Hard to believe we are into September and most schools, in our area, began the school year a week ago.
The preparations and conversations are similar across the United States. School shopping for: clothes, backpacks, school supplies, and haircuts top the list. For me, in addition to those memories which I acquired after the sixth grade, “Back to school” triggers another- the memory of my first school year in the United States. You can find details of that memory in Chapter 17, “Rocky Start,” of my memoir Taxi to America. It was September; I was eleven years old when I arrived in Boston to live with my adoptive parents. The school year was already in session.
I was a nervous and scared little girl who did not speak any English. Days after I arrived in my new country, I begged to return to Greece. My new parents assured me I would get used to my new life as soon as I made friends.
Four days after my arrival, my adoptive father walked me to my new school. I tried to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach. The feeling got worse when we approached the entrance to Thomas Edison Elementary School. Seeing and hearing the clusters of students in the schoolyard, I realized how lonely I felt not having a group of friends. And as if that wasn’t enough, I felt my face burning with embarrassment because my new father was old enough to be my grandfather. I was too young and naïve to know that his age didn’t matter. Back in the late 50s children looked and stared when something was different. And having a father old enough to be your grandfather was different. Nowadays, it is common to see grandparents dropping off children at school. And perhaps those students in the schoolyard thought my grandfather accompanied me. But I knew the truth, and that bothered me.
Well, my first day of school in the sixth grade was, as you may expect, a disaster. I had no idea what was going on. I did not know what I was to do with the pile of books, a notebook, and a pencil on my desk. I looked around to see what the other students were doing, and I followed their lead. I opened a book when they did, but had no comprehension of what was going on as the teacher called on them and they answered. I could copy from the board. Forming the letters wasn’t bad even though they differed from the Greek alphabet. I had finished fifth grade, and I knew how to write. But the words I was forming had no meaning.
Back at the house, crying and begging again, I asked to be sent back to Greece. I endured a week of frustration, embarrassment, and isolation in the classroom. Thankfully, the teacher and whoever else decided, informed my parents I needed to transfer to a school that provided English as a Second Language (ESL) classes.
The following Monday, I entered the ESL class at Christopher Columbus High School in downtown Boston. Although I cried daily and continued to ask to be sent back to Greece, I knew deep down in my heart I had to stay. And thus, I began my journey into becoming an American girl.
If anyone had told me then that the following fall, I would speak fluent English, be in the seventh grade, be on the honor roll, and have a circle of friends, I would not have believed them. But that happened, and the American girl developed despite the hurdles that followed.
What memory do you recall when you hear “back to school?” I’d love to hear it click ➡️Stella