B Is For Bullied

Mrs Jones has just given me a new English name and I am bursting with happiness (see post A Girl Named Marie), but all this excitement is forgotten after the playtime break that soon follows. My class mate, Richard is not at school today and I miss him in the playground; now I don't have anybody to play kiss chase with (see post This Lion Can Talk), and some of the girls and boys from my class notice that I am standing alone. Before I realise what is happening, they have circled me and start to call me names. I do not understand what they are saying but I know it’s not nice. They are laughing at my brown skin, at my long black wavy hair, and at my earrings. I already noticed back on my first day at school that I was the only girl in the class wearing earrings, and now they are taunting me about it. 

I want to tell them that back on my Island (see post Share The Moon), all new-born baby girls have their ears pierced so that when the Mama shows off her new baby to the other Mamas in the village, you only need look at the baby's ears to see if it is a boy or girl. Otherwise, each time a Mama left home she would be saying a thousand times a day, 'It's a girl!' or 'It's a boy!' to every single person she met, and she would be exhausted before she even got to the end of the lane! When everyone knows that a baby girl has earrings and a baby boy doesn't, the Mama can save her energy to talk with the other Mamas about more important things, such as what they will be cooking for la cena, supper that evening. Mama proudly tells me that my ears were pierced when I was just three days old: Grandma Filomena, Abuela, passes a threaded, sterilised needle through each of my tiny, soft ear lobes as I obliviously nurse at Mama's breast. She then creates two small thread hoops on each of my ears which become my first set of earrings. After a while when my ears have healed, the cotton hoops are replaced by golden studs. From the tender age of three days I have never been without earrings. Just as my long black hair, they form an inseparable part of my identity and who I am.

I know that even if I could form the words to share all this with the boys and girls surrounding me, they would not be interested because they are not from my Island and would not understand. Now they start to laugh at the short sleeves on the jumper that I have already started to outgrow and I do not know why they do this. If I knew a girl who had clothes that did not fit her, I would ask Mama if she could give her some of my clothes to wear just as Jane’s Papa did for me (see post Watching The English Part III). I am suddenly ashamed of my brown skin, of my long and dark wavy hair, of my earrings and of my clothes that no longer fit. I want to look like everyone else in my school but I know that I cannot because I am from my Island and they are from here. Once again I jump onto my magic carpet and fly away, and the taunts of the girls and boys do not hurt me because my body is here but my soul is elsewhere (see post Watching the English Part III). After playtime, I walk back to class, take off my earrings and put them away in my pocket. Many years will pass before I wear them again.

After school when we are back in the caravan the happiness of my new name is forgotten and I share with Mama and Papa what happened at playtime. The tears begin to flow in abundance, and amidst my sobs Papa scoops me up with his giant hands and sits me on his lap. He lifts my chin with his hand so that I am looking straight into his big brown eyes and resolutely tells me, ‘Don’t ever let anyone think that they are better than you. Never, ever be ashamed of your roots. Spanish blood flows in your veins, be proud of who you are.’ And I think to myself, it’s easy for Papa to say these things when he’s not circled by abusive chickens on ‘The Tea Break’ (see post Watching The English Part I And II),  all taunting him because his skin is too dark, or because the sleeves of his overalls are too short, or because he cannot pronounce the words, 'wom-aaan', 'vehiii-cle’or 'pe-ooople' correctly. What do chickens know about being Spanish or English? Nothing at all! All they care about is their next feed. ‘Lucky Papa,’ I think to myself. I look at his big brown eyes and realise that I have the same brown eyes and I am ashamed of many things but I will never be ashamed of my eyes because they are from Papa. After a while my sadness subsides and Papa’s wise words make me feel better. 

We are on the chicken farm for what seems like an eternity but in reality a little over one year has elapsed since our arrival in this new land, and on an ordinary day like any other Papa tells us we will all soon be leaving Banbury and the chicken farm. We will be moving to a new town near a big city called London and there Papa will work on pig farm. 'How can I have such a clever Papa?’ I think to myself, ‘From chickens to pigs! What will it come to next, horses?’  One day in late 1971 we pack all our belongings and move onto the next stage of our life in England. We move to a town called Brentwood and Richard, the English boy with the cobalt-blue eyes with whom I shared that magical first playground kiss (see post This Lion Can Talk), disappears from my life and we never meet again.

To be continued...


Next post 4th December : Share The Moment



Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.

A Girl Named Marie

In the mornings before we begin our lessons, Mrs Jones reads out the names of all the children in class in alphabetical order. It's called Taking The Register and I am captivated listening to a whole line of wondrous new English names, Peter, Andrew, Michael, Paul, Jane, Sarah, Helen, Amanda. If this were a school back on my Island (see post Share The Moon),  it would be packed with Marias: Maria Dolores, Maria de los Angeles, Maria del Rosario, Maria Agustina, Maria del Sol, Maria de las Mercedes, Maria Elena, Maria José. In my class today there is just one Maria, she is called Maria del Carmen, and that is me.   

Mrs Jones calls out my name, Maria. I want to put my hand up to tell her that I have two names that are one and that Maria is not my name. But I don’t have the words inside me in this strange new language that they call English, so I just put up my hand and say in a small voice, Mari-Carmen. I want to tell Mrs Jones that Mama, Papa and everyone else back on my Island call me Mari-Carmen and that they say, Maria del Carmen only when I have been very naughty or when Mama is calling me in from the playing outside in the street. But I cannot say that either so put my hand down after I have said my name in Spanish and she carries onto the next name on The Register. 

Mrs Jones does not realise how lucky she is that she is Taking The Register here in England and not on my Island back in Spain. If she were to call out Maria there, at least half of the girls in the class would all shout out in unison, 'Presente Señorita!', Here, Miss!' and it would cause utter pandemonium. How could she then tell which Maria is which? This is why we all sensibly have two names that are one! The following day at register when Mrs Jones gets to my name, she calls out Mary. 'I am not Mary!'  I think with indignation. Mrs Jones clearly still does not understand that I have two names that are one. If she won’t call me by my two names, then at least she can call by the first part of it and I reply Mari. Once again, Mrs Jones carries onto the next name on The Register. 

Back home I tell Mama about Mrs Jones and the names she has tried to give me that I don't like. Mama says that she originally planned to call me Gladys but the village priest would not allow it as it was not a Catholic name so her and Papa had no option but to think of another name and fast. They hurriedly settled on Maria del Carmen as it was Mama's second name and not dissimilar to the name of my other Grandma, Abuela Maria Dolores. She is Papa's Mama and lives on the Spanish mainland in a place we call La Peninsula. La Peninsula is a strange and unknown place for me and so far away from my Island that it may as well be in another world. I call it The Other Planet. Mama tells me the story of how I got my name with a hint of irritation in her voice. She wanted to call me Gladys but the priest got his Catholic way and here I am as Maria del Carmen. Most of the first-born daughters in the village are called Maria-something-or-other, Mama tells me. 'That priest has a lot to answer for', she mutters under her breath. 


We have a new school day, and when Mrs Jones gets to my name on The Register she calls me Marie. Now I like this! It’s closer to my Spanish name than anything else Mrs Jones has used, and I love the way it rolls effortlessly off my Spanish tongue, Mari-ee! I am bursting with happiness, now I have a new English name to join Jane, Sarah, Helen and Amanda, and as soon as I get back home to the caravan I will tell Mama and Sis all about it. Then they too will want their own English names. But all this excitement is forgotten after the playtime break that soon follows.      

To be continued....



Next post 27th November : B Is For Bullied



 

Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.

This Lion Can Talk

I am now a seven-year-old schoolgirl in England and share my first kiss with Richard, but this happy event is soon eclipsed by tears:


It's school time and for some of the lessons we are separated into small groups painting, cutting and decorating pieces of large cardboard and paper. I have now learnt enough English (see post B Is For Bun) to understand Mrs Jones telling us that we will all be making our own costume masks for a school play called ‘Noah’s Ark'. I have no idea who Noah is, or for that matter what is a play, but all the children in the class seem to know and are dead excited and their enthusiasm is infectious, so I am carried along with them on a collective wave of eager anticipation.

Mrs Jones divides us up into groups of two and tells me that I am going to be a lion along with my class mate, Richard. I am happy about this because I like Richard and Richard likes me. During playtime we sometimes kiss. It's part of a game called 'kiss chase'. I never knew that such a game existed and this is how it goes: a boy that likes you chases you around the playground, and once you have been caught he kisses you. You must pretend that you really don't want to be kissed, whereas of course you really do. I always make sure that I run slowly enough for Richard to catch me. He can chase any girl he wants but I have counted that he saves most of his kisses for me. Richard’s eyes are cobalt-blue and of a colour that I have never seen before. Everyone back on my Island has brown eyes just like me and the eyes of this English boy remind me of two big blue skies (see post Share The Moon). Living in this new land called England clearly comes with certain benefits such as being kissed by boys with blue eyes! During these lessons, Richard and I sit side by side and decorate big brown paper bags that will fit over our heads so that we will both look like lions.

Week after week we work hard on our project turning an ordinary looking brown paper bag into a lion’s mask. We cut out a space for the eyes, paint on ears, a nose, a mouth and then finally we carefully glue on individual pieces of straw around the edge of the bag to represent a flowing golden mane. I work next to Richard and we both excitedly look forward to the moment when we can put on our lion masks and take our place on the stage. Two lions side by side, one with blue eyes and one with brown. The other children are all equally excitedly as they work on their own creations. There will be pairs of everything walking on the stage together, Mrs Jones tells us; two lions, two giraffes, two elephants, two tigers, two bears, two monkeys, to which Richard interjects, ‘Miss, how do they all fit inside one boat?' Actually, that's just what I am also thinking, but I cannot find the words in English to express myself so am happy that Richard asks also on my behalf. Mrs Jones addresses him firmly and says, ‘Richard, please do not interrupt me when I am talking.' I take this to mean that she also does not know how they will all fit into one boat, because this is exactly what Grandma Filomena, Mama's  Mama would to say to me back on my Island when I would ask her a question that she could not answer (see post Share The Moon).

The day of the play finally arrives and Mrs Jones tells us that after lunch we will put on our masks for the play. We all excitedly walk to the classroom to fetch our precious creations and prepare to put them on. Richard’s mask is on the table where he left it before lunch but mine is no longer there. It is nowhere to be seen us. I scour the room with great care and finally spot my mask on another girl whose name I do not know. I don't understand what is happening. It's my mask, yet she has taken it without asking! Why didn't Mrs Jones stop her? And there she now goes walking on stage holding hands with Richard in his own mask. Tears of indignation well up inside me and my little seven-year-old body trembles with emotion. Mrs Jones clearly thinks that I do not understand English well enough to follow instructions so has given my mask and part to somebody else! The play is a blur as I try to fight an overwhelming wall of tears. Parents in the audience happily look out for their children and try to spot them behind their masks. Mama and Papa are not there. It's not their fault, they do not know that even though it's school time parents can come to the school and see their children up on the stage in this way. I never heard of something such as this at school back on my Island.

After the performance is over, the school day is finished and Papa comes to collect me as he usually does. Together we walk back to the farm and to the caravan, and with me is my precious mask which I will proudly show to Mama and Sis, but I am still too sad to tell Papa what happened so don't say very much. I still like Mrs Jones, but if I could say something to her it would be that, I may not speak but I am not stupid and This Lion Can Talk.

To be continued.....

Next post 20th November : A Girl Named Marie


Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.

B is for Bun

It's a sunny morning in early September and in the caravan Mama is helping me to get ready for my first day at school. After I have got dressed she brushes my long black hair until it shines and then gathers it into two tidy pony tails. I put on my small coat and then take Papa's hand in mine and together we step out of the door and embark on my new journey. Once again, my school is at the end of a lane, only this time the walk is longer and Papa has obtained permission from the farm owner to walk with me there and back every day. This is the second time in my life that I start school. Last time it was in a language that I knew and understood. This time around it will be different (see post Share The Moon).

After a walk where neither of us say very much we finally arrive at the school building. Papa and I wait in the hallway until a nice lady comes up to us and introduces herself as my new teacher. Her name is Mrs Jones and she wears glasses and has a kind face. I don't understand a word of what she says to Papa but she smiles warmly at me and I like her instantly. We follow her into an empty room and Mrs Jones shows me where my desk will be. Papa bids me good-bye and promises to return in the afternoon to walk me back home to the security of Mama and Sis in the caravan. And there I am, seated at my desk with my little feet nervously fidgeting under the table wondering what this new day had in store for me. The only person who understands my language has just disappeared and suddenly I feel very alone. The other children soon arrive and all look at me. It's always hard being the new girl but even harder when you cannot say anything to anyone. Luckily when you are not quite seven it's not so bad, you just smile and talk with your eyes.

Each day for an hour Mrs Jone's assistant, Mrs Watts, takes me away from the other children to a separate corner of the classroom where I can learn this new language called English that everybody else already seems to know so well. 'How clever they all are!' I think to myself. During our private daily lessons, we cover a new letter of the alphabet. Today we look at the letter B. We have B for Bun and B for Bus. There is a small toy bus on the table as well as a bun filled soft, juicy raisins poking out of it. We soon pass the letter B and every day there is a new set of words for me to learn but that bun still remains on the table. I have never seen such a thing in my life and on some days, I feel an enormous temptation to take a bite out of it but of course I never do. 






Soon we are up to G for Girl and G for Gate. By now the bun is a hard rock and the fresh raisins have become black shrivelled dots and, on all but on the hungriest of days, my temptation to take a bite of it has disappeared. I gradually learn to read English from simple books called 'Janet and John'. This new world of literature captivates me. I never knew that such a thing as books existed and hungrily devour Janet and John’s adventures one after the other and along with it this new language. I never in my wildest dreams imagined that children could do such marvellous things such as bake a cake, or go on a trip to a place called a zoo to look at animals in cages. Each morning, after my hour of special classes is over I re-join the other children for their regular lessons. Every day I understand more and more of the conversations around me and, one day ,I tell myself, I will talk.

To be continued....

Next post 13th November : This Lion Can Talk
                     


Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.