Outside the tall classroom windows, dark clouds hovered like balloons that had lost their helium, slowly sinking toward the earth. Inside, the air felt just as heavy. We were gathered in a circle—a shape meant for inclusion—yet I always sat on the very edge. I was trying to find that impossible balance: to fit in, to disappear, and to be the ‘respectful and attentive’ child I was raised to be.
I watched Johnny, a white boy who was always chosen first. He sounded out the sight words slowly, his eyes constantly searching the assistant’s face for hints. I was bored. Back on my kitchen floor, ‘F-O-O-D’ was a simple puzzle of wooden blocks, but here, words were a weaponized test. To pass the time, I twirled my hair and whispered the words to myself as they appeared, a quiet, rhythmic habit from home.
‘Who is talking?’ the assistant snapped. Instead of looking downward, my eyes popped up in surprise.
The circle went still. All those young eyes fell on me. ‘Ay-oh,’ I thought. I felt like a rabbit in high grass, pulling my shoulders in, trying to shrink. In my culture, one should not be the center of attention, especially not like this. I wasn’t ‘talking’; I was reading. But in this world, my voice was just an interruption.
When Mrs. Goldberg, visibly annoyed, began to flash the cards at me, I reacted out of fear. Bird. House. Apple. Car. I shot them down like targets. The faster she flipped them, the faster I answered, defending myself with the only tool I had. When the stack was gone, I didn’t see a teacher’s pride. I saw confusion and bewilderment.
Then came the parade. During morning recess, she grabbed my hand and we flew out of the classroom. She stopped at the other Kindergarten rooms, announcing to the other teachers, ‘She can read!’ as if I were a talking bird or a dog that learned a new trick. The halls blurred past us. I should have been proud, but I was scared. I felt the heat of shame rising in my cheeks; I just wanted to go home to the kitchen floor. I wanted Nanay.
In the school office, the ‘othering’ became complete. As Mrs. Goldberg waited for the phone to ring my mother, she looked over my head—ignoring the girl who had just performed a miracle of literacy—and asked the clerk, ‘Does she speak English?’
Mortified, I stood there, the girl who could read, the girl who knew her phone number by heart, and realized that to them, I was still just a question mark. The greatest irony was that while I could shape the sounds perfectly, the words themselves were hollow. I knew how to say ‘House,’ but the only home I understood was the one that smelled of vinegar, soy sauce and garlic. I could pronounce ‘Apple,’ but it had no taste compared to the salt of the milkfish. By the time I was finally granted permission to go outside and just be a child, the whistle blew. Recess was over. I had spent my time proving I was ‘smart enough’ for their world, only to find the door closing before I could even take a breath.
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