Palavras Ocas (Hollow Words)
By: Gloria Alafe
“Hey, psst look at her over there.”
This new place with faces and languages that stared and mocked.
A place where we moved to for better and more, but I felt rocked.
Denial set in, this could not be America; the land they gave birth to the American dream now gave fruit to scare.
“Excuse me, umm… me and my friends wanted to know if you click your tongue and stuff?”
Elementary school was my form of Olympic training.
Bending at the whim of the school system as their debate for my need for ESOL became straining.
Especially when best friends became as transparent their tricks which at times could get rough.
“Forget them they are just being mean on purpose because you’re different.”
In the fifth year of elementary school friend was lonely so best joined it and I gained a bf that I had lost in São Paulo.
We were inseparable (inseparável), it was us against the world; but our relationship I soon started to see was very hollow.
The day I started my ESL classes, eyes followed me as I received extra help; I expected theirs but not hers to be so distant.
“Why do you hang out with the slow kid?”
Expectations are what hurt the most when they come from your best friend (melhor amigo).
My fifth grade lesson was that being different was weird, especially since my best friend tried so hard to blend.
At that moment I cursed my heritage, my birth, my everything and wished that it could be hid.
“This is how Standard English should sound like.”
My first friendship was sinking as if quick sand had been its family; the solution: deny mine, be theirs.
Water could not help strengthen our foundation, this knowledge brought me to a place where I could, without shame, show my tears.
The bathroom became my haven, while the world knew but only to strike.
“My…nome é glo-rya. What é yoor name?”
Baby steps were hard when your acceptance seemed as your only antidote towards normality.
But I soon learned that racing was not enough to ail my mentality.
So I used my individuality as a shield when others aimed to draw out shame.
“Do you think she can speak English know.”
“G l o ri a, d o y o u un der stand---?”
I thought to myself as graduation neared: “do people like them exist where, for acceptance, you had to fit their brand.”
I knew at that moment that my love for myself should have never been so low to accept their past blow.
“Congratulations you have completed your ESL course, you can now attend normal classes.”
I did not understand what they were congratulating me for.
Was it for the lack of friends, the snicker and sympathy they felt, or were they surprised that I actually finished even though I felt I needed more.
I realized then that I didn’t want to be normal as glass that represented the masses.
“Mom could you teach me Yoruba and Portuguese again?”
I felt new found shame, but it was not because of my past need for normality but for my inability to speak my own language.
I never would have thought that my naivety would cost so much damage.
But it is never too late to amend the forgotten again.
This new place with faces and languages that stared and mocked.
A place where we moved to for better and more, but I felt rocked.
Denial set in, this could not be America; the land they gave birth to the American dream now gave fruit to scare.
“Excuse me, umm… me and my friends wanted to know if you click your tongue and stuff?”
Elementary school was my form of Olympic training.
Bending at the whim of the school system as their debate for my need for ESOL became straining.
Especially when best friends became as transparent their tricks which at times could get rough.
“Forget them they are just being mean on purpose because you’re different.”
In the fifth year of elementary school friend was lonely so best joined it and I gained a bf that I had lost in São Paulo.
We were inseparable (inseparável), it was us against the world; but our relationship I soon started to see was very hollow.
The day I started my ESL classes, eyes followed me as I received extra help; I expected theirs but not hers to be so distant.
“Why do you hang out with the slow kid?”
Expectations are what hurt the most when they come from your best friend (melhor amigo).
My fifth grade lesson was that being different was weird, especially since my best friend tried so hard to blend.
At that moment I cursed my heritage, my birth, my everything and wished that it could be hid.
“This is how Standard English should sound like.”
My first friendship was sinking as if quick sand had been its family; the solution: deny mine, be theirs.
Water could not help strengthen our foundation, this knowledge brought me to a place where I could, without shame, show my tears.
The bathroom became my haven, while the world knew but only to strike.
“My…nome é glo-rya. What é yoor name?”
Baby steps were hard when your acceptance seemed as your only antidote towards normality.
But I soon learned that racing was not enough to ail my mentality.
So I used my individuality as a shield when others aimed to draw out shame.
“Do you think she can speak English know.”
“G l o ri a, d o y o u un der stand---?”
I thought to myself as graduation neared: “do people like them exist where, for acceptance, you had to fit their brand.”
I knew at that moment that my love for myself should have never been so low to accept their past blow.
“Congratulations you have completed your ESL course, you can now attend normal classes.”
I did not understand what they were congratulating me for.
Was it for the lack of friends, the snicker and sympathy they felt, or were they surprised that I actually finished even though I felt I needed more.
I realized then that I didn’t want to be normal as glass that represented the masses.
“Mom could you teach me Yoruba and Portuguese again?”
I felt new found shame, but it was not because of my past need for normality but for my inability to speak my own language.
I never would have thought that my naivety would cost so much damage.
But it is never too late to amend the forgotten again.
The Allure of Multilingualism by http://multilingualismgloralafe.weebly.com/ is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.