I look around at the other pupils. Their looks of apprehension and confusion mirror mine and reassure me; we’re all in the same boat.
Our teacher walks in, introduces herself and tells us to anglicise our name. For the next fifty minutes, we lose our identity. Karine becomes Karen, Antoine becomes Tony, Stéphane becomes Steve. Some appreciate the role-play, the majority hate her for it, and I still don’t know where to stand. I have a name which cannot be translated. No problem, she says, my English name will be Mary. I am grateful at the speed with which she resolves the matter, but why do I always have to be the odd one out?
My thin frame curves in, prepares to play invisible, but Mrs G is not like the other boring teachers. She makes us repeat words and sentences again and again; playful, enthusiastic, never scolding when we get it wrong, and I sit straighter in my chair, eager to participate. Only five students raise their hand during the lesson, and I am one of them. She calls us her ‘little stars’, putting me on the same pedestal as the A-plus students – the ones who excel at everything.
Five minutes before class ends, we grab a pen, open our diaries, and write the homework for the next lesson. We’re to bring eggs and slices of bacon. We raise our heads; cast looks of uncertainty.
Is this a joke?
It isn’t. Next time, we will have an English breakfast. I have never heard of such a thing and doubt the feasibility of the task – cooking inside a classroom?
The bell rings. Already? I’ve never had so much fun in school outside of P. E classes. I smile at a classmate, but she looks defeated. Moans and complaints resonate in the corridor, and the floating cloud I stand on lands back on Earth.
“I hate her! I hate English!”
The words fuse and confound me. “Really? It wasn’t that bad.”
“That’s because you’re good at it!”
I’ve never been called good at anything. I’m the best in P. E. but looked down upon by boys who despise me. A girl shouldn’t be so strong, agile, and fast, or how can they prove their male superiority? I’m good at French, but that’s just to be expected.
Next is Chemistry and the teachers inform us the class will be divided into two groups alphabetically. One teacher looks amiable and I hope to be in her group, but my surname starts with J – middle of the alphabet on registers, and wherever I end up, my position will not be secure. Sure enough, it only takes a late-comer by the name of C- to bump me off to group B. I sigh.
No matter, I learnt something in English class today. I’m not worthless, I’m not always mediocre, and I have value.
Comments