First Day of School
An Immigration Story
A cacophony of birds jolted me awake, along with the slap of water from the automated sprinklers on my window. The sun glared through the curtainless windows; I didn’t know it could pierce with such intensity. Mama quietly stepped into my room and set out my clothes.
After some warm noodles, my parents and I set out on foot to Longley Way Elementary School. Standing at the gate, I watched as a school bus unloaded ecstatic children, most of whom seemed to be covered in freckles and blond hair. Nobody wore a uniform. Instead, kids wore all kinds of clothing and had different backpacks. Some of them had square, roller backpacks that they could sit and ride on. This seemed like the coolest thing ever, but it was still strange to me.
In the carpool loop, students waved goodbye as their minivans drove off. Reluctantly, I released my tight squeeze on my parents’ hands and walked past the colossal metal bars, looking back at them one last time before entering the institutional red brick building. Bells and whistles and chattering converged into one big, disorienting force.
When we left China, I was nine, in the middle of fourth grade. The decision felt very sudden and my parents didn’t leave me a lot of time to dwell on the implications. Leaving my home city behind for Los Angeles seemed scary. What about my friends, my teachers? How about my grandparents? They had taken care of me as a little baby and toddler, and I was still very close with them. There was no real discussion of how things would be different in the U.S. or what I should expect.
“Everybody, say hi to Colin! He’s from China!” shouted the teacher, whose name I couldn’t pronounce.
The harsh, fluorescent bulbs in classroom 4A shone down like a spotlight as I quietly introduced myself in accented English. I had learned English in my grade school, and by going to tutoring classes twice a week, but initially I still often had trouble following what teachers or other students were saying, especially if they used slang and idioms.
A couple of kids stared at me for a moment, then went back to picking at the rug or talking to their neighbor.
Scanning the room, I was surprised at how homey and warm it seemed. There were a few big tables pushed together, a projector, and a white board. The room was carpeted, and students’ artwork hung on bulletin boards. It was nothing like the cold, bland classrooms in my Chinese school, with their concrete floors and tightly packed rows of individual desks.
Later, I came to understand that those shared tables and brightly colored decorations symbolized collaboration and self-expression, and open discussions about books and ideas rather than just regimented raising of hands to answer questions. Here, we were assigned projects such as reenacting a scene from the book we were reading with props and costumes, or selecting a state in the U.S. to research and then creating a diorama with its most important elements. This would prove to be a monumental shift for me, allowing my creativity to flourish.
That first day, though, class for me was mostly fidgeting and nail-biting. I only really participated in math lessons, since fourth-graders in China learn more advanced math than children in the U.S. At least I was ahead there, which made me feel momentarily “cool.”
We were led in a single-file line through the fluorescent corridor to the cafeteria. I stood on tip-toe while in line to see the food being served, but saw no steamy hot rice. When it was my turn, I stood motionless looking at the rather unappetizing selections of hard pizza slices and dry chicken nuggets.
“Young man,” the cafeteria lady called sternly, “what do you want?”
I pointed to the chicken nuggets and grabbed a box of chocolate milk on the way out. On the far side of the lunch tables I found myself a clean, open seat. Dipping my nuggets in an excessive amount of ketchup, I regretted ever complaining about the Kung Pao chicken served at my old school. I contemplated my future as I gulped down chocolate milk, washing down bits and pieces of nuggets I shoved into my mouth.
At recess, I sat under a big oak tree and picked at the dry, yellow grass while children bounced balls against the wall or hopped on boxes drawn on the asphalt. I let out a couple of chuckles in the spirit of their gaiety. Envious of their screams and laughs, I wondered when I would bounce that ball with them, or line up to hop on those little squares on the ground. I didn’t even know the point of the games.
I missed the familiar whistle and thwack of jump ropes on the asphalt. Looking up at the clear blue sky, I missed the colorful dances of the kites I used to fly during recess with my pals back home. The faces of my buddies grew fuzzy as I tried to picture them.
My teacher came over and introduced me to a Chinese-American girl with long, beautiful, jet-black hair and a baby face. I smiled shyly.
“你也是中国人!” I said. You’re Chinese, too!
“Nope, I’m American,” she replied.
“你不是美国人，你是中国人,” I insisted. You’re wrong. You’re Chinese.
In accented Mandarin, she told me to stop talking in Chinese. Then she ran off to join her friends, proving that she was one of them, and I was not.
Still, she ended up helping me with assignments and translations, and adjusting to the daily schedule. Her Chinese remained terrible, but my ESL classes accelerated my English skills and soon I was translating for my parents, helping them to communicate with the school, read mail, and pay bills.
My father learned enough English to order at a restaurant or talk to store clerks, but my mother only attended a few English classes before giving up. My parents did not talk about their own experiences of fitting in and adjusting, at least not in front of me. Maybe they wanted to shield their children from difficulties and problems.
One of the first friends I made at school was another boy who had emigrated from China. He didn’t seem to want to assimilate at all. He simply shut himself off from this foreign culture and stuck to his own, but I was extremely curious about the American way of life. Everything was fresh to me: the weather, the malls, the suburbs, the food. The size of the food. The first time I successfully ordered hamburgers at In-N-Out, I felt a sense of accomplishment and pride.
Soon I found that, even though I missed my family, I didn’t really miss China at all. The first few summers when we went back to visit, I detested the heat, the mosquitoes, and the long dinners I had to sit through. During more recent visits, I have grown regretful about not learning more about my culture, but back then I just missed Los Angeles. The open space, the sunshine. YouTube.
I think that first day of school demarcated the two halves of my childhood: one Chinese, one American. Or maybe the dividing line was that morning back in China, with my father back home for a brief visit.
I remember the steady, radiant sunrise filling my small, cool bedroom with warmth. Little by little, the soft golden hues that slipped through the curtains illuminated the delicate red lanterns, paper cuttings, and the upside-down Fu character I had put on the wall for the New Year. One by one, birds on the brilliant green willow tree outside my window started singing their sweet, gentle tunes.
I slipped out of bed and dashed down the hall. Leaping onto my parents’ bed, I snuggled inside of their blanket, waking them up. My Baba reached out his powerful arms.
“大男孩自己起床啦!” Look at you, waking up all by yourself, big boy!
Among messy pillows and blankets, we talked about how Baba would be returning to the states for work the next day. Mama, little brother, and I would stay in Beijing. Then, while cuddling me and tousling my hair, Baba blurted out, “咱们一块去美国吧?”
Why don’t we all move to the States so we can be together?
