Literacy & Language Narrative

Second Grade

As my parents pushed the doors of James B. Colgate Public School 12,
I took my first steps inside my new elementary school in my tiny, six-yearold body. My eyes were not able to take in the size of the school in its
entirely. Honestly writing, I did not know I was going to school until a lady
began walking me to class as I lost sight of my parents. I felt something in
my throat. Intimidated little me followed the lady into the dimly lit staircase
with bright red handles. Surprisingly, she did not hold my hand, I was
expected to take big steps and carry my own baggage. The white tiled floors
were squeaky clean while posters, bulletin boards, water fountains, and a
clock filled up the walls in each hallway we walked through. Hope. My eyes
were filled with hope as I examined each piece of work creatively put
together. I snapped back to the lady’s friendly voice guiding me to my
classroom. Swallowing that lump in my throat, I peeped through the door to
see the faces of my new American classmates. Although I did not
understand their spoken language, I remember their curious eyes. I was
handed to my classroom teacher, Ms.S. I replied with the few phrases I
knew, “Hello, my name is Darshna!” I am assuming Ms.S resumed her
lesson for the day because their voices were starting to blend in together.

My eyes began to explore this new environment. Our class had
approximately 30 students, all of the same age. The classroom had been
broken into flocks of four rectangular tables put together. Back home, we
had one long table that was a few inches high from the floor where all
students of similar ages gathered, sitting criss cross applesauce on the
floor. My teacher stood on the right side of the smartboard, a piece of
technology that is an enlarged version of a laptop. From time to time, you
can write on the board with a special type of marker and even play games to click points on the screen. Back home, we used the traditional chalkboards with the horrible screeching noise our teacher used to express her frustration. Here, we were elevated to the second floor where we had an outside view through the windows that took up half the wall. I found myself staring off on my left to see the red brick buildings surrounding the school. Back home, I recall learning in a basement-like setting where we had four tiny holes on the top of one wall. This was my favorite part about my class – the bookshelves. Lined up under the windows was an abundance of books with each cover unique to the story it held inside. Unlike America’s colorful classrooms with bright lights, Pakistan’s classrooms were not rich with resources or color.

Towards the middle of the never-ending school day, my teacher
approached me. She pointed to the school bag I brought, which was
provided by pretty flight attendants on the Emirates plane ride. The “bag”
was bright green with purple zippers and only one section made from a thin cloth material, probably the size of a big potato chip bag. Inside, I had
packed my pencil case and a singular coloring book. My teacher asked my
classmates to bring out their school bags to show me what supplies to
bring. In the moment, I was annoyed at my parents. How can they send me
to class so unprepared? I was embarrassed by my lack of understanding. A
frown took over my face and the lump in my throat had returned. Fully
convinced I would be punished in some form, my vision blurred as tears
filled my brown eyes.

One girl named Vianca made an attempt to console the new girl – so
bold of her. This sweet Hispanic girl rocked her curly hair and black glasses
that framed her face. She put her arms around me and used her soothing
voice to converse with me while I silently cried. Partly because I felt so lost,
but also because I had found a friend. We didn’t share a common tongue,
we didn’t even know each other! But she worked with Ms.S to help me get
settled. One by one, she pulled out her supplies which composed of
composition notebooks, number 2 pencils, folders, and a real school bag.
They handed each individual item to me and emphasized how important it
was to bring them in next time. Just when I thought to myself, “How am I
going to remember everything?”, I was handed a piece of paper. Carefully, I
analyzed the ergonomics of each supply and connected it to name on the
supply list. I knew when I say the number two, they were talking about
yellow pencils with a tiny red eraser on the bottom. The words
“Handsaniter”, “Tissue Boxes”, and “Wipes” were written on a separate box
on the bottom of the paper. Viance took me to a table on the back to point at
each item and demonstrate their use. Lastly, Ms.S gave me my own “book
bag” that had my name written on a plain white sticker. When I say “book
bag”, I mean it in the quiet literal sense – we placed reading books in them.
Overwhelmed with so many options, I asked for Vianca to choose any
random books to place in my bag. I trust her choice.

To my surprise, I still remember random details from that busy day. In
those moments, I was not able to comprehend what was going on, but as I
grew older, I connected the dots to understand my peers and myself a little
better. I realized how the idea of communicating without speaking was so
ironic to me. I survived my first day of school! Furthermore, that was my
initial exposure to the English language in an outside setting. One
particular part of my day that sparked my interest in reading was glancing
over at the bookshelf and being handed my reading pouch in the next few
days. This eye opening experience shaped me to look at language outside of
my comfort zone. Over the next years, I find myself comparing myself to my 6 year-old self. She didn’t know she would find her home right here in NYC.