Camilla Trinchieri
From the First Chapter
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She slipped into the morning class, my beginner's class, just as
Eric finished reading the chapter, "What I Miss About My
Country," from the Let's Start Reading book.
"What do you miss, Eric?" I asked after a quick nod of
acknowledgment to the new girl.
"I miss medicine." Eric folded the photocopied chapter. The
classes are free for newly-arrived immigrants at the Welcome
School, where I teach, and the school doesn't have money to
buy enough books. "In China go direct to doctor," he said. "No
call before, get medicine, take care quickly." Eric's words came
out in a jumbled rush. He wouldn't slow down no matter how
often I asked him to. He claimed it was because of his Chinese
name, Jun. It means "a strong white horse who runs fast,
10,000 miles a day."
Eric finished reading the chapter, "What I Miss About My
Country," from the Let's Start Reading book.
"What do you miss, Eric?" I asked after a quick nod of
acknowledgment to the new girl.
"I miss medicine." Eric folded the photocopied chapter. The
classes are free for newly-arrived immigrants at the Welcome
School, where I teach, and the school doesn't have money to
buy enough books. "In China go direct to doctor," he said. "No
call before, get medicine, take care quickly." Eric's words came
out in a jumbled rush. He wouldn't slow down no matter how
often I asked him to. He claimed it was because of his Chinese
name, Jun. It means "a strong white horse who runs fast,
10,000 miles a day."
All my Asian students change their names -- Vicki, Jennifer, John, Charlie. They say their
Asian names are too hard for Americans to pronounce. I'm the granddaughter of immigrants
and I often wonder if my students aren't trying to keep their two identities apart. My Italian
grandmother refused to speak English, believing the harsh-sounding words would feast on
her brain and make her Italian memories disappear.
The newcomer sat next to Jennifer, my best student. They were a study in contrasts.
Jennifer, from Beijing, was small, moon-faced and full of pep. She wore tight-fitting clothes,
kept her short hair spiked with gel and was always offering a toothy grin lined with bright red
lipstick. The new student was tall, with strong shoulders, hands, disproportionate in their
smallness and stained with paint, protruding from an equally stained, shapeless, navy blue
quilted jacket, a triangle of a face, wide forehead tapering down to a small pointed chin. Her
hair fell thickly to her shoulders. She held her back and neck straight, as if she were
balancing a heavy basket on her head. Her seriousness, her concentration made me think of
a child faced with a difficult task.
"Welcome, I'm Emma, the teacher." I handed her a copy of the chapter we were working on.
She said nothing and I held my questions for her until after class, when the other students
would be gone. It's hard to sit in front of strangers and mouth a string of syllables that are
senseless and crude compared to the music of one's own language. To commit to words that
have no past, no resonance. "I am happy to have a new student," I said. Her response was a
sweet, gleaming smile that made me instantly like her. "I hope you will enjoy our class."
She turned toward the large window, which overlooked a small park. On the wet windowsill
three pigeons bobbed their heads, eating the popcorn Charlie, from Taipei, had put there.
The day before it snowed four inches in New York City and today the sun reflecting off the
snow filled the room with a stark white light. The girl's face flinched. She closed her eyes.
"It's too bright in here," I said and walked over to the window.
"No!" Esmeralda, from El Salvador, protested after I pulled the shade down halfway. "Is nice.
What I miss about my country is the sun."
"I miss." The new girl stopped, opened her eyes.
"What do you miss?" I asked after a moment. She shook her head. Did she not know the
meaning of the word? Or was it simply too difficult to continue?
"Let's put the chapter away for today and go over yesterday's homework." I wiped the
blackboard clean. "Jennifer, why don't you read yours out loud."
Toward the end of class I set a date for the Christmas party three weeks away and asked my
students to bring a dish typical of their country. "I'll bring lasagna," I said. Esmeralda
announced she preferred pizza.
"Would you like to bring something?" I asked the new girl. "The school will pay you back."
The truth was the teachers chipped in. "A little something?" She looked blankly at the
blackboard where I'd written down everyone's contribution. Jennifer translated in Cantonese.
The girl looked down at her hands. Jennifer, always eager to show off her knowledge, tried
Mandarin. The girl's head stayed down.
"That's all right. You don't have to bring anything. But please come. We'll have a good time."
She looked up, held her gaze on my face, studied it with what I took to be a curious, puzzled
look. Much later she told me that she was staring at the ghost of sadness sitting on my face. I
would discover that sadness was something we shared.
After class, I learned her name was An-Ling Huang.
Asian names are too hard for Americans to pronounce. I'm the granddaughter of immigrants
and I often wonder if my students aren't trying to keep their two identities apart. My Italian
grandmother refused to speak English, believing the harsh-sounding words would feast on
her brain and make her Italian memories disappear.
The newcomer sat next to Jennifer, my best student. They were a study in contrasts.
Jennifer, from Beijing, was small, moon-faced and full of pep. She wore tight-fitting clothes,
kept her short hair spiked with gel and was always offering a toothy grin lined with bright red
lipstick. The new student was tall, with strong shoulders, hands, disproportionate in their
smallness and stained with paint, protruding from an equally stained, shapeless, navy blue
quilted jacket, a triangle of a face, wide forehead tapering down to a small pointed chin. Her
hair fell thickly to her shoulders. She held her back and neck straight, as if she were
balancing a heavy basket on her head. Her seriousness, her concentration made me think of
a child faced with a difficult task.
"Welcome, I'm Emma, the teacher." I handed her a copy of the chapter we were working on.
She said nothing and I held my questions for her until after class, when the other students
would be gone. It's hard to sit in front of strangers and mouth a string of syllables that are
senseless and crude compared to the music of one's own language. To commit to words that
have no past, no resonance. "I am happy to have a new student," I said. Her response was a
sweet, gleaming smile that made me instantly like her. "I hope you will enjoy our class."
She turned toward the large window, which overlooked a small park. On the wet windowsill
three pigeons bobbed their heads, eating the popcorn Charlie, from Taipei, had put there.
The day before it snowed four inches in New York City and today the sun reflecting off the
snow filled the room with a stark white light. The girl's face flinched. She closed her eyes.
"It's too bright in here," I said and walked over to the window.
"No!" Esmeralda, from El Salvador, protested after I pulled the shade down halfway. "Is nice.
What I miss about my country is the sun."
"I miss." The new girl stopped, opened her eyes.
"What do you miss?" I asked after a moment. She shook her head. Did she not know the
meaning of the word? Or was it simply too difficult to continue?
"Let's put the chapter away for today and go over yesterday's homework." I wiped the
blackboard clean. "Jennifer, why don't you read yours out loud."
Toward the end of class I set a date for the Christmas party three weeks away and asked my
students to bring a dish typical of their country. "I'll bring lasagna," I said. Esmeralda
announced she preferred pizza.
"Would you like to bring something?" I asked the new girl. "The school will pay you back."
The truth was the teachers chipped in. "A little something?" She looked blankly at the
blackboard where I'd written down everyone's contribution. Jennifer translated in Cantonese.
The girl looked down at her hands. Jennifer, always eager to show off her knowledge, tried
Mandarin. The girl's head stayed down.
"That's all right. You don't have to bring anything. But please come. We'll have a good time."
She looked up, held her gaze on my face, studied it with what I took to be a curious, puzzled
look. Much later she told me that she was staring at the ghost of sadness sitting on my face. I
would discover that sadness was something we shared.
After class, I learned her name was An-Ling Huang.
THE PRICE OF SILENCE
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