K ~ Kickball

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.

I alluded to the fact that there would be more tears and they'd be about kickball. Horrid game. I'm using the format of a letter to my former teachers...sorta. I would never send something this...snarky. Probably wouldn't...

Dear Teacher Who Has Never Really Bothered to Get to Know Me:

I'm from a different country. We play different games. Our games have different rules. It would be nice if we're going to play an AMERICAN game, if SOMEONE would be so kind as to explain to me what the purpose is, what the game play involves, and what the rules are. If you don't, I'm not going to know what's going on, and am going to make some assumptions.

For example, though there's no bat, and the ball is much larger, there are bases to run around, a pitcher, and a home plate. So I think that it must be sort of like Brännboll (Burn Ball) and apply those rules. I figured close enough.

As you would have observed, had you even been observing, was that the rules were completely different and that no matter what I did, the other kids all screamed at me. “Why aren't you running?” (because that was a lame hit, you wait for a good hit, and then go, many players can occupy the same base) “Go back you idiot!” (Why? Just because he kicked it foul doesn't mean I lose my progress. I made it to 2^nd base!) And so on. I couldn't make a single correct move. Having 8 other people yell at you is not a fun experience.

Thanks for your consideration,

Tina

Dear P.E Teacher,

You really disappointed me. I thought that if we're playing kickball in a CLASS and not at recess, there'd be some TEACHING involved. Perhaps a review of the rules. I see plenty of cheaters during recess kickball, they could definitely use a review, not just the foreign chick who doesn't understand this inane game anyway. Your, “We all know the rules, so let's just play kickball!” didn't cut it for me. That's why I said I was going to throw up and asked to go to the nurse. It wasn't a lie, I really did feel like throwing up at the thought of all of them yelling at me again.

Thanks for your help,

Tina

Looking back, of course I should have ASKED someone to explain the game to me, but it had installed such terror in me I was paralyzed whenever we had to play. Well, not paralyzed, but I usually had some malady that caused me to have to sit out...

J ~Jo vs. Jamie

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.

I need a break (hahahaha) from my body cast so let's talk about friends. I had a dilemma that year because I had two friends who didn't like each other, but each of them liked me. Both would invite me over to play.

Jo (not her real name) was a “blessing” baby with much older siblings, one of them married. She was spoiled rotten and had every toy imaginable. She was also rather bossy. Yes, I met a lot of bossy girls that year...probably because I kept my own bossiness totally hidden as I adjusted to all the other changes...didn't really have the balls to boss anyone around when I was trying so desperately to fit in. She'd let me play with her FABULOUS toys, but would stop me on a whim and make me play with some other toy. Yeah.

Jamie (not her name either) was the oldest and had more siblings than I remember. She lived in a very old house, with very few toys, but was a sweetheart, and we'd play imaginary games.

Whose invitation would I accept? What would I say to the other girl? It was a serious dilemma for a nine-year old. I played with them both, and of course they each came to my house to play. However, it was a several times a week sorta deal to work out and it was exhausting. Now if I could just have made a trio of us, then all my problems would be solved. (I would later learn, with another set of friends, that this solves nothing, in fact, it only creates more drama...)

I was totally shocked that I found pictures of both of them in Mom's photo album.  

From left to right: Swissie, DataBoy, Me, Jo

This one really has no left to rights...so...um...I'm in green, Jamie is hugging me, DataBoy is in brown and Swissie is sticking her head out...

Have you had friend dilemmas?  How did YOU solve them?

I ~ I Can't BELIEVE I Broke My Hip

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.

If you don't know why I'm lying in a hospital bed, in traction, go read yesterday's post.

They took lots of x-rays of me in traction, re-adjusted the traction (loads of fun...loads...) and then took more pictures. Left me in traction to see if THIS position would work. The plan was for me to lie there and HEAL while in traction. As in months. I was not a fan of this solution.

Meanwhile, Farmor and Farfar (Father's Mother, Father's Father and you really ought to know those by now...) had arrived for their long planned Christmas visit. My parents had decided not to tell them about the accident until they arrived, but when I wasn't at the airport, they immediately freaked out and insisted on being brought to the hospital before going to the house.

We had of course anticipated this, and I'd been sponge-bathed and dressed in regular pajamas, not the hospital gown, all to calm Farmor who was, shall we say, an emotional woman. She of course bawled while hugging me. Farfar? He hugged me hard and then turned away and left the room for a moment. Must have had something in his eye...

It was great to see them, traction didn't seem as horrible when Farmor was holding my hand and telling me stories. But they'd been traveling. No one was going to force-feed them ice-cream before taking them home, but I'd say a stop at the hospital to see your granddaughter broken and in traction would be worse than midnightvanilla.

After everyone left, it was bedtime. I'd never felt so alone in my entire life. I was in a biggish room with at least three other hospital beds, but I couldn't really see because I was sorta tied down in various places – to keep me positioned correctly for healing- and sitting up and looking around wasn't an option. So I stared at the ceiling and cried myself to sleep.

Soon (not soon enough) they decided traction wasn't going to work. I don't care if it would have worked MEDICALLY, but keeping this 9 year old tied to a bed for months would have made me literally insane. I think this incident is the root of my claustrophobia 

Instead, I got surgery, two pins, which I still have, but can't find, so just picture 4 inch bolts from the hardware store. Seriously. I stayed a few more days, now in a body cast which went from my chest to just my toes peeking out on the injured (right) side to above my knee on the left. There was a big metal pole from the left thigh to the right ankle. I think to keep the cast stable. Aunt Risky colored it like a candy cane.

I had great nurses as you can see. That didn't stop me from wanting to go home. Receiving a girl in a body cast takes some preparation, and living in one takes some...patience. This saga (Swedish for story, did you know that?) will continue at another letter...as I learned when I started watching commercial TV, “Stay tuned!”

H ~ Hit by a Car

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.

I hope a picture really IS worth a thousand words cuz I'm trying to keep these posts short. However, Our Youngest Teen found my picture embarrassingly inept, so I have incuded his version and my inept version for your comparison.  Yes, mine sucks.

Basically, I was crossing the street during rush hour, Grandma Vivian was dropping me off, only for some reason she was across the street from our house. She waved me on, I trusted her. I stopped at the double yellow line to look some more. The stopped car waved me on.  What none of us knew was that a 17 year-old driver with a brand new license was barreling straight for me.

I woke up, lights flashing, The Swede and The Nutritionist talking to me, EMT's talking to me, sirens blaring as more emergency vehicles arrived and I didn't really get what was happening.

“You were hit by a car, honey, and they're going to take you in the ambulance to the hospital and I'm coming with you.” (Mom)

“Why do I have to go to the hospital?”

“You might have broken your leg.” (Dad)

I remember the EMT's picking me up to put me on the gurney and a pain so severe it didn't seem real washed over me. I think I fainted.

I woke up in the ambulance. Tubes being attached. I asked my mom to tell me what else was wrong with me.

“Well, you kinda have a lump on the side of your head the size of a...potato. They're a little worried about it. And you scraped off all the skin on your right heel.”

“What happened to my shoe?”

“Honey, why don't you try to relax, and we'll just let these smart men take care of you.”

“Ok, but it hurts a LOT.”

They must have given me some pain medicine, because when they moved me from gurney to hospital bed I didn't scream quite as loudly, and from hospital bed to x-ray table was down in volume, and then I stopped counting how many damn times they were going to move me and tried to just pretend I was playing in the woods in Sweden with my friends.

I woke up in a hospital bed, in traction. Mom was right there (it just doesn't seem right to call her The Nutritionist when she's my lifeline to sanity and my comfort and hope).

“What's wrong with me? Do they know?”

“You broke your hip, you have a bad concussion, and they stitched up your ankle.”

“Ankle? What ankle?”

“The one that was missing all the skin.”

I didn't really care at that point. I was tired. I was in pain. I was sleepy. So I went to sleep.

To be continued at another letter...and yes, one of them is tomorrow.

G ~ Grocery Stores

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.

I was overwhelmed with the number of grocery stores we had to choose from in America, and with the choices in those stores.

In Sweden, there were small stores all over the place that sold the basics, and if you're a Swede, that would be all you'd need because at least as of 1996, they're still not selling much pre-made, throw in the microwave or oven stuff. In the town square of our little town was a larger grocery store with more choices, and it stocked cleaning supplies, paper products, etc. In downtown Gothenburg there was a mega-store. Not a Sam's or Costco, because it wasn't buy in bulk, just HUGE and with better prices. We'd make a trek there every once in a while, and it was a grand adventure we looked forward to.

My first trip to a grocery store after we moved was with Grandma Vivian, and she had me pick out some ice-cream. Yes, that is funny. Read B if you don't know why. I stood over that ice-cream cooler for a long time, looking at the packages. Some of the ice-cream came in beautiful, crystal dishes with pedestals, some came in bowls, some came with all kinds of toppings and some came with a whole bunch of people who'd come over and eat that ice-cream with you. I chose the crystal. It had orange sherbet in it, which I thought I might like, but what I really wanted was that crystal goblet thing to eat my ice-cream in.

Imagine my disappointment when we get home and I get to open the ice-cream (without having lunch of course) and there are NO CRYSTAL GOBLETS.

“Grandma, where are the goblets?”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

“On the front of the package it shows them, see?”

“Oh honey, that's just a “serving suggestion” see the writing here?”

Such was my introduction to those two important words...

F ~Fitting In, Friends and The Flintstones

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.

School got better after that first horrific day. I learned the routine, I learned the rules, I got more confident in my English, no longer rehearsing each sentence in my head fourteen times before daring to say it.

I guess I should have told you earlier in the series, but both my sister and I were bilingual when we moved. DataBoy didn't talk. He was two. Growing up, we learned both languages at once. I've asked my parents how they did that, and I think I remember the answer. They both spoke Swedish to us. They spoke English to each other. Regardless, I've always known two languages, though at the time that we moved, Swedish was stronger.

Grandma Vivian had come on many visits, and we'd been to America when I was 6, so I'd had plenty of time to converse with those with whom I couldn't just switch to Swedish if I got stuck. I just had to move that file to the front of the line and open it. It didn't take long.

Making friends at school meant that I had more than the Camponellas to play with. There was one friend who lived on that big street beside our house (as opposed to the only slightly smaller, two lanes each way street that we lived on) and she was quite the bossy one. I know you're laughing – bossier than Tina? Yes, such a person exists, though her name is lost. She wasn't very kind.

I remember one afternoon I was done playing with her and said I had to go home. She couldn't leave it there.

“Why do you have to go?”

“I promised I'd watch a TV show with my sister.”

“You're leaving me to watch TV?”

“Yes, in Sweden they don't have kids TV and here they have cartoons and my sister and I want to watch it.”

“What show are you watching?”

“Scooby-Doo.”

“You like Scooby-Doo better than me?”

(free images from picgifs.com)

Apparently I did. I didn't know how to deal with someone so persistent and unlistening. So I just said, “See you tomorrow!” To which she answered, “I'll think about it.” Fine.

Swissie and I enjoyed our Scooby-Doo. After all, we had to look at the TV guide when it arrived and mark out our chosen two hours of TV. If you missed what you marked, it took quite a bit of persuading to substitute something else.

E ~ East Silver Spring Elementary

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 2^nd grade in Sweden to 3^rd 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 3^rd 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.