wondered whom one day would leave a “bic” apple over his table.
