A Good Daughter

I

All year my silence forces Mrs. Johnsonto send me to take test after test to provemy English proficiency. In empty classrooms,my fingers point to rows of pictures of peoplerunning, swimming, playing tennisand I articulate their actions. I listen to storiesthrough heavy black earphones, turnthe conversations into cursive. All underthe watchful eye of a grey suited woman,she took down notes, sent a sealed envelopewith the words PASSED. Mrs. Johnsondid not understand, silence at homemeant Apá did not scream,meant I was a good daughter.

II

At home, Apá tells us to be quiet,gets angry at us for speakingEnglish, says it’s disrespectful.We understand his frustration,he spends his days from job to job,surrounded by men who soundlike pelicans when they talk.We are unable to stop though,the language is already a stitchedseam on our tongue. So, we learnto never make a rustle, pretendthat our mouths are full of feathers.

III

The last day of school,my arms extended like an offering,I present Mrs. Johnson a bouquetof plastic red roses with fake watercrystals on the petals, hugged by a clearvase, the stems do not reach the bottom.I say Thank you, she accepts the gift,places it on her desk, turns to Mirsa,instructs her to tell me that next year,my mother must change my class,Room 40 where I have been assignedthe following year is for fifth graderswho did not speak English, I did notbelong there. I understand her but let Mirsatranslate in her undecipherable Spanish.

IV

I spoke to Mrs. Johnson by stayingafter school, dusting chalkboard erasers,releasing the residue of letters into the wind.Sweeping the floor, scooping up the remainsof rubber bands, erasers, and paper clips.Putting the chairs on top of the tablesso the janitor could mop. This was not onlydone for the reward of licorice wrappedin brown paper napkins. This was mylabor in exchange for her lessons,my non-verbalized thank yous, my apologyfor refusing to answer in English.