Silence: Notes from a childhood without words

30 n the first day of kindergarten, my grandmother led me outside the house to the curb and, I think, instructed me to stay there. I followed her back in, innocently, stupidly, like a needy dog that has an inkling of the meaning of the command but can’t find a reason for it. The scene repeated itself several times until finally my grandmother fetched my mother for help. It was strange to see my mother outside the house. I rarely saw her even inside—she shut herself in her bedroom day and night. On the rare occasions she ventured into the kitchen or the living room I was usually out in the yard, where I spent most of my time essay Silence Notes from a childhood without words Maureen Sun O SILENCE | 31 with our dog. Outside she looked deranged and exposed, discontinuous with the human activities happening in all the other houses along the street. She and my grandmother tried, again and again, to make me stay at the curb. At first my mother laughed at my confused clinging. Then her fragile humor melted into wrath, into the soul-sickening bitterness that weighed her down in bed most hours of the day; and I finally understood the sense of her command. The bus arrived. My grandmother, who didn’t speak English, led me to its door. She and the driver must have repeated my name to each other to the driver’s satisfaction because he gestured for me to board. My grandmother crossed the street, motioning at me to go, and shut the front door of our home. I took my place on the empty bus, sobbing as other children clambered on, more and more of them coalescing around me, filling the bus with sound. When we arrived at our destination, they merrily dismounted. The driver gestured for me to exit too. I found myself in a large unsheltered yard containing a wilderness of lively, babbling children. A teacher kneeled down to ask for my name. I was still crying and didn’t answer. She must have guessed my first name was attached to the only Asian last name on the roster. I remember her studying the list in her hand, her face close to mine. every day we sat in a circle and took turns “sharing” an object brought from home. Who wants to share today? the teachers would ask, and dozens of arms would shoot up and strain, and a shrill sparkling chorus would fill the room: Me me me me! During one of these frenzies of volunteering and importuning, I had my first epiphany. I grasped something fundamental about language: say the syllable, me, yes, me, and make yourself stand out within a web of symbols that is at once intimate and wholly impersonal , of which one is but an incomplete participant. But it was an epiphany based on error. I misunderstood the meaning of the new word; for the next few weeks, I thought that my name was “Me.” 32 Lisa Kereszi, Chalkboard, Mrs. La Luz’s Classroom, Public School 26, Building 711, 2003. SILENCE | 33 not long afterward, my mother came to the kindergarten classroom . I could understand what was said between her and my teacher. This might be my first memory of understanding English; it might even be my first memory of following two people talking to one another at some length, moving beyond a statement toward something approaching a dialogue. I was very surprised to see my mother in the classroom that morning and went up to her. She stood silently with crossed arms, staring ahead without acknowledging me. I was still drawn to her; she was not affectionate with me, but she and I shared a home. My teacher coldly stated her concerns, her voice mounting in indignation and disbelief: I’ve never seen anything like this in all my years of teaching. She doesn’t know her name! My mother spoke just twice in her competent, stilted English. “We do not know English, and we want you to teach her.” “But I can’t teach her her name. She doesn’t even know she has a name!” My mother...