From Chestnut to Oliver Street
Oliver Street School , Google Earth
The day that I had the impression that I swallowed a roller-coaster for dinner and I woke up with fifty people eagerly screaming with their arms up and their hands trembling at the speed of the thrill inside my stomach was March 21st, 2005.
The road I was walking on led me to an enormous, dark red building, but in my mind, I was imagining the moment where I would abruptly make a U-turn, although that was impossible because the ground had transformed into a treadmill and if I turned around, I would still be going forward, unwillingly. I was being dragged through the crosswalk and although I knew that my mother’s heart was going to go in with me, I couldn’t help myself grasping her hand and gazing into her clear eyes, knowing that she was agonized to see me scared to death. But I had to go, she knew it. I didn’t have a choice, but the desire to have another alternative was so strong that instead of frustration, what I felt was sadness, a dismal so deep that it suddenly began to rain.
I had already entered the building before, three days ago, to register, visit and meet the principal and the main office ladies. I remember my mom saying that the hallways’ smell reminded her of her childhood, but to me, it only gave me new memories to hold on to: the terrible school I was going to attend for the next year and a half. I had also been introduced to a Portuguese girl, born and raised here in the United States, a good student who would be responsible for helping me on my first days.
Her name was Michelle and she was slightly chubby, had brown hair and dark shiny eyes. She gave me an awkward hug when we were introduced to each other by a secretary who, at the moment, was telling me: ‘’This will be your angel’’. Naively, I truly believed that she would be my shadow for the next few months, but that wasn’t exactly what happened.
So as I looked at the main entrance and walked up the small stairs, I realized that I hadn’t even paid attention to the building, therefore I couldn’t remember whether the building was brown or carmine… But that didn’t matter, what mattered was the floor, the walls and the ceiling that boxed my little body, halfheartedly, as if I was in a prison cell.
Once I was inside, a few things caught my attention. First, the colourful scribbles that filled the entire left wall by the auditorium, then the identical documents entitled “Honor Roll’’ where the only thing that differed in the two sentences that followed were names and finally, the lingering energy that crawled up and down the stairs, energy so powerful yet so unfamiliar, that although detectable, was completely outlandish to me… The lady in the main office told me where to stand before entering the classroom, so I followed her guidance and went.
I had to exit the building, walk down the stairs again, turn right and enter through a gate that led to the playground. On the left of this enormous space, was a trailer house (which I later learned, were additional classrooms) and the remaining empty space was where hobbies such as soccer, rope jumping and other activities between fooling around and walking alone took place. On the right, was a U-shaped building (also known as my future school) and in the gap between one structure and the other, was an open space dedicated to hopscotch, gossip broadcasting and “getting in line’’ before class and after lunchtime.
Getting in line, I learned, was something pretty uncomfortable, yet pretty neat. It was uncomfortable because although I had no interest in any of these eccentric people, I was forced to get stuck between them in an organized line of shrieking and informal singing; and it was neat because there, once the homeroom teacher appeared to take us to class, even the wildest kids had to obey by the rule and shut their mouths (I am not implying in any sense that “getting in line” made them behave, but at least it made the teacher aware of mischief and problematic students when she had no other choice but to advise them to be quiet “or else’’).
The truth is, I was all but curious to find out what the inside of the edifice was like — although I had already seen a part of it… But I had no other option. So I got in line, stood there and let society check me out as if I were a peculiar artefact in a display case. I also had a fair share of peeks at society myself, attempting to watch them when they weren’t observing me… Most weren’t pleasant characters to behold, I must admit.
Among the extreme looks of young girls toggled up in thick golden necklaces, pierced with golden name hoop earrings, carved with tattoos at the small of their backs and exceedingly hair-sprayed curls and the improper looks of young boys dressed in over-sized white t-shirts, extra-large jeans that revealed their lousy underpants, choked with big gold chains and fake diamond earrings… there was barely anything conventional. Besides the television, I had never seen anybody actually look like that.
I was traumatised and it wasn’t only the odd fashion itself that frightened me, it was their faces, the sharp stares of those 12-year-old little humans that made me suspect whether they were really my age or if I had been accidentally misplaced in year level and time. It couldn’t be! Was I in another world, was this place a practical joke or was this really it? I desperately searched for something, someone that I could associate myself with, but there was nothing…
I sat down in an empty chair available in my “homeroom” (that surely didn’t feel like home). It was the last classroom in the hallway, the room was huge and on that day, the sun shone vibrantly through the windows; the four walls that embraced the six groups of four puzzled tables were covered in decorations, scientific instruments and colourful sheets of papers whose content was always school-related; the chairs were classically uncomfortable and dirty and the tables were filled with memories from the “Class of 2001”, class time-killers that once tasted like Trident tropical twist or Wrigley’s juicy fruit or broken-hearted anonymous who loved “Joshua and me forever”. Then there was a big green board, positioned perpendicularly from the door and characteristically filled with school material, presentations, projects, poetry, and the periodic table.
A not out-of-the-ordinary girl was sitting in front of me and after class, she approached me and told me her name and location: “Lirian de Barros and I’m from Brazil”. I had met my first classmate friend — the angel-girl, Michelle, was all but angelic and I later decided to mentally tag her as the worst new student buddy ever for going M.I.A on me — she would be in my English aid classes and we could be best friends! Of course, that didn’t happen, because she eventually fused herself in the M.B.I group and I didn’t accept to be tagged along.
M.B.I stood for male body inspectors and its members were basically promiscuous Brazilian girls. I would rather be alone than with those girls who used their long strands of hair, tight pants and voluptuous breasts (some had to thank toilet paper for the volume) to tease boys and get them drooling. Actually, I would rather be alone than with any of those people. Ultimately, it would be proven that it was clear from the get-go that I was sentenced to spend my Middle School days in loneliness.
Lunchtime came up and that’s when things started to get tough. The cafeteria was crowded with people from all ethnicities and full of spoiled and unidentifiable yellow and brown food that was being nastily served with an ice cream scooper in Styrofoam containers. I was disgusted and although I followed Lirian’s lead, I sure didn’t swallow that food… It was nothing like the extra-crispy chicken skin and soft and creamy spaghetti strands served at lunch back in my school in Portugal. For that reason, I only had the dessert (it either was a cup of jelly or yoghurt) and the chocolate milk.
I later discovered that the leftovers from breakfast served in class in the morning (an individual pack of milk and individual cereal cup) were still available at any hour in the second floor (where kindergarten was installed) and decided that lunchtime would be better off spent in a second-floor bathroom with a cereal cup than in the messy cafeteria, where food fights were a daily tradition.
After lunch, for what seemed like an eternity, I got in line and attended the last classes of the day. I didn’t speak to people and I guess my classmates thought: one, that I didn’t understand English, because they chattered about everything around me and two, that I had aphonia, because they didn’t talk to me either. Nevertheless, I preferred to be quiet than to uncontrollably shout like most of them. We had nothing in common, I had nothing to say and that was that. Luckily, classes were over by 3:30 PM and finally, I would go home.
Like most of the English-speaking population, I always had the tendency to call my house, my home, without even thinking twice about the meaning of my house or home, but calling the place where I live, the place where I live just didn’t seem right. As a result, using the word home, made me believe that I was home until I watched a movie in school that ended with the lesson that “home is where the heart is” and that really got me thinking.
I even began to wonder if “home” was myself since my heart was inside of me — but it actually made sense. I had come from Portugal and here I was: in Newark, New Jersey. Home wasn’t in Portugal and it surely wasn’t in the United States. Home was in the exact place where my room could be, where I could embrace the mattress and feel comfortable. So home wasn’t where I lived, it was where I slept and where I shed my tears when they decided to pay a visit to my pupils.
Anyway, the school day ended and once I found my way out of that building and passed by the intimidating security lady— a big woman with her nose pierced and her ears full of gold jewellery around her ears — I let out all the steam that had been filling my gut throughout the day.
As I walked, crossed the street, turned the cornering tavern, passed by the “Gasolina” by Daddy Yankee fanatics’ house and speed-walked down Chestnut Street until I reached house number 172, I swear that I had lost the roller-coaster I had swallowed the night before and completely lost track of the fifty people that had settled inside my stomach. I wondered whether I had left them at school and concluded that, even if I did, it was unfortunate because tomorrow I would be obliged to pick them up again.
This piece is based on true events and was originally written on November 13th, 2013.
