Painful Remembrance…
by Angela Villarreal Ratliff

Sobbing silently, I tightly gripped my older sister’s hand as she led me down the long corridor of Theodore Roosevelt Elementary School in Indio, California. It was the late 1950’s, and at five years of age I was about to enter the frightening dimension of a new world: first grade. Since my birthdate was in November, and because my older siblings had taught me my numbers and English alphabet — so I could somewhat read a few simple words — I was able to skip kindergarten.


Depositing me at the first grade room, my sister quickly disappeared, scurrying on to her sixth grade classroom. Missing the warmth of Elodia’s hand, I nevertheless obeyed the teacher’s instructions to sit at my assigned desk. The cold wooden seat offered little comfort as I now longed for the arms and soothing voice of Mamá. “No tengas miedo, Angelita. Don’t be afraid, Angelita,” I could almost hear her whisper. Soundless tears soon dried on my sticky cheeks as I waited patiently for the next turn of events. The look on many of the other kids’ faces mirrored my own distress.


The teacher’s voice addressed her roomful of dazed children — all shades of white, brown, black. It didn’t take long before I realized that the sounds emanating from her mouth were from another world. It was not the Spanish that filled the walls of home where I grew up along with nine other siblings. Although a few of her words sounded a little familiar — like the English my older brothers and sisters often spoke at home — panic set in. For now, the storm of English sounds hitting my ears was a rain of darts, and I felt like such an unwelcome foreigner. I sat there — sweaty palms, racing heart, …and needing to go pee.

Mrs. Miller’s smile and blonde doughnut hair appeared friendly, but her vague speech was like vinegar to my ears. I could not just bolt out the door, like my feet were trying to make me do, so I scanned the room for a calming spot to gaze upon. I noticed a colorful bulletin board displaying a farm scene: large red barn, cutouts of farm animals, and a dungareed farmer on a green tractor who seemed to gaze down on me. Since I was from a family of migrant workers, who picked seasonal crops, the farm scene offered an odd sense of familiarity: reaching out across the unnatural cultural barrier I was experiencing. Somehow, I read the caption on the bulletin wall: LIFE ON THE FARM. I felt grateful for my summer instruction when Elodia insisted on teaching me my ABC’s. The vivid colors of the construction paper cutouts of the bulletin board calmed me. I grew accustomed to the four walls of the room — where I was to spend countless hours away from home; however, it would feel more like a sentence than a privilege.


In that long productive school year and ones that followed, I gradually became an excellent student. I’m not sure how long it took or even how it happened, but I acquired English in a forced sort of way — being that we were punished with a slap to the hand whenever we spoke Spanish in the classroom or school grounds. I recall two Mexican boys returning from the principal’s office sobbing loudly as they slid back to their seats. Corporal punishment was a regular practice at that time, and paddling was administered for continuously breaking the “no Spanish” rule. Forbidden to speak my home language, I understood the message: Spanish was not acceptable, and neither was I, if I chose to speak it.


A newfound feeling of shame towards Spanish and my Mexican culture made me eager to blend in with my Anglo peers. In an effort to be accepted by the dominant society, I complied with school rules. Then, determined to speak English only, I eventually forgot how to speak Spanish altogether as the school years progressed. By the time I graduated from high school I could no longer hold a clear conversation with either of my Spanish-speaking parents. My older brothers and sisters became translators for me and my three younger sisters (who were also losing their ability to speak Spanish). I acquired a mixed sense of pride and shame for being able to speak English without the accent that many of my Mexican American friends so shamefully and helplessly possessed. Back then, a spoken accent was erroneously linked to being a sign of low intelligence. It was an age when ‘English-only I.Q. Tests’ were regularly administered to students for placement and tracking. Those who failed to pass those tests were permanently labeled “retarded” in their cumulative file. When the word got around of their test failure, these children were cruelly teased by their peers. I was terrified of ever being labeled as mentally retarded; so I felt great pride in my speaking like an “American-born citizen” and sounding “smart” to my teachers, but ashamed for turning my back on my own people—really on a part of myself I would later find I could never deny.


It was not until many years later, as a college student at San Jose State University, that I came to the realization that being bilingual and bicultural were valuable assets. I applied for a minor in Mexican American Graduate Studies, a newly established college course of study. In an effort to regain my knowledge and understanding of my ethnic roots, I took Spanish courses to relearn my mother tongue, and delved into the study of Hispanic history and culture, trying to make up for lost time. Alas, the shame I had acquired over too many earlier years would not be easily erased. It took a long time for me to obtain a new sense of pride toward my ancestry and ethnicity, a pride that gradually replaced the hollow that had accompanied me far too long.


I became an elementary bilingual teacher, teaching the lower grades for fourteen years. During my career, I lost count of how often I recognized the confused look on faces of my non-English speaking students as they entered my classroom for the first time. Their dazed faces served to remind me of my own traumatic first day of school. Unlike my own fearful initial school days, my students always had the comfort of being able to hear and speak both Spanish and English in their classroom; and they were never shamed into denying or abandoning their home language or rich heritage.


(This essay first appeared in the 2001 Coyote Review e-anthology)
Anjela Villarreal Ratliff
Austin, Texas 78729