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 realize 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 postThis Lion Can Talk), disappears from my life and we never meet again.
To be continued...
Next post 16th 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.
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