Miss Robinson put multiplication problems on the chalkboard, I wrote the answers quickly in my copybook. She smiled and said, “Excellent, Lucia.” Ah, she means eccellente. I basked in golden light, glancing in astonishment at yawning classmates. Were they bored? Had they ever spent mornings scrubbing on their knees?
After my lunch of pasta and beans came “recess,” a raucous swirl of students in the courtyard. I stood against a wall, watching them until my new friend found me. “I’ll take you to English class at Hiram House this afternoon,” Yolanda promised. “Then school will go better. But,” she added happily, “you can start working soon enough.” I’d worked my whole life, I might have responded. As soon as I could walk, I dusted, stirred pots, folded laundry, and beat rugs with little sticks. Perhaps I washed two steps to Mamma’s twenty, but I had no memories of “before working.” Yes, I told Yolanda, I wanted English classes.
We reached Hiram House by straight, wide streets meeting at perfect angles. Cleveland seemed a child’s city, ordered and easy to learn, but without the sweet tang of the sea. Not to seem like the Neapolitans Roseanne scorned, I didn’t mention blue skies or sea breezes. Factory chimneys shot up thick plumes of smoke that left their smells behind. Yolanda sniffed out scents for me: iron and steel works, slaughterhouses, glassworks, automobile factories, and factories for “machines that make machines.” Big-windowed garment workshops stood wedged between factories. “The windows are closed so soot won’t stain the cloth.”
Busy as it was with work, the city seemed dead. We passed no puppet shows or street singers, singing peddlers, fortune-tellers, gypsy dancers, or acrobats. Yolanda shrugged when I mentioned this. “It’s America,” she said. “You have fun inside.”
Finally we reached Hiram House, a somber brick building with turrets and a wide porch. “Come on,” Yolanda said, “the class just started.” My English teacher was a bright-cheeked young woman who wrote in sweeping letters: Miss Miller and then Welcome Newcomers! She made us understand that both children and wary, stiff adults must stand by our chairs for a game called Simon Says.
“Repeat: ‘Simon Says.’ ” We repeated. This much I could do, but how could we play in a language we didn’t know? Easily, I discovered. Miss Miller’s mobile face, boundless energy, and large gestures slipped meaning under words for Italians, Hungarians, Poles, Greeks, and Czechs. Some students knew more English than others and pulled the rest along. At Pentecost, our priest once told us, the Holy Spirit spoke to a crowd, each in his own tongue. Miss Miller had that power.
“Simon says, stand up. Simon says, touch your nose. Simon says, raise your hand. Touch your chest. I’m sorry, Niko and Ruth. Sit down, please.”
We played short rounds so many could win. We shaped our mouths to hers. Miss Miller’s good humor made even grown men laugh. I was understanding English! Pride shot through me, as when Mamma first took her hands from beneath my belly and I swam alone to the far flat rock, or when the countess opened a book, pointed to a line, and said, “Start here and read.”
A girl my age wrote our new words on the board: arm, foot, head, leg, chest , his, her, your. Soon, I vowed, I would be that girl, writing. “Now, Lucia, you’ll play with Henryk.” She pointed to a tall, slim boy near my age with wide dark eyes. I’d noticed him in the schoolyard standing with a crowd of laughing boys.
“Simon says, stand up, Henryk,” I managed. Astonishing: he stood. My first English sentence! My first words to an American boy! He smiled and brushed back a flop of hair. I’d play this game forever. “Tell Henryk to raise his hand.” I did. He did. “And touch his head.”
“Simon says, touch your head.” Again the magic: his hand on the glossy hair. “Now, Henryk, tell Lucia to lift her
After my lunch of pasta and beans came “recess,” a raucous swirl of students in the courtyard. I stood against a wall, watching them until my new friend found me. “I’ll take you to English class at Hiram House this afternoon,” Yolanda promised. “Then school will go better. But,” she added happily, “you can start working soon enough.” I’d worked my whole life, I might have responded. As soon as I could walk, I dusted, stirred pots, folded laundry, and beat rugs with little sticks. Perhaps I washed two steps to Mamma’s twenty, but I had no memories of “before working.” Yes, I told Yolanda, I wanted English classes.
We reached Hiram House by straight, wide streets meeting at perfect angles. Cleveland seemed a child’s city, ordered and easy to learn, but without the sweet tang of the sea. Not to seem like the Neapolitans Roseanne scorned, I didn’t mention blue skies or sea breezes. Factory chimneys shot up thick plumes of smoke that left their smells behind. Yolanda sniffed out scents for me: iron and steel works, slaughterhouses, glassworks, automobile factories, and factories for “machines that make machines.” Big-windowed garment workshops stood wedged between factories. “The windows are closed so soot won’t stain the cloth.”
Busy as it was with work, the city seemed dead. We passed no puppet shows or street singers, singing peddlers, fortune-tellers, gypsy dancers, or acrobats. Yolanda shrugged when I mentioned this. “It’s America,” she said. “You have fun inside.”
Finally we reached Hiram House, a somber brick building with turrets and a wide porch. “Come on,” Yolanda said, “the class just started.” My English teacher was a bright-cheeked young woman who wrote in sweeping letters: Miss Miller and then Welcome Newcomers! She made us understand that both children and wary, stiff adults must stand by our chairs for a game called Simon Says.
“Repeat: ‘Simon Says.’ ” We repeated. This much I could do, but how could we play in a language we didn’t know? Easily, I discovered. Miss Miller’s mobile face, boundless energy, and large gestures slipped meaning under words for Italians, Hungarians, Poles, Greeks, and Czechs. Some students knew more English than others and pulled the rest along. At Pentecost, our priest once told us, the Holy Spirit spoke to a crowd, each in his own tongue. Miss Miller had that power.
“Simon says, stand up. Simon says, touch your nose. Simon says, raise your hand. Touch your chest. I’m sorry, Niko and Ruth. Sit down, please.”
We played short rounds so many could win. We shaped our mouths to hers. Miss Miller’s good humor made even grown men laugh. I was understanding English! Pride shot through me, as when Mamma first took her hands from beneath my belly and I swam alone to the far flat rock, or when the countess opened a book, pointed to a line, and said, “Start here and read.”
A girl my age wrote our new words on the board: arm, foot, head, leg, chest , his, her, your. Soon, I vowed, I would be that girl, writing. “Now, Lucia, you’ll play with Henryk.” She pointed to a tall, slim boy near my age with wide dark eyes. I’d noticed him in the schoolyard standing with a crowd of laughing boys.
“Simon says, stand up, Henryk,” I managed. Astonishing: he stood. My first English sentence! My first words to an American boy! He smiled and brushed back a flop of hair. I’d play this game forever. “Tell Henryk to raise his hand.” I did. He did. “And touch his head.”
“Simon says, touch your head.” Again the magic: his hand on the glossy hair. “Now, Henryk, tell Lucia to lift her
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