December 2020

After moving back to New York from Chile, where she spoke Spanish in school, the narrator struggles to adjust I started to pant as if I had run a mile, but I had only walked into a classroom. My breath came in quick, short gasps, and my mind was in a panicked rage, trying to grasp how I would survive this. Finally, Ms. Satenhart, my reading tutor, sat me down at a desk, and I watched in horror as she pulled out the thing that was bound to doom me from the start: a book. *          *          * When I was four years old, I moved to Chile and then moved back to NYC at six. I remember that tight feeling in my chest, excitement and anxiousness all swirling inside of me. But that feeling hadn’t lasted long, for once school began, my hopes went from a soaring bird to a plunging fish, never meeting the bottom. In Chile, we had spoken Spanish, so on my first day, I couldn’t even read a math problem. My cheeks were flushed red and my heart was squeezed tight in a bundle of shame as I mispronounced “thirty” for the fifth time. Later in the year, my teacher had an announcement to make: “There will be reading tests in one week. Read, read, read!” Her perfect, dirty-blonde hair and wide smile could make even the most stubborn birds sing. My mouth had fallen open as if to protest. But nothing came out, and my eyes had become glassy. Over time I had come to admire my teacher, Ms. Wodlworth, and I hated to let her down with my failure. The first test came anyway, and only moving up one reading level had made my mouth feel dry, my nose runny, and my ears red. I’m never going to make it. A month later, while sitting at my desk, I thought the torture had ended, those horrid pages hidden away, concealed forever. But I was wrong; they came back for me. “It’s okay for those of you who aren’t happy with your reading progress so far,” Ms. Wodlworth announced. My ears pricked up and my comfortable, plaid uniform didn’t feel so comfy anymore. I felt itchy, how I always got before bad news. “There will be reading tests in one month, so remember: read, read, read! Please go back to your books now. And remember your homework packet includes two weeks* of homework for the long weekend of Thanksgiving.” My eyes had started to sting, but I knew what to expect. Deep down inside, though, I felt a part of me that was getting tired of failing, tired of being pulled back, just like waves withdrawing empty-handed from the sand. It was a new feeling: determination. *          *          * “Time for bed. Go brush your teeth,” my dad called. “But Elias and I need something before we sleep,” I complained. My parents sighed in unison, “Water? A cookie? Just hurry. Then, in the morning, you complain about being tired.” “One story? Please?” My brother and I flashed our big puppy eyes. “That’s just another excuse not to sleep. You have school tomorrow,” they reasoned. “But I’m bored, and I can’t fall asleep if I’m bored,” I groaned. “Good night,” they called, and I fell back onto my bed. I blew my hair out of my face. Then, a brilliant idea struck me. “No! Mom! Dad! Wouldn’t it help me if you read me a story and helped me understand pro- pronunciation?” I said, practically begging. “Do you really need help?” they asked. “Yes.” Soon we were on the couch, my mom clutching a book in her hand called The Lonely Little Monster. In the story, the monster was scary, so other kids wouldn’t play with him. But soon he tried his luck at friendship with a little girl. She realized he was nice, and the monster wasn’t lonely anymore. After this struggle he had faced, he had finally succeeded. “The end!” As I dragged myself to my room, without any more excuses for not going to bed, I had started thinking. What if the little monster was just like me? What if I— “Good night!” “Don’t go!” I jumped out of bed. Life in New York City had not been welcoming so far, and I clung onto any excuse to stay with the people who comforted me the most. “What? Norah, you need to go to bed.” “But I can’t sleep.” “Sleep is important. You don’t grow if you don’t sleep.” My brother claimed, “If I don’t grow, it means I’ll never grow old! I could be immortal! So I shouldn’t sleep.” My parents laughed and said, “Love you.” “Ok. Good night,” I sighed in defeat. Once the lights shut off, it was just me and the sounds of New York. The sirens wailing with flashing blue and red lights, people honking, caught up in the web of traffic. I could even hear the faint tapping of high heels on the steel-hard concrete of the sidewalk. I imagined the Little Monster, his green, shaggy fur framing his big, glossy brown eyes. A frown so small you would mistake it for an ant on his face. My thoughts resurfaced all at once, and I started to wonder, Could I go through struggles just like this monster? Could I find the one light to help me through this struggle? My ideas were muffled by my efforts to try to stifle a yawn. My weary eyes dragged down, yearning to sleep and find a quiet place. Slowly, my thoughts left the sound-filled streets to a place deep inside my head. *          *          * The next day at school, we were asked to do something that was almost impossible for me. “Has everyone gotten an index card?” Ms. Wodlworth asked. We waited in