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Dear refugee child,
An American flag was flying on a tall metal pole by the door leading to the brown building. The building itself is made of bricks, concrete and other hard materials. The only opening to enter the building is a uniform rectangle standing in the glass. Some of them taped paper flowers of different colors and bathed in the warm morning sun.
I know that this day is coming: adults have been whispering, talking about what will happen at the end of summer. As a child with only two seasons, Thailand’s dry heat and rainy season, I have limited knowledge of these changes. My mother fingered the things we need soon: jackets, boots, scarves, hats, and then she said to our father: “Children need books, pencils, backpacks and other things to go to school.”
My only taste for school is bitter. In the refugee camp, I cannot go. The school is overcrowded. Although I am six years old, I cannot meet this simple requirement: I cannot touch the sides of my ears with my hands above the curve of my head.
In the American Transition Camp Practice School, I couldn’t help but fall asleep every time the teacher spoke. What she wrote on the blackboard was meaningless to me. She made the lines and curves that connect to form words. She arranged them in a row along the wood like fire ants. Every time I was awakened by the harsh sound of the teacher’s thin bamboo pole tapping on the wood of the long table shared by our refugee children, thinking that I might be a fool.
On this day, I walked by my cousin. Although he is a young man, he is already the father of three children. We live in their two-bedroom townhouse with him and his beautiful wife. They treat us very well. They make rice for the meals we shared. They find meat and fried chicken wings or fried beef. We sat together and watched their black and white TV. When one of the children dropped the bottle or fell, his wife said in English: “Shiat!”
‘These words slide together, stick together, and grow’
My cousin can also speak English. He wants to take my sister and me to register for our first American school. My sister is braver than me. She looked around, her eyes were black under the straight line of her bangs. I wanted to look at my feet, but I was taken aback by the voices of people around me, and they were throwing words to each other at random.
There is a small line. In front of us, there is a brown-skinned man and his daughter. They whispered to each other in languages ​​that were neither English nor Miao. I know this is not English because they are not breathless. These words slide together, stick together, and grow.
English fell into a room. I’ve heard enough on TV, listening to the feeling of clapping hands in silence. This is not Miao language, because I speak Miao language very well, and I have heard it all my life. Miao language is a language that flutters with the wind. It flies high and low, crawls along the ground, and floats in the open for a long time.
My daughter cleared her throat when she noticed that I was listening, so I looked up at her face. She smiled. Two of her front teeth are missing. Instinctively, my right hand was folded on my wrist, and my fingers moved on a small line: the greetings I learned were enough to let people know that I saw them and that I was not malicious. My sister greeted the girl for me. She said, “Hello”, and then nodded, her lips flattened out like she thought she was smiling.
When it was our turn, we went upstairs to listen to our cousin speaking English. His voice is very soft. When he told the woman behind the counter our date of birth, he emphasized the numbers with his hands. I am proud of him. He found a way in this country. He has been here for five years. I looked up at him. Although he was not as tall as the woman behind the table, he was tall in my opinion.
“Everything I know is not enough in English”
The woman pointed us towards a brown door. We followed our cousin along the corridor towards the door. Inside, it is a big room. There is a blackboard. There is a row of letters at the top of the blackboard. A teacher is waiting to test us to see if we are eligible to attend American schools.
I left first because my sister pushed me forward. I stood up and looked up at the teacher. She said, “Tell your ABC.” I bit my lower lip. My cousin explained, “Hais ABC.”
My throat is very dry, but I swallowed and whispered: “A, B, C.”
I can see that I did something wrong because the teacher was shaking his head. She repeated her previous words, “Tell your ABCs.”
I did it again, “A, B, C.” That’s all I know, but it’s not enough, because she shook her head again.
Everything I know in Hmong is not enough in English. This situation will continue for many years. Even if I have learned the language, I will worry about my use of it and will make some simple mistakes. I would say that “there are many chickens” does not have the necessary “s” to indicate the plural. I would say, “I don’t know,” and even if I knew it, I would shrug my shoulders because I was scared. I am afraid that others will not hear me because my voice is so small, or misunderstand me because I don’t look or feel like an American. I am afraid of how my English will sound to people who speak English at birth, and worry that the Hmong in my heart will leak from my lips and cover what I say in this new language.
My cousin motioned for me to return to him. When my sister walked forward, we all stood. She knows more than me. She sounds better than me. I am in awe of her in America. In Thailand, she is just Dawb. Now, they said she was Der, and she replied, “Yes.”
After the test, we were told that we had been admitted to Battle Creek Elementary School. I will be in the first grade. My sister will be in second place. We won’t stay in school for a long time, but we don’t know this yet.
“I know the language of wishing”
The school has no plan to help new English learners like us. In addition, we will fight on the playground because a big boy wants a ball that I can play, but I don’t understand him, so I won’t give it to him. He will push me, I will tip over my feet. The ball would fall from my hand, land on the ground, and then roll far away from both of us. In the space of the rolling ball, I will hear my sister yelling in English, “No, don’t hit her.” I will see my sister because she suffers from polio in the camp. The other leg is slightly shorter, running between me and the older boy. He would push her, she would push back, and when the teacher came, the boys would yell out all kinds of things and we would be sent away.
But one summer day, when we walked out of the brown school, I couldn’t help but look at the American flag flying high in the bright sun and said to my cousin, “Everyone here is smart.”
In the car, I returned to my cousin’s house. Mom, dad, my cousin’s beautiful wife and three young children were waiting there. No one was watching and there was no language. I waved to the school with my right hand and pressed it on the cool glass. superior. And made a wish: “Maybe I can also be smart in your building.”
I can’t speak English or Miao. I knew the language of wishing at that time. This is the desire to transcend all languages ​​and let you grow into yourself, the child of refugees.
like,
A refugee woman who knows the world in one language and then another
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