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 2nd December : 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.
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 18th 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.
