Finding a Voice
- from the library of prose
- brought to you by Basel Farag
- published in Issue VI: Dec ’07
When I went to kindergarten and had to speak English for the first time, I became silent. A dumbness—a shame—still cracks my voice in two, even if I want to say “hello” casually, or ask directions from a taxi driver, or even ask questions during class. I am divided. I stand frozen.
During those silent years I spoke to no one at school. I did not ask anyone before going to the restroom, and flunked kindergarten. It did not occur to me that I should speak or pass kindergarten. I chattered without end at home. And I repeated words the other children would say with an enunciation that suggested my English was good. Words and phrases spilled out of my mouth like water out of a hollow bamboo shoot. To me it was just like the word games I played with my father at home; I played with and laughed at the waterfall flowing from my mouth. I repeated the phrase “What’s up” to my parents to the point of annoyance. They did not see the fun or importance in the game. I tried sharing my new game with my classmates but was quickly frowned at. I did not know that Americans didn’t play with words through repetition — so I continued with my silence.
There were other quiet Sudanese children in my class, but they got over it sooner than I did. They usually did not speak to me. I was a Khawajaa, a derogatory term in Arabic literally meaning “tainted blood.” This was in reference to my father’s blood, him being a Turkish immigrant dirtied my otherwise pure Nubian lineage. There was one other Khawajaa in my school who did not talk either, so I knew the silence had to do with being tainted.
I enjoyed the silence.
And It wasn’t until I found out I had to talk did school become a misery.
One day I ran to my teacher shouting, “Mo-ya, mo-ya!” the Arabic word for water. The long, lanky, bug-eyed teacher intimidated me usually, especially with her consistent nagging in gibberish. She frowned, thick eyebrows furrowed. She spoke, but to me no words came out. I pressed, “Mo-ya, mo-ya.”
I started crying.
Didn’t she know that I wanted water? Or did she want to avoid me, like all the other Sudanese kids? Or did she just simply hate me? These thoughts raced through my mind like wind before a heavy hailstorm.
I found out later that my Arabic would betray me as well. Especially when I was forced to speak at the grins of relatives. When I played traditional word games I was laughed at with pointed fingers; taunted for my Sudanese-Turkish hybrid accent. “Look at the cute Khawajaa.” they scoff, “Trying to act like he is Sudani.” Even friends would casually participate. Nothing was said when the other children refused to come near me.
Interaction with the children at school was Hell. Amongst the other children it was silently agreed upon that my presence would be treated with disgust. It was in the hollows of the blood-red building that was my school house and on the cold-steeled playground would I learn of racism and hate.
“Nigger!”
“I don’t want a Nigger sitting next to me.”
“Get out of my way Nigger.”
But what was this Nigger I thought, what did he have to do with me? Maybe he was tainted as well. Maybe that was the English word for tainted. Did he have no friends to play with either?
I soon threw away the sadness I felt at being an outsider. I took it as a challenge to assimilate. I woke up every morning to copy excerpts out of my father’s old textbooks in order to improve my English, and read picture books to practice my Arabic. Sweat met paper every ten a.m. before afternoon kindergarten. I would smother that tiny scared voice as deep as I could. That voice that would try to stop me from speaking. I read aloud in first grade, and heard the barest whisper with little squeaks come out of my throat. “Louder” said the teacher, who scared the voice away again. I would become top of my class for that year and oncoming elementary years as well.
My great moment came at the end of the year when a friend of my mothers’ told her she was impressed by my aptitude.
It was especially funny to me when her children didn’t play with me.
I had learned a lesson. I was neither disappointed nor angry, not even the least sad. I felt sorry. Sorry for those people who could not see past my blood or my culture. I marveled at the idea of what it must be like to be so ignorant. I thought that it must be lonely.
It didn’t stop me, and it never will.
Two pennies please.