¿Qué tal? Bueno, continuemos con 4to grado…

So all the details about 4th grade are a little cloudy – yet one detail I remember vividly: journal entries.

Every day, for about ten to fifteen minutes, we had a journal entry. Our journals were uniform – a little smaller than a sheet of 8” x 11” paper, khaki in color, with our names in black marker: blah! But it is precisely what we have heard: it’s what is inside that counts. The prompts were written on the board, when we got back from recess, music or art class, pretty much whenever we were out of the room: if you found $50.00 – what would you do with them; what kind of day are you having – describe it; if you had to choose between a dog and a cat… This was my forte!  

$50.00 – well after tithes and offering, I would most likely hide it from myself in my room – so as to later surprise myself with what I found… yes, I’ve always been a little nerdy. I would then go on to write about specific hiding places.

Well, today…today is an okay day. My brother is learning this stupid song in kindergarten – something “Candy man and Salty dog” and I’ve had to hear him singing for the past week. Really, I preferred the “No, no mosquito” song…

Dog and cat – ¡por favor! no question – it’s a dog. I don’t like cats.  I don’t know exactly why…just don’t like them…  

One journal entry in particular is an indelible mark in my mind: If you could go ANYWHERE – where would you go and why?

Hay Dios, ¿adónde iría y por qué? ¿A otro país? ¿A otro planeta?

It was as if I had been given a ticket to travel anywhere in time or space and I didn’t know how to use it…

Claro, ¿adónde iría?… ¿Adónde iría?… Pues yo iría al cielo.

Growing up in the Pentecostal church all of my short – 9 year life – all I had heard since I was a toddler was how beautiful heaven was. If you behaved, and if you were obedient and if… then one day you would see HEAVEN. But, why wait till then? – if I could use this ticket to go now! So I got to writing:

If I could go anywhere, I would go to heaven. I would go and see the angels and say hello to Jesus. I wouldn’t be scared because I have been good, for the most part and I know Jesus loves me. I would be able to see my family from up there – like in the movies and I would then come back to get my family and take them with me…even Oscar, cause even though he gets on my nerves I love him and I know Jesus loves him too.

Oh Alej, young naïve, Alej…  ¿Qué hiciste, niñita chispa? – no sabes, ni tienes idea, qué has pedido.

El que piensa que ser maestro es fácil, no ha tratado de calificar 174 papeles en una noche. Pero, ¿qué puedo decir? eso es parte de mi carrera. Vamos a continuar la historia.

Adios Balboa Elementary – hello Ft. Gulick!  Ft. Gulick was in Colon – one of the nine provinces in Panama. The Army base was surrounded by rainforest - ¡Era un escenario majestuoso! Really, the beauty of God’s creative hand all around our house was incredible. There were little monkeys that sounded three times their size, tiny lime-green colored parrots that circled in our backyard, a woodpecker in one of the hollow trees behind the house… And a beautiful lake across the wire-fence.

For reasons I don’t remember, I started 4th grade a couple of days after everyone else. Lo que si recuerdo, es haber visto algunas peleítas porristas bailando y saltando fuera de mi ventana. I would have loved to go outside and join them – but when it came to dancing in public, I was awkward to the 1oth power. Those couple of days, as I watched the little cheerleaders practicing – I learned the routine in my bedroom and sang “Straight-up now tell me” to myself. I wished I could dance – but that was one talent I had not been granted.

 

So by the beginning of 4th grade,  I was definitely not wearing my hair in pigtails. I was a young lady – a young lady who was crazy about her hair. I brushed it morning, noon and night. My hair was past my shoulders, reaching almost mid-back. Recuerdo que teníamos una vecina, la mamá de mi amiguita Xiomara, que me hacía unas trenzas francesas preciosas. After I let my braids go, my hair looked all pretty – like the mermaid in the movie Splash.  And every time I went to my grandma’s house in Chame, the neighbors – las mellas - would put my hair in a gorgeous high-ponytail they called: Una Fuente      - a fountain.

I loved my hair! Simplemente dicho, me fascinaba mi cabello largo, color café, ondulado en partes y lacio en otras. If there was something that I thought made me pretty, it was: my hair. You see, before I continue…me in 4th grade is one thing I have to illustrate.

Since I can remember, my face has been round. Small hazel eyes (most of the time – they change color when they feel like it); nice, plump latina lips, and chubby-chubby cheeks. Some people’s faces change as they grow – mine - ¡No’ombe, mi cara se ha quedado igualita desde kínder! I wasn’t thin, but I wasn’t chubby…always a good little eater. So when I began 4th grade at Ft. Gulick Elementary School, with my long light-brown hair loose past my shoulders, I was pretty confident it was going to be a great year…or so, I thought. 

My teacher’s name was: Mrs. Chisholm. I can’t remember too much about her physically – thin, full-grey hair, unique fashion style – nonetheless; I can remember that at first – she didn’t like me very much.  ¿Por qué?  You might ask. Well, because I loved talking, just about as much as I loved my hair. And since I would finish my work fairly quickly, talking is what I did most. I remember having to press my nose against the cold, green chalkboard many times at the beginning of the school-year, angry/embarrassed-salty tears streaming down my fat cheeks, as I stood behind the class (there were two chalkboards). Was it my fault I already knew some of the material? Sometimes, adults can be SO UNFAIR! Es que no entienden que uno se aburre.

 

But then, a couple days into the school-year, I was placed in the TAG class once a week (Talented And Gifted). I was also in track. This helped calm me down and led Mrs. Chisholm to give me alternative assignments. Although I was a bit of a chatterbox, when it came to performing in public – I was quite shy.  Another one of my passions has always been: singing – just not when people are staring at me… or for that matter, not doing anything where people are staring at me. My mom tried to help me out with this by putting me in a Shotokan/Karate class.

So can you see me? Little bit nerdy…little sporty…girly and a bit bossy – eldest child.  y lo mejor…!está por venir!

El verano antes de comenzar 4to grado era uno de los más lindos en mi vida entera. Really, I think the summer before starting 4th grade was one of the best summers in my entire life. Looking back, I can genuinely say that the summer that followed was the exact opposite…but we’ll get to that later.

The summer before I began 4th grade—Oscar, Carmen and I spent most weekends at my grandparents’ house in Chame. Chame was a little town, about an hour away from Panama City. Mi abuelo tenía todos tipos de árboles frutales sembrados en el patio. Mi favorito: coco. On top of having all types of fruit trees in the backyard, the dirt was actually a grayish-black beach sand: perfect for all kinds of architectural projects!  The mango trees provided all the shade necessary to create and recreate worlds of all sizes; and if we got too tired, there were two hammocks that welcomed fatigued bodies.

One weekend in particular, Oscar, Carmen and I were playing in the backyard with five of our cousins: Charlie, Chabo, Lucy, Ligia-Elena and Dee.  It was noontime, the sun was shining intensely, and the trees were working their magic to keep us cool.  Charlie and Chabo were the eldest and always came up with what games to play; Charlie led that day.

«Okay, yo digo que formemos dos equipos para ver quien crea el mejor pueblito de arena.»  

So three of us joined Charlie’s team and the other three joined Chabo’s. The little ones were sent out to search for sticks and get cups of water, so the others could begin “constructing” houses and other buildings in the sand. Each team was determined to build the best city. While we were all diligently working, the ninth cousin arrived.

«Ya llegué,” Lee said, as she walked down the steps, sipping a soda and rolling her eyes at us. (I guess because we were all covered in muddy-sand.) Like I said before, Dee was tolerable and for the most part, likeable; but Lee, Lee was a snob.

«¡A nadie le importa!» Charlie yelled.  “Really, no one cares.” He went back to molding his skyscraper.  

Lee then sought to call attention to herself again. «Miren mis sandalias amarillas nuevas» she said in a very prissy tone. None of us bothered looking up; so then Lee raised her voice.

 “Look at my new yellow sandals!” She dangled her right foot in front of us. “They are from the most expensive pharmacy in Panama—they cost $8.00—and I bet you wish you had a pair” 

Still, no one paid Lee any mind.

A couple seconds passed…

“Hey, what are you doing?“ Lee asked.

Now most of us would have ignored Lee, but Charlie’s mind was always going.

“We are architects and designers competing to build better cities; do you want to play?“ The grin on Charlie’s face was totally mischievous.

Longing to be included, Lee motioned “yes” with her head. 

“Está bien, pero te tienes que quitar los zapatos.” Charlie looked at me and Chabo and then back at Lee. “Take your shoes off and join Chabo’s team.”

Lee left her yellow sandals on the greyish-black sand and eagerly joined Chabo’s team. As Lee started forming her house, Charlie slowly stood-up and walked over to the new sandals. Charlie made sure Lee was distracted and then began to throw sand on them with his feet. As Lee turned around, Charlie pretended to stretch and motioned me over to the sand-pile to do the same. One by one, cousin by cousin, we threw grey sand onto the yellow sandals and nonchalantly returned to our “cities”. And then, Abuelo walked onto the back porch.

«Ya abrió Falin. ¿quién quiere raspaos? » Abuelo had three dollars in his hand.

Now if you have had shaved-ice, you have a vague idea of what a “raspao” is—but you are not even close. Falin was the man who owned the stand. He would place a big block of ice down on this red machine, shave it, and then pour natural fruit juice – of your choice- into a cone of ice, before layering it with condensed milk. It was DELICIOUS…like little bits of heaven blessing your taste buds!    

As we all made a mad dash towards Abuelo and our shoes, Lee noticed her sandals were missing.

«¡Oye!» Lee yelled. “Where are my new yellow sandals from la Farmacia A?”

We all gave each other innocent looks and shrugged our shoulders; «¿Quién sabe?»

My grandpa made Charlie get Lee’s sandals out of the sand.

 To this day, Oscar, Carmen and I laugh uncontrollably when we remember las sandalias amarillas de la Farmacia A.

Hola todos… Hoy, el día se sintió un poco largo. Yeah, it really did feel like the day was dragging on; nevertheless, let’s continue the story.

Asi que la Tía Ana le dijo todo a mi mamá. Tía Ana told my mom about Tonta and how I wouldn’t give in to her claims that Santa was real. My mom was not surprised; my mom knew I had a little lawyer within me. Oscar was feeling better and soon it was time to go to Panama.

We arrived in Panama right after the Just Cause invasion. I really didn’t understand the whole “invasion” thing; all I knew was that a lot of my family members had been affected physically, financially and emotionally. My dad was a soldier in the Army, so he was working at a base about an hour away from Panama City; that Christmas season we didn’t see him that often.

While my dad was at work and waited for a house on base— Oscar, Carmen, Mom and I lived with my aunt and her two girls in Panama City. One of my cousins, let’s call her «Lee», was 6 and the other, «Dee», was about 2.  Oscar y Carmen eran mis hermanitos, ya los entendia…pero mis primas…¡Dios mío! Actually, Dee wasn’t that bad; she talked a lot for a two-year-old and was very possessive of her things, but Dee wasn’t rude or stuck-up. Now Lee, it was amazing how annoying Lee could be. Tan chiquita y tan odiosa…Lee was a pain in the butt! 

«Yo voy a una escuela privada, y por eso yo uso uniforme. Tú no vas a escuela privada…tú escuela no es católica…mi escuela es mejor…»

I had to put-up with Lee’s stupid little comments every day.  “My school is private…rich kids go to my school…my school is more important than yours…” It was like standing on an ant hill and not being able to move; and then, the worse news I could have received. My dad had gotten a house on base, in Colon, and my mom, Oscar and Carmen were leaving. [So now pretend you are hearing scary music] I had to stay in the city to finish school – I had to stay with my Aunt Bee and her daughters: Dee (not so bad) and Lee (AHHHH!)

I continued 3rd grade at Balboa Elementary School, on an Army base in Panama City. My mom found a guy who drove this little yellow van to the schools on base; he had about 10 passengers. The van was a pale yellow color, with a rickety sliding door and two rows of seats behind the driver. I remember the kid who always rode in the front was Indian —as in from India not indigenous— and in high-school and lived in a really big light-blue colored house that was surrounded by thick concrete; everyone else scooched in the back. I wasn’t too happy with my new school.

Problema #1:   There were bullies at Balboa Elementary; specifically, two kids who made fun of me for no particular reason. The girl, Ana, always pushed me around when our teacher wasn’t looking and threatened to hit me if I said anything. El muchacho, mi tocayo, solo asustaba por su tamaño: he was a big kid for a third grader! The two of them—Ana & tocayo— would sneak into the lunch boxes during recess and steal food or lunch money; many times, I was left without lunch and couldn’t say anything about it. Our teacher, Mrs. Thompson - was pregnant and soon to give birth – and oblivious to the fact that she had two little thieves/bullies in her classroom.  

Problema #2:   Mrs. Thompson knew I had arrived in the middle of the school-year and gave me different assignments from the rest of the class. Seems like we were ahead in Kentucky and I had already covered some of the material being taught. Mrs. Thompson era bien linda. She had wavy brown hair, fair skin and a very friendly demeanor; I liked her. But like I said, she was soon to give birth, and a new teacher came in.

¡No’hombre – la maestra que llegó en su lugar era una pesadilla! 

The teacher that came in Mrs. Thompson’s place was a genuine nightmare! Her name has left my mind; but her features are still etched in the back of my brain. So let’s name her: Sra. Rana.

Sra. Rana had these huge, bulging green eyes that seemed to follow you around the classroom- like a chameleon. She was tall, and thin – a bit hunched over, with dirty, blond hair and wrinkly skin. In front of Mrs. Thompson, Sra. Rana appeared sweet, but once Mrs. Thompson left, Sra. Rana dropped the façade. 

“I finished,” I said as I placed my worksheet on Sra. Rana’s desk. “What do I do now?”

“What do you mean, you finished?” Sra. Rana asked me in a sarcastic tone. “No one else has finished…who did you copy off of?”

I was a bit sarcastic myself. I widened my eyes as to imitate Sra. Rana’s round peepers, lowered the pitch of my voice, tilted my head, “Uh… everyone else is working—so I didn’t copy off of anyone. I am finished.”

Still, Sra. Rana looked at me like I was fibbing and then looked around the classroom, “Did you check your work?”

“There’s nothing to check; I’m done.” I reiterated.

She rolled hear eyes at me, as if questioning the validity of my words.

“Okay, so if everyone is still working,” I said very slowly and matter-of-factly, “who did I copy off of?” short pause, “You?”

Yeah, conversations similar to this one happened a couple of times and got me sent to the office/counselor the same number of times. But finally, light at the end of the tunnel: third grade was over and it was time to move to Colon.

Adios, Tía Bee; hasta luego Dee y ojala no te vea tan pronto Lee. Good riddance school bullies, Sra. Rana, Tía Bee and Lee; I was going home.

Hola de nuevo. Espero que tu día haya sido más relajado que el mío. Well, lets move on to third grade.

Mis memorias de tercer grado son como una ventana borrosa… I genuinely think that’s the best way to describe it: a blurry window.

Third grade- I was eight years old. By this time, my hair was getting really long…I had the bad habit of taking a couple strands from the right side and putting them in my mouth-when I was pensive. I spent the first half of the school-year here in the United States. I don’t remember my teacher’s name; all I remember is that she knew French and always told us to be quiet in French, “Fermez ta bouche!” Bueno pues.

Around the Christmas Season, my dad got orders to Panama. Todos estábamos felices por que íbamos a ver a la familia. My mom bought little plastic candy canes filled with chocolate kisses for my cousins, a couple of fancy chocolates for my aunts, and other Christmas stuff for my grandparents. My parents got us all in the blue Ford minivan – my brother (4), my sister (2) and me- and drove from Fort Campbell, Kentucky to the airport in Charleston, South Carolina. I sang Christmas carols the whole way there, my brother slept and my sister sucked on her thumb -which most of the time she said tasted like some sort of food item.

It was snowing a lot! The snow was beautiful: little white flakes decorating the earth. We arrived at the airport in  the evening, and as my dad unloaded the luggage and my mom made sure none of us ran off anywhere, I noticed all the T.V. screens were turned to CNN. My dad was told we couldn’t check-in; flights to Panama were being canceled. Later that evening, we found out that Panama was being invaded.

The next morning, we drove to Miami to spend Christmas with my dad’s uncles.

My dad’s uncles were really sweet: Tía Ana was from Nicaragua and her husband, [Santiago] Chago, was Puertoriquen. While my mom unpacked our luggage, Tío Chago took my dad, my brother and me to the grocery store. ¡Conducía como un loco! Seriously – I didn’t know anything about driving and knew this man drove like a Nascar racer. Every time Tío Chago saw a police car, he would lower the window and yell, “Get them! Get them!” and every time he saw an ambulance he would shout, “Kill them…no don’t kill them!” I thought he was funny.

While we were in Miami, my brother got really sick and had to stay in the hospital for New Year’s Eve. My mom and dad stayed with him; and I stayed with Carmen and our great-uncles. Tía Ana and Tío Chago had a son named Luis, and that night his girlfriend stayed for Christmas Eve dinner; I think they were both in their 20s. The girlfriend, let’s call her Tonta, was having a beer and commenting on how cute my sister was. I was wearing some fashionable, light blue, plastic earrings and necklace with a white lace dress.

At around 9:30 p.m., Tonta looks at me and says, “Well little girl, don’t you think you should be going to sleep? Santa doesn’t come if you are still awake.” Tonta’s tone of voice was demeaning, and I certainly did not appreciate it.

“Santa is not coming,” I replied in a very matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Tonta’s eyes opened wide, she set her beer down on the table and put her hands on her waist. “What do you mean -Santa is NOT coming?“ she shouted.

Tía Ana motioned for Tonta to calm down, and Tío Chago just sat at the table and chuckled. My uncle Luis didn’t even seem to be paying attention.

“Santa doesn’t exist,” I said sarcastically. “I can’t believe you still believe in Santa… You’re too old to believe in him.”

“¿Qué?“ Now Tonta was pist. “Cómo que Santa doesn’t exist?“ She yelled.

“He doesn’t exist… He is made up… No one delivers presents to all the kids in the world; your parents buy them.” I felt like I was talking to someone my own age, someone who still believed in the tooth-fairy and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Verdaderamente, ¡que idiota!

The lady was totally enraged. I don’t know if it was the beer, her beliefs, or the fact that her boyfriend and Tío Chago were laughing to tears.

“SANTA DOES EXIST! – You little brat!“ Tonta was tomato-red. “HE DOES EXIST!“

“NO He doesn’t,” I raised my voice, “cuz if he did exist, he would take food to all the starving children in Africa!“

Tío Chago was rolling out of his chair. Tía Ana and Luis had walked over to Tonta to calm her down; and Carmen was fervently sucking on her thumb. I remember going to sleep that night, with Carmen next to me, praying for my brother Oscar to feel better and for my parents to come back soon.

La idea de Santo Claus en muy bonita, pero yo siempre supe que era solo una imagen y nada más. It would be awesome if Santa Clause really existed - pero eso no va a pasar.

Primer grado terminó en un abrir y cerrar de ojos… Time really does fly when you are having fun.

Once I got to second grade, my accent began saying farewell. I was tested for GT (Gifted & Talented) and found to be at an 8th grade reading level… Nonetheless, I still forgot certain words while I was speaking in English. My second grade teacher was very different from Mrs. King. Mrs. King was regular height for a woman, plump, blond, curly hair - very sweet. She spoke softly and her smile was like the sun peaking through the clouds: welcoming. Era como una tía o una abuela joven. Now I don’t want you to think that Mr. Henn was frightening…nothing like that.

Mr. Henn was tall, maybe 6’2” or 6’3”; he was husky but not fat. The man spoke with a very authoritative voice. It seemed to me like he might have been in the Army once—my dad was in the Army and that’s how he sounded all the time—but then again, maybe that was just his personality. And one other physical difference: Mr. Henn was balding.

Since I was beginning to wet my feet in the Olympic-sized pool of bilingualism, the “clogged words” seemed to be happening more often when I was deep into a conversation…like the very embarrassing one I had that particular morning.

Mr. Henn was welcoming us at the door and pointing to the days’ first assignment on the table: 2 worksheets. I skipped in, little pigtails bouncing. Lo primero que siempre nos decía era «pongan sus nombres en el papel‚». The man knew that most of us would start working and forget to put our names on our papers. 

“Did everyone remember their baby pictures?” Mr. Henn asked. Big, friendly grin on his face, eyebrows up and eyes wide. “I don’t have a baby picture, but I do have an old license – me about 10 years ago.”

Mr. Henn passed around his expired license. Some kids looked at it longer than others. I was excited to see how Mr. Henn had changed. Once I saw the picture, the commentator within me felt the urge to say something…¿por qué no te quedaste callada un poco más de tiempo, Alejlu? así hubieras tenido tiempo de pensar bien en tus palabras…but what I wanted to say, didn’t come out that way.

“Look!” I smiled, as I held up the license. “Mr. Henn looks so handsome and young. He even had…”I paused. Hay…¿qué es la palabra?…Dios mio, ¿qué es la palabra? What is the word? The word for “cabeza” was just not coming to me! I was blank. What is that word?

“He even had…he even had…” I pointed to my head. “He even had hair on his thing.”

Finally, I thought I had said what I wanted to say…but also suddenly, there was a wave of laughter a giggling from behalf of all the students. Mr. Henn was blushing. I was confused. I had no clue what everyone was laughing at. A couple of kids mockingly repeated what I had said; and it was not until another student—who spoke both languages fluently—explained to me-in Spanish-what I had actually communicated: I felt mortified.

TRAGAME TIERRA…habrete y tragame. I longed for the floor to open up beneath me…or maybe some magic pixie dust to make me invisible.

That’s not what I wanted to say!!! Not at all!!!

Mr. Henn’s embarrassment was lessened by the pool of tears he saw gathering in my eyes and the waterfalls running down my chubby face, which was partially hidden behind my wavy brown hair. He was just as loving as Mrs. King; he simply displayed it in a different way.  

“No…don’t cry, Alex. It’s okay… You are learning the language… Everyone makes mistakes… It’s okay.” He motioned for the same student to take me to the restroom.

Who knew this Bilingual world was so complicated? Una de mis primeras experiencias en ser bilingüe: una palabra tiene el poder de comunicar más de un mensaje. One of my first lessons in being bilingual: one word can send a myriad of messages.    

Hola todos, soy Alejlu y les quiero contar una historia….

My story begins in a first grade classroom. I’m not going to ask you to close your eyes - because you have to read – so just picture it.

Lincoln Elementary School - Mrs. King’s Class – 1st grade. The door was wood, the walls were light blue and green trees were painted near the windows. The posters had pictures of animals and short words: DOG-APPLE-TREE. The little desks were grouped in four and there was a bathroom between our classroom and the next. The carpet wasn’t as colorful as the one in kinder, but it went along with the nature/tree theme. I was ecstatic! My pigtails swung back and forth as I skipped into class. I even had pencils on my dress -three embroidered near my left shoulder: red, blue and yellow. I was pretty tall for my age and  little chubby- pero bien linda.

I loved school from the moment I stepped onto that multicolored carpet in kindergarten. (That will be a key sign in future events) I could draw butterflies like no other; I could run faster than some of the boys; I could even sing in harmony with the music teacher’s piano; but I couldn’t always say what I wanted to say.   Mi ingles todavía no era de lo mejor – tenía acento y no podía pronunciar algunas palabras correctamente. A veces me daba pena hablar – pero solo a veces.

I had learned English by watching Mr. Rogers and Sesame Street -along with what my mom had taught me. I still had problems pronouncing certain words – like “ASK“; and at times, knew the word in Spanish, but couldn’t remember it in English. It was frustrating when I wanted to communicate a certain idea – I knew exactly what I wanted to say in Spanish – pero las palabras en mi cerebro se quedaban estancadas. That’s what it felt like – clogged – my words were clogged!  

And then, I found nourishment: food that could help with my vocabulary problem. I began munching on  stories by  Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, and Judy Blume. I pictured Sam-I-Am offering me the green eggs and ham. I cried when the tree offered itself as a chair to sit on. I laughed when in Tales of the Forth Grade Nothing, the dog was named Turtle… and I began to speak more fluently in English. Mi español seguia fuerte, por que ese era el idioma que se hablaba en mi casa y sin saber, I was becoming…bum..bum…bumm..BILINGUAL.