I stand to the left of Mrs. Clarion, holding an open grade-four reader in my hands. I am two years older than I look, and I don’t understand anything. No one has explained to me that two years of my elementary school education have been sucked into thin air, taken away from me by Mother Philippa, the principal of my new school. Three days ago, when my aunt Iris came to register me for school, the head nun took one look at me and decided I had no business being in grade six. I didn’t speak English. I looked more like I was nine instead of eleven. I should be with children of my own size. End of story.
There are reasons why it takes me time to find out where I am. In my old elementary school, we identify what grade students are in by the ribbon tied around the collar of their school uniform. The ribbons are colour-coded. Blue is for the first grade, pink for the second, red for the third, green for the fourth, and white for the fifth. In this Canadian school, there are no uniforms, no ribbons, and no clear signs of anything. The classroom is noisy, chaotic. The schoolwork, when there is any in between the playing and the arguing, seems too easy even to ears unaccustomed to English. When my classmates falter in their reading, when they get their math questions wrong, Mrs. Clarion is patient. She doesn’t use a harsh tone or hit anyone. I think she is too nice, and my classmates take advantage of her.
In moments of self-doubt and despair, I think the reason for her kindness is that these children are mental defectives, and have not been promoted past the first grade. I think that I must stay in this class until I can prove myself worthy of a regular classroom. I don’t speak English, and my prognosis is grim. At this rate, I calculate that it will take me at least a year or two before they move me to grade six, where I belong.
My conclusions and calculations are wrong. The truth is less complicated, and more cruel than I think. I will always be two years behind.
I ask my mother if the family curse has followed us here too. She doesn’t know what to say.
“Why?” I ask my aunt Iris, who registered me. “Why do I have to lose two years?”
She doesn’t think twice about it. “That’s just the way it is. Get used to it. Everybody loses something in this country.”
But it’s not true. A few months later, when I can speak English (and every day more secrets are revealed to me), I discover that the rule about losing two years is not the same for everybody. Bigger, taller children go to the right grade. Children whose parents come to school and raise a fuss go to the right grade. Children whose parents are immigrants but speak English go to the right grade. There is no one to speak for me, and there is nothing I can do. It breaks my heart, and I resolve never to talk about it.
Today, before I know what comes later, Mrs. Clarion calls me to the front of the class, and asks me to read out loud, in English, for the first time. She sees me hesitating.
“Try, just try,” she says.
I like her. I say yes.
Mrs. Clarion believes that, to be fair, all the children should take turns reading out loud. I begin reading the paragraph that starts at the tip of her index finger.
I read slowly, carefully enunciating the more difficult words. Nothing comes from the mouth of Mrs. Clarion, and I am emboldened by her failure to correct me. In my experience with Signora Colombo, a teacher’s silence is a sign that I am progressing.
The words begin to fall out of my mouth effortlessly. I find sounds for the letters J, K, W, X, Y that don’t exist in my first language. I am supposed to read the words: “It’s only five minutes from here, Katie said to John and Jake. Wait for me.”
Instead, the words turn to white Elmer’s glue in my mouth and come out like a parody of the school janitor.
“Itze a-onlee feefeyh meenooteeze fromma gheereh, Catieh saaiede to Eon aande Iake. Vaaiteh foreh mi.”
The response from my new classmates can be understood in any language. It stings. Mrs. Clarion sits behind her desk at the front of the class. She is a good, compassionate teacher. She tries to hide what she is thinking, but her eyes widen and her lips tighten. I have seen that look before. She feels terrible about wanting to laugh, but she can’t help herself.
“Children, stop it. It’s not very nice,” says Mrs. Clarion, but it’s too late.
The children have found an anchor for their chaos, and even as the teacher asks for order, she can’t keep a straight face.