That quiet ELD kid in your classroom: what it's like being an immigrant.
- aleksandrachawda
- Oct 23, 2020
- 6 min read
August, 1993:
The house is quiet as I open my eyes. The sun is not even out, but I can tell by the smell of coffee coming from downstairs that my mom and grandma have already left for work. I will see them after school. I won't see my dad until the end of the week. I can hear my sister getting up, and searching for something to wear. I know she wishes that we had "cute" clothes like the popular girls in school. She'll ask for Doc Martens this Christmas. I just want a Chicago Bulls (will settle for the Hornets) winter jacket. That's it, that's the dream of an eleven year old.
She lets me have the T.V., and I can hear her rolling her eyes as I choose "Care Bears", while we pour a bowl of the knock off cereal, the one that tastes like cardboard. M is always looking out for me, and even though she's stubborn, she lets me have my way. We'll compromise, and I'll let her watch "Love Boat" after school, only if she promises to watch "Fresh Prince of Bel Air" with me.
By then, I have only been in the U.S. a year. In 5th grade I spent all day in pull out ESL, playing Old Maid, helping Mrs. Gamapolous with the classroom, and having little 1:1 instructional time. She didn't speak Polish, only Greek, so that year was all Greek to me (pun intended). She was the only ESL teacher, and she looked out for us. She was kind. Her case load was small, there weren't many kids like us in the school. She was an immigrant herself, she understood us. She even brought us food.
Middle school was a stark contrast from elementary school. We no longer had the support, safety net, and it was sink or swim. The decision to mainstream me was made by the ESL teacher and my social studies teacher, who also happened to be my counselor. That was news to me. I never even knew what counselors did or what their role was supposed to be. My parents weren't made aware of the decisions made on my behalf. If there was a letter sent home, it's not like they could read it, and no one bothered to call. We trusted the education system to act in our best interest, and we were taught not to question. I'm sure plenty of teachers judged my parents' lack of education and involvement. If they only knew.
It's 6th grade, and I am eleven. It's a Wednesday, which means a long day ahead of me. I missed school yesterday, and I know I'm gonna have to catch up, when it's already a long day. I am never absent. Yesterday, I called myself in sick, since I woke up with a fever and sore throat. My mom wasn't home, and the secretary seemed awfully confused, I heard her making fun of me on the other end. I fear she's going to call me in and give me a detention for skipping. I promised myself I would never sit in detention, that's my worst fear.
My homeroom teacher is Mrs. H, barely 5 feet tall and completely terrifying. She runs her class based on fear and control. You can hear a pin drop in that class. She needs to have masterful control of her class, after all, she never moves from her desk. She calls me over to pile on the dittos I missed yesterday and I have one day to decode American History, or whatever this class is about. By now, I have learned to play the game. I know nothing about science or social studies. All I need to do to get good grades is copy from the book and spit back whatever the teacher says. I learn nothing.
As the 6th graders in my class start giving answers to the homework, I jot down bullet points, so I can cut down on the homework time at home. My afternoon is packed, and I always turn my work in on time, I can't afford to get bad grades. Mrs. H's shrill scream stops me cold.
She yells my name, butchering the pronunciation, but I don't dare correct her. She asks me to stand, and proceeds to berate me in front of the entire class as I hold back tears. She accuses me of copying, and threatens to give me an "F". Even the class clown, who always gets sat next to me in every class is frozen in fear.
She never gets up from the desk. She asks the class clown to confirm I have writing on my paper. He looks over, sees my bullet points in butchered English, some in Polish. I can't write fast enough to keep up with native English speakers, and he knows I wasn't copying. I hold my breath, yet, he says nothing to defend me, only whispers "Dumb (racial slur)."
The best part of the day is coming home, doing homework, and learning Spanish. My sister has already started learning, and she comes home to teach me. It's the only class I will always excel in. My sister is a good teacher.
Wednesdays are our busy days. My mom will soon come home after all day at work, so she can pick us up. My mom works two jobs, goes to night school to learn English, and only rests on Sundays. She is my hero. Each Wednesday, we will drive an hour, just to clean expensive model homes in the fancy suburbs. It has to be after 5 o'clock, when the offices have closed for the day, and the employees have gone home to their families. We need the money, and my mom needs our help. I am eleven years old and I am cleaning homes I wished I lived in. This is the American Dream.
I shouldn't worry though. My mom's dream is to open her own business. As I get older, I will spend the summer baby sitting children of immigrants who need the money but can't afford childcare. I will also spend every break cleaning rich people's homes, crossing my fingers that the homeowners aren't my teachers, and the kids on the couch aren't my classmates.
Ironically enough, rich Americans don't even blink at child labor behind closed doors, it's cheaper and gets the job done. Rich teens have no qualms about stealing the tip money their parents left for us, when they think no one is looking. On the other hand, when we find their dropped wallet outside, we make sure to give it back to them. After all, we can't afford to be accused of stealing.
On Saturdays, our days off, we dream of sleeping in, lazily watching cartoons in our pjs & eating pancakes. That isn't our reality. We spend 9:30-12:30 at Polish school. Three hours of instruction about history, geography, and language. We are there to learn about our struggles, find the reasons behind our dreams, and understand how we ended up as immigrants in the first place. We know why we are there, and we dare not complain.
Coming home, after a whole Saturday morning spent at school only means cleaning our own house. Every Saturday, my sister tackles the upstairs, and I clean the downstairs. We blast Polish pop, dance around as we rush to make sure the house is sparkling and cozy by the time my parents come home after a long day. That is the best part of the week. And we will wake up tomorrow, and do it all again. We don't need books or apps to teach us about grit motivation. Life gives us the best lessons.
Looking back, my story could've gone a lot differently. I am grateful for Mrs. Gamapolous for making me into the learner I have become. At the same time, I am even more grateful for Mrs. H, who showed me the kind of person I will never want to be. Mrs. H and the people met on my journey drive me to make this world a better place. Thank you.
As the political and racial tension rises, destroying the American dream, we hear leaders voicing opinions about immigration and education. The same monolingual people that have never lived abroad, are making decisions about our lives, the very lives we have struggled so hard to built.
As we hear politicians paint immigrants as criminals, let's rest assured that we know our truth and worth. This land is built on immigrants, their hard work, sweat and tears. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
As Joe Biden said last night, "WE OWE YOU!"
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