My First Day of School

I thought everyone spoke Italian.

I turned five at the end of August and a week later was taken to a place they called "school."

One day, we had breakfast and I was told we were leaving soon for St. Colman's.

The first day was grandiose, scary, and exciting all mixed together.

I don't remember who brought me. The first thing I noticed was that other parents were bringing their students inside. Both my parents were immigrants and full-time employees who worked. Up until this day I spent my days helping my Italian Nonna at home.

When we arrived, the youngster on my left had his head on the desk with his yellow mop of hair. I was unable to see him, but he was distraught and crying. His mom put him in the first row of seats; I could tell he wanted to bolt out the door.

This boy was sobbing tears and anguish, fear, and anxiety, and I gulped down my own anguish, fear, and anxiety by deciding to be strong for him. I chose to be strong for him, for my fellow student, for Anthony. I later learned his name and tried to memorize it. I didn't know why he was named Anthony and not in my language — "Antonio." I had heard before a similar name or close to it. I recalled my Godfather Uncle Tony, and I did hear about St. Anthony. He was the saint my grandmother and I prayed to often when we needed to find something lost in the house. Some belongings were misplaced. Saint Anthony always, always came to our aid.

So, I felt comfortable for the moment because the name Anthony and the saint were familiar to me. I made a connection amidst the foreignness and strangeness of the classroom, students, and teachers. One thing I can never forget: I did not understand a word anyone was saying, including the words of Anthony.

I knew that I was part of a giant, bigger place outside of my home circle, yet I didn't know how to fit in yet. I decided to handle what was in front of me. The task ahead of me was to get the little boy next to me on my left side to stop crying. He was fearfully sad and distraught. So, I said softly in a shaky voice, "Mi chiamo Marisa."

He didn't answer me and didn't look up but just kept crying with his head down. With his head down, I wondered what would happen next.

Oh, how I wished that he would reply, so I tried again, a little louder this time, above his cries: "Mi chiamo Marisa, e tu?" He did not lift his head nor reply — not even a grunt, a nod, or a decreasing in his laments. I felt a deep sinking feeling that he somehow did not understand what I said. I panicked and decided that something was wrong.

I was born in the United States and I thought everyone spoke the same as I did. I thought what I spoke was universal. I did not know that the words I knew were different, and not the same words that the little blonde kindergartner knew and understood. I tried to listen, but it was undecipherable. It was confusing. Nothing made sense.

Anyway, the day kept going. We got to choose a small carton of either white or chocolate milk around mid-morning time. I pointed to the brown carton. At home, we were given chocolate or candy sparingly, and receiving a liquid chocolate flavored drink was an awesome treat. I cherished the free carton of chocolate milk and counted my blessings. I wondered in the back of my mind if my parents had to pay for it, and if they had done so in advance before I arrived at school that day. Was it out of their budget? We lived frugally with no extras.

I began a daydreaming conversation with myself, not sure who to talk to and not sure who to ask. No one around me understood me. I was worried that if I asked the teacher, or showed I did not understand her, she would send me home not ready to learn. I was afraid of being sent home and I was not sure what to do. I remained quiet and prayed that God Almighty would get me out of this mess.

I calmed down a bit when Phonics class commenced. I learned that a picture of a cup was spelled c-u-p. I learned visually and tried to recall that. I was in a whirlwind of newness and strangeness the first day of school. I was overwhelmed, and decided that if I concentrated and remained focused on learning, and was given the time to do so, I could possibly learn.

Another class that I enjoyed immensely was Spelling class. I was given on the chalkboard ten spelling words with the same weekly instructions: write each word ten times each for homework, and a test of those words every Friday. I eventually transitioned from kindergarten class to the first grade. I passed because it was songs, visual words and memorization of the alphabet and printing of letters, which I could easily do. Copying the same word over again was crucial and a given for me. It helped. Spelling was my favorite class. Phonics was also my favorite class. It kept me from staying back a grade.

I believe and understand now that no one could have helped me. We spoke dialects of Italian. It involved speaking only, not writing the spoken native language at home. I realized that staying home was not the option for me. No one knew English. The schools in those days were not prepared for TESOL or tutoring for students who did not know English. I had no tools in the toolbox of life, yet I kept going, for the oldest girl of an immigrant family had to be capable and try. It was do or die. I kept my solitude about the lack of my English skills to myself. I could have asked the teacher to help me during recess or after school. I took the harder way to accomplish my task. I was afraid of failure, so I tried on my own efforts.

I had cousins in my school, yet I never mentioned it to them because they were older than me and I didn't want my parents to know I was struggling. They seemed to be doing well, and better than I. If they did struggle or have angst about deficiencies in school, no one mentioned it to me. I preferred not to discuss this situation. I knew that I had faith to continue forward along with the challenges.

All in all, school was enjoyable, challenging, and fun. Speak first; I chose not to.

It took me some years to learn fluent English, because at home with my parents and grandparents it was only Italian. Eventually, as the oldest child, I became the interpreter and translator for every appointment — lawyer, doctor, and teacher's conferences. My parents desperately needed me to learn the new language that I was not accustomed to, and to assist them with simultaneously interpreting. I spoke very little, and listened very closely, and kept my fears, anxieties, and stress to myself. I could not let anyone know that I did not comprehend the words, sentence structures and foreign vocabulary.

Not only did I have to understand the world of learning through school; I had to adapt and learn a new foreign language as quickly as possible.

I am proud of my education. Learning was never easy for me, but I did it — with the help of God, and a determination I made when I decided to be stronger than I could be for a little boy named Anthony.