by Helen Dorado Alessi
What do you think it feels like to be a 15-year-old boy from Honduras newly arrived to a Long Island high school? Can you imagine being this boy who is painfully shy and small for his age? Close your eyes and imagine that you are this boy. You have deep brown eyes that hardly ever look directly at anyone, but down to the floor or on your desk when you speak. And when you speak, your voice is so quiet that we barely hear you. You’ve been here for only six months but it feels like a lifetime. Your face reveals so little but I know that there is deep emotion there.
The classroom is large and the desks and chairs are already in a circle. On the walls are educational decorations, vocabulary lists, homework assignments, and testing schedules. It’s very warm and I can hear the kids on the soccer field right outside the window. All 10 students have been working for weeks on their stories. Each week the stories evolve as the writers push themselves to go deeply back into memory and give voice to a never-spoken personal story.
There is one student that I am most worried about in this class. His name is Josue. Will he be able to open up and share what his journey to the United States from Honduras was like? Without being overly dramatic, I feel his life may depend on it. I never know what will come out when the quiet ones share and how painful it might be, but I am ready and I think he is, too.
It’s been weeks, but I do not know Josue’s story at all. He’s never read it out loud. He doesn’t trust me or maybe anyone, not even himself. There’s a lot of effort that goes into trying to forget and keeping the memory of tough experiences buried. I know he is writing. I see the words on the paper but he is super protective of what is on that page. Each time I walk past his desk, he covers the paper with his arm and puts his head down on top of it. I really feel that I must be gentle but sure with him. This is the last day of class. If he does not read, he will see this as another failed experience. No regrets here, Josue. Just do your best and so will I.
The students prepare to volunteer to read. This time is usually a bit of a waiting game for me. “Be patient, Helen,” I tell myself. They fidget as they look from one to the other to see who wants to read first. This is taking some time. Or does it just feel like that because I am impatient to hear Josue’s story? We go around the circle listening to the wonderful and haunting stories that emerge from your classmates. I begin to wonder, How will you feel about yourself when they read in English and you can’t?
I remind the class that all are to feel free to read in English or Spanish. “Whatever makes you most comfortable.” There’s enough courage needed in exposing their stories without having to worry about pronunciation and so forth. “We can translate the stories into English together later on,” I tell them.
As we go around the circle, we reach you. So, it’s now your turn to read. I am nervous for you, Josue. And you must be, too, because you say in a low voice, “No, no quiero” — No, I don’t want to. “Okay, Josue, sin problema,” I tell you. “We will come back to you.” There are four students left to read and after each one of them I return to you to give you a chance to read.
Andrea? Andrea reads her piece about her family celebrating the New Year in Honduras. She describes the custom of carrying the family’s favorite piece of luggage around the outside of her house to illustrate another year’s passing. She tells it with such heart. It is really beautiful and makes me think, Did she use that same Maleta for her journey to the United States? The whole family is part of this yearly ritual; they laugh and sing as abuelos, tias and primos all hold hands thanking God for the past year and praying for a good new year. As she finishes her story the students seem lost in their own memories of family customs of their own towns in Central and South America.
I ask Josue to read, but I am not surprised that he’s not ready. I call on the next student. Luis, Estas listo? Luis straightens up in his chair, fidgets with his papers. He shares his piece on life in El Salvador:
“My name is Luis. I had to leave my country or I was going to be killed . . . The gang was after me to join . . . They wanted me to sell drugs and they chased me in school, never letting up . . . Never leaving me alone. . .
“I was so scared and my mother feared for my life . . .
“It was a nightmare that I could not wake up from no matter how hard I tried . . . The teachers knew what was happening . . . It was happening all over the school . . .
“I stopped going to school but they hunted me and one day when I got back from the store they were waiting for me in my living room . . . They were angry and nervous . . . They knocked things down and broke my mom’s little cat figurines and some plates . . .
“The biggest one took out a gun and put it next to my head . . . You join or die right now . . . That’s when I knew, I knew I had to run, run far away.”
Luis’ voice trails off. He is no longer in the classroom on Long Island, NY. His mind is back there, in that moment of desperation.
There is silence. I look around the room at the other students’ faces. They are engrossed in Luis’ story. He has done a very good job of helping us feel the drama of the scene. I tell him exactly that. I do not want him to stay too long in that time and place of fear.
The next student to read is Jonathan. His voice is scratchy and very low. I have to tell him several times to raise his voice, but it is a sad story so full of emotion that he breaks down several times in tears. He reads his story about seeing his father for the first time in many years. He describes the awkwardness, the strangeness of hugging a stranger. And then the joy of finally, finally being with his Dad in a loving embrace.
Some of the other students pat him on the back or walk over and give him a hug. Compassion, empathy, and understanding are in the room hovering over this class.
Young Erica seems very ready to read. I have had to push her hard at times to write her truth, her experience. She comes from Venezuela and she has become used to the quiet voice of the individual, not to speak of certain things – ever. I relate very much to Erica’s story as it’s similar to my own family’s story in Cuba. She takes a deep breath and looks down at her paper.
She almost knows it by heart. She begins to tell us of the day she learns by accident that she will be leaving and coming to the United States. Her parents are speaking in hushed voices but with their bedroom door open she can make out some of the conversation. They are worried and scared but they have made the decision. As she realizes they are talking about her not a neighbor or distant family member, she feels happy, sad, scared, excited – all at the same time. She lets us in slowly as her parents describe the hopeless and violent scene in the country and how they must save her before it’s too late to do anything.
The students all clap when she comes to the end of her story. They all know it has been a struggle for her to be so honest. She is smiling and very happy. I scan the room to see the reaction of the teachers in the room. I wonder if they had any idea what these kids have been through. They do now.
All have read except Josue. I look over at him. He waves me off. Josue? I can tell you want to try, but you lack the energy, or is it fear I see in your eyes? I’m not here to get you to do assignments, to help you pass your classes, but I am here to see if together we can make something magical happen. “Josue, tell me your story, please. What was it like in Honduras for you y su familia?
“No,” he says shakily. I move closer to him, put my hand on his shoulder and say in Spanish softly, “Es su turno, Josue. Tu lo puedes hacer.” The drama has been building in the room so all eyes are him. And you look up at me. I can see you’re trying to work up the courage to speak and finally you begin to read. You’re reading out loud! This is huge! I am elated!
Then I hear it: ”Josue, you can read that in English.” Who said that? My brain skids to a stop as Josue’s voice trails off abruptly. I scan the room carefully, looking into the eyes of every student. One by one their eyes shift uncomfortably. And then I see her. She is looking directly at Josue as if waiting for an answer. Yes, yes, I found her – Mrs. Batson, his ENL teacher. She is in the back of the room tutoring another student. How dare she? She has no idea what she had just done. Or does she? I think she does. I force her eyes to meet mine. Without a syllable, I communicate, “Do not say another word. NO, not one!!!” with my eyes. When this is over, I promise you, we will be having a conversation. But not now. Now I must snap Josue back into his reading.
I stand close to Josue and gently whisper, “Sigue en Espanol por favor. Es el idoma de nuestros antepasados orgullosos.” Thank God, you manage to compose yourself and draw up your courage again. You read your story and I can see it happening. The tears are falling down your cheeks; you wipe them away quickly with your sleeve but you don’t stop. That’s it, Josue. Get it all out. As he reads the couple of paragraphs he’s written, I feel transported by his words to a tiny village in Central America where he discovers that he will be leaving soon. Leaving for the United States – on a dangerous trip with many obstacles awaiting him. He walks through his small home and stares at his things and his relatives as if to somehow to memorize them, packing them in the suitcase of his mind to bring them with him.
You finish, there is a hush and then enormous applause breaks out in the room. The kids are all on your side. They know exactly what you are talking about. I look over at your teachers. We make eye contact. We know what this is like for you, Josue. ”Muy bien hecho, hijo!” — Well done, son!” Well done! TRIUMPH!
I pack up to head home, collecting my hugs from all the kids and thank yous from the teachers. It’s my last day of class and just like Josue, I pack the memories in my mind for safekeeping. Heading down the sterile school stairs, I begin to think about the experiences of the many, many brave young people who are forced to leave their beloved homes and extended families and friends and have been unceremoniously plunked into a high school on Long Island. Long Island, not New York City, where for generations immigrants have landed. Long Island, where in most cases they are certainly not welcomed, most times just ignorantly ignored.
As I get in my car and sit at the wheel, I start to feel anger surging at the base of my head. That’s where it always starts. And that phrase floats back into my brain. “No, Josue! In English!” I want to get home but all the way along the Meadowbrook, Loop Parkway and into Long Beach I can still hear your teacher saying, “No! Josue! In English!” They are well meaning, Josue. I know that and I hope you do, too. After all, they want you to learn English for a very important reason. They know you need it to pass your exams to move on to the next grade and maybe just maybe on to college if you try hard enough.
But tell me, what is it like to hear your teachers, guidance counselors, and others ask you to “speak English”? What is that doing to you? Do they understand how much you have been through to be sitting in that classroom? Is it forcing you to turn your back on your language, culture, and family? Will you be stripped of what makes you loved and special? Does it make you feel that anything “not English” or part of the American culture is bad? Are Spanish, Honduras and being Latino now bad? Will it force you eventually to be embarrassed of your country and heritage? Do you feel you are less than? Will self-hatred dig deep into your being as I have seen it do to others, to me? Espero que no — I hope not.