These
are the continuing adventures of a Swedish immigrant during her first
year as an American. She boldly went where she'd never gone
before...please come along on Adventures
in America.
Eventually
our carefree summer ended and it was time to think about school. Of
course, I'd done plenty of thinking, worrying, planning, wondering,
worrying, speculating, worrying, dreading, and having nightmares
about and generally plain freaking out about it since we got there,
so I was, shall we say, ahead of the curve when it came to “time to
think about it”.
In
Sweden, kindergarten is optional, but I'd gone. I loved it. I'd
always loved school. First grade was in a very old building with a
very wonderful teacher, and we hiked up a hill to a school for older
kids and had lunch there, then hiked back. That was fun. Second
grade was in a brand new school they'd just built right in my
neighborhood. Another great teacher, and a cafeteria where everyone
ate everyday for free.
First
grade in Sweden is age 7, not 6 as in the US. However, I couldn't
just automagically go from 2nd
grade in Sweden to 3rd
grade in America, I had to take HOURS of placement tests, which no
one had warned me about, and frightened me to death. But I was
deemed worthy of 3rd
grade. Consequently, I was always a year older than my peers and
spent my life explaining about how they start school later in Sweden,
which, by the way, I highly applaud. At least these were done way
before school started.
My
first day of third grade I spent trying not to cry. Really, really
trying hard, because I knew if I started, I would never stop. It
would be moving, the neighborhood, missing my friends, missing Farmor
and Farfar (Father's mother, Father's father), not being sure of my
English, not knowing anyone, being afraid I was wearing the wrong
clothes, not knowing where to go, not knowing when lunch was, if I'd
be allowed to go get my lunch which was currently in my lap but who
knows where they'd make me put it, where was the bathroom, when would
I be allowed to use the bathroom, was there recess, what was I
supposed to DO? So I thought it best not to cry.
When
I arrived on my first day, and Mom had finished her Momarazzi duties
(those are the Camponellas, by the way), she LEFT me with the
principal, who took me to my room. “Here's your room!” Then she
left. Wow, OK. Some kids. Sitting at tables. I sat down at a
table. They all talked to each other. No one talked to me. I
stared at the ceiling counting tiles not to cry.
Eventually
the teacher came. Didn't speak to me. Gave general instructions to
the class in a machine gun fashion and everyone jumped into action,
stowing lunches, getting papers and pencils, pushing, shoving (AND
DID NOT GET SENT TO THE PRINCIPAL FOR IT) and making lots of noise as
they got ready for the first lesson, which was to write a paragraph
about ourselves, and then choose a partner, share paragraphs, and
then we'd all take turns, standing in front of the class and
introducing our partner based on what we'd learned from what they
wrote.
I
about fainted. There was a girl at my table who took pity on me and
walked me through this. I wish I could remember more about her,
because she saved me from crying. Now I had a purpose, though it was
impossible for me to accomplish, scared spitless and English-less all
of a sudden, but at least there was no time for tears. Of course,
there would be lots of time for tears later. Like during kickball.
