Writing a Language
My fascination with language and expression through words began with my struggle with it. Until I went to preschool, I spoke only Polish at home. I could understand basic English from watching Sesame Street and Barney on TV, though I didn’t speak it. One of my earliest memories is being nervous on my way to my first day of preschool—I was scared I would forget which way to shake or nod my head to indicate yes or no. I was very young, so I am told that within a few short months I was speaking English as well as my classmates. But as soon as my battle with speaking the language was won, I had to conquer learning to read and write.
At first, I was far behind my peers. I was put in the lowest reading group because I never practiced reading at home. I was embarrassed to be in the bottom group, and felt like an outcast. Determined to overcome this challenge, I spent hours at home sounding out words and improving my reading skills. As I recall, proving to my teachers that I could read Charlotte’s Web won me over to the highest reading group. My love for reading and language arts continued from there.
Shifting from loving reading to loving writing was an easy transition. While still in elementary school, a family friend gave me my first journal, though I can’t remember the occasion. Writing my first journal entries led to the realization that I could write to express myself, that it was communication I could control. It wasn’t long before my wild imagination led me to write stories, and I began enjoying creative assignments in school. Eventually, writing developed into a third language for me, a way to communicate things I didn’t know how to verbalize.
In this way, I first began experimenting with poetry in high school. Though much of the poetry I wrote during this time was full of teenaged angst, I enjoyed playing with words and images, something that has stuck with me ever since.
Writing continues to be a way for me to express feelings and images, imprints of memory and figments of imagination, though I now shape these things into story, whether in poetry or fiction. The whole process of writing, from the first kernels of an idea, to carefully selecting words and phrases, to revising and rewriting, has become my own language, and I only continue to grow in exploring the art of shaping it.
An excerpt from my essay, The Kitchen Table, in English, about my memories of learning English:
When I was four, my parents had not yet remodeled the house, and the kitchen still stood at its front—a bay window facing the street—like the rest of the houses on our block. It was a comfortable kitchen. The floor was soft cream linoleum, the cabinets were a gentle oak, the lighting was dimly splashed through the leaves of the tree that shaded the front of the house. I liked to spend my time in there, at the kitchen table—the appearance of which I no longer remember because it was always laden with my various art projects, my father’s newspapers, or a large family dinner.
One Saturday morning, I sat in my usual perch at the head of the kitchen table, working on a finger painting. It smelled like children’s paint and cinnamon blueberry muffins that my babcia and I baked when I woke. My babcia, my father’s mother, a gentle yet vivacious woman, always wore her Sunday Best on the weekends, and baked muffins with me to keep me busy while my parents sleep in. I loved creeping down to the kitchen and watching the batter swirl in the early dawn light.
My mother chattered over the sound of the NPR coming from the other room. She wore high-waisted denim jeans, a red blouse, and matching red earrings. She is blonde, like me, but with deep pacific-blue eyes instead of my transparent jade ones and looks at least ten years younger than she was, or at least that’s what I’d heard all of her friends telling her. She always talks fast and doesn’t like to be interrupted, though her lengthy pauses often tempt me to do so.
“Mama!” I yell, suddenly interrupting her. “No white paint! I need it for clouds.”
“Are you listening, myszko? This is important. You need to listen to me,” she answers, gently. She had been chattering at me. Something about school, which I was supposed to start on Monday and wasn’t interested in.
“I need white.”
“You have to learn some English before school. I know you understand.”
I respond by holding up my painting.
“Just repeat what I say. YYeesssss,” Mama says slowly.
I light up with an idea: “Can I use toothpaste for white paint?”
“It’s OK, you will understand,” she says, more to herself than to me. “Just say yes and no.”
I shake my head.
“Well, that means no,” she says, and leaves it at that, handing me Whiteout for paint. I frown. This is not the toothpaste.
On Monday, Babcia tells me to pick out my favorite outfit for my first day of Preschool. My stomach tightens, and I inform my grandmother that I can’t go—because I don’t feel well—because I don’t remember yes and no—because what if I get sick, I won’t know how to tell the teacher. She nods and says she thinks the skirt I asked her to make is ready.
Soon I am ready for school, and my babcia walks me to the end of the driveway with her camera. I pose by the mailbox, where I am supposed to wait for the bus. I am pleased with my choice of clothing. I wear the skirt Babcia sewed for me, a black ruffled skirt with three folds and yellow, red and green balloons floating all up it. I wear white sneakers, to match the spot on the balloons showing light bouncing off of them, and a red t-shirt, red socks, red puffy headband to match my favorite balloons.
On the bus, I sit in silence, avoiding eye contact, not wanting to speak. I wring my hands and tap my feet. Was shake or nod yes? What if I forget which way to turn my head to say yes or no? When we arrive at the school, the teachers try to assemble students in their classes outside, but I don’t understand them, they speak too fast. I get very hot. My stomach twists. I am scared I will be sick. I start to cry. A teacher comes to help me, asking my name, and she seems very nice, but I don’t know how to answer her. I hand her a note my mother wrote. She nods her head, and says very slowly, “It’s OK. Come with me.” She takes my hand and leads me to the class.
The smell of the building shocks me so much I stop crying—the smells of bleach and glue sting at my nostrils. Soon I am in the brightly colored classroom, drawing at a small table next to the fish tank.
Toward the end of the day, the teacher says, “Hey, quiet one. Do you need anything? Do you want wah-ter?” She exaggerates her enunciation. I look around the room frantically. I close my eyes, desperately wishing I had listened to my mother. Then, I nod.
She points to the water fountain. When I walk over to it, I practically strut, pleased with myself for remembering. At the kitchen table that night, over chicken and rice, I tell my parents the proud news, and they beam. My mother even claps. We celebrate by going out for ice cream. I even tell the cashier on my own, “Coffee. Sprinkles. Please,” to order my favorite.
. . .
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