I am not originally from the US. I was 13 when I came here.
I went to high school on the third day since having arrived. It was a Tuesday, September 7th, as I remember.
Now why didn't we have it in my school?
I didn’t speak a word of English other than “hi”, and knew the Latin alphabet only as far as it pertained to German. I wore a braid, thick glasses (especially, left lens — from having gotten a sizable chunk of glue in my eye when I was 6), and had been ridiculously traumatized from nearly having had my beloved pet lost by Delta Airlines.
We got to Louisville from New York by way of Cincinnati, and it was there when we were changing planes that Delta in its infinite wisdom forgot the specialized cage it made us, immigrants with practically zilch to our names, buy in NYC to transport our beast, a petite Siamese cat who (also, per airline specs) hasn’t been fed for 3 days to prevent erm…accidents.
If only Delta was quite so conscientious with its live cargo once it was all properly packaged!
Do I sound bitter? If I do, I have reason to be – though just as much of one is for me to feel grateful. Or, at least, touched.
Because, you see, we flew in on the red eye. There would not have been another flight from Cinnci until around 11 AM the next day.
So, guess what Delta did? Of course, that was LOOOOONG before their current crisis.
Yep, they actually sent a separate flight just for my kitty, picked her up – and gave her to me 90 or so minutes after grudgingly admitting they made a boo-boo. Talk about customer service!
I am happy to report for the animal lovers among us, Masha is with me and adding a very assertive meow to the thought of pets having to travel cargo.
Very much one of my soapbox topics this may be, but it really isn’t the subject of this particular post. Mainly, it’s here to establish the mental state of the subject, as they say in legalese.
Which, lemme tell you, was about -15 on the scale of 1 to 10.
Add to that not having gone to the bathroom for 6 hours straight on that first day for the simple reason I didn’t know where I was to *go* (neither the schedule of classes nor my Vietnamese and/or English speaking full-time guide from the English Second Language program didn’t think to incorporate this little activity into the roster), and well, sufficing to say, I wasn’t a happy puppy.
Sixth period for that puppy happened to be, in fact, ESL – and that’s…no, it actually hasn’t been the time I finally got to answer the call of nature.
But it had been very much the time when I fell in love – my first. In the US, anyhow.
Because in my ESL class was, among the kids from the former USSR, a young man, 4 years my senior. He was placed as a junior and he spoke English (however, one may speak a language one didn’t care to really study in their homeland and only had a chance to polish up among the native speakers in the last…wait for it, two weeks).
Still, he spoke it, and he was tall, and he wore the name of my favorite character from my favorite Dickens’ book, and he had the most marvelous stock of Russian profanities – they are the best in the world, I’ll have you know. Linguists agree. AND he was the one who actually not only thought to inquire after the bathroom thing – but along with another boy, took it upon himself to walk me to the bathroom.
So, imagine if you will, bladder bursting, tears threatening, heart pitter-pattering somewhere in the region of your toes – and being marched to the loo under a convoy of not one, but two handsome older guys, one of whom, you immediately decide, is going to be the father of your future children.
Oh, and did you imagine you are a shy, perfectly traumatized bookworm?
You did?
What did the imaginary you do? Taken advantage of the young men’s generosity? Politely thanked them and told them she just went? Or did she hightail it out of there and got lost and had had to have someone bring her in, loitering like a lost goat near the double doors of the cafeteria being scrubbed clean after that day’s lunch?
If you voted the unequivocal three – welcome to the club, hmm? But to paraphrase the undying words of Mark Twain, “Do I want to be a member of a club that would have me as a member?”
P.S. Fast-forward 17 years.
I am married to a guy with the name of my favorite character from my favorite Dickens’ book. We have a spectacular 14-month old.
He just isn’t the same guy.
P.P.S. Oh, and I managed to make it that time, bathroom-wise. As I usually do. 
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