Lucky Broken Girl

When we lived in Cuba, I was smart. But when we got to Queens, in New York City, in the United States of America, I became dumb, just because I couldn’t speak English.

So I put in the dumb class in fifth grade at P.S. 117. It’s the class for the bobos, the kids who failed at math and reading. Also in it are the kids the teachers call “delinquents.” They come to school late and talk back and are always chewing gum. Even though they’re considered the bad kids, most of them are nice to me. “Here, Ruthie, have some Chiclets!” they whisper and pass me a handful.

We aren’t supposed to chew gum in school, so we hold the Chiclets in our mouths until we go outside for recess. Then we chew the Chiclets to death and stick the gook on the bottom of our desks when we come back inside.

Most of the kids know I’m in this class because I’m from another country, not because I really belong there. Or maybe I do belong there? It’s been eight months since school started and our teacher promised I wouldn’t be in the class for long.

I am not dumb. I am not dumb. I am not dumb…

The first time I worked up the courage to raise my hand in class was a few weeks after we had arrived from Cuba and I was wearing flip-flops instead of shoes and socks like the other kids. But when our teacher, Mrs. Sarota, called on me to answer the math problem, I didn’t have the words to say the number in English.

“Well, Ruth?” she asked, staring down at my bare feet. “Do you know the answer or not?”

I froze and a few kids laughed at me. But not Ramu.

He’s not dumb either. Ramu is in our class because he’s also from a different country. He comes from India and was raised there by his grandmother, who only speaks a language called Bengali. Hi parents came to New York first, and after they made enough money, they brought Ramu and his little brother, Avik, here.

Ramu has picked up English faster than I have because his parents know English and force him to speak it at home. Mine are always yelling, “Habla en espanol!” Especially Mami, who can understand a little English, but is usually too embarrassed to try to speak it.

Ramu is skinny and bows his head when anyone talks to him. I’m his only friend and that’s because he lives down the hall from us on the sixth floor of our apartment building. Ramu brings Avik to school and I bring my brother, Izzie. Out little brothers are in the same kindergarten class. But after school Ramu and Avik rush straight home. Mrs. Sharma doesn’t let them play with the other children.