Finding My Way

Names have been changed.

I arrived in America when I was 9 years old, traveling thousands of miles from my motherland, Bangladesh. I barely spoke any English; simple phrases like “hello” and “my name is” were the extent of my vocabulary. Stepping into such a foreign place felt like I was constantly drowning in a sea of words I couldn’t understand.

My 3rd grade teacher, recognizing my struggle early on, asked the class, “Who here knows how to speak in Bengali?”

That’s when I noticed her, one of the only girls raising her hand. Neha blended in among all the other students, already assimilated into something I so feared to fully dive into — the American culture.

Ms. Emma asked Neha if she’d be willing to help me keep up.

She agreed.

I felt relieved. Finally, I thought, someone to help bridge the gap between me and the world. She would be my voice when I had none.

Neha, who had dark black hair and was one of the quietest girls in the class, helped translate what teachers told us to do and gave me directions on how to complete classwork.

Slowly, I found myself asking her for help with more and more things. 

But after a few weeks, she became distant, less patient. She grew annoyed when I asked questions. She’d rush through explanations and stopped waiting for me to catch up. It was disappointing, and I didn’t want to keep relying on her, but she was one of the only people I could count on.

Facing Rejection

Most days, school was frustrating, because I didn’t understand a lot of what was going on. I felt so alienated, between the language barrier and different social norms. For instance, during lunch, everyone around me ate with utensils, which I wasn’t used to. In Bangladesh, we ate with our hands for most meals. I didn’t want people to notice my differences so I started to shrink myself. Keeping myself hidden felt more safe. 

I didn’t want people to notice my differences so I started to shrink myself. Keeping myself hidden felt more safe

But recess was the one time I didn’t have to worry about not understanding what the teacher was saying or feeling out of place. It was just kids playing, running, laughing, and having fun. And I wanted to be a part of that.

One day I spotted Neha; my friend. Or at least, I thought she was. She was standing with one of her friends near the playground. Without thinking much of it, I walked up, smiling, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve.

Hopefully, I asked “Tumra ki kheltaso?” 

What are you guys playing?

I assumed I could join them. But she barely looked at me.

“Amra kichu khelatsi na” she said, her tone sharp, dismissive.

We’re not playing anything.

I quickly glanced at her friend, waiting for her to say something, anything, but she too, just stood there. She wouldn’t even meet my eyes. 

“Oh,” I murmured, my stomach tightening.

They turned away, falling back into conversation like I had never been there. Like I was invisible.

I stood still for a moment, the playground suddenly feeling too big, too empty. The wind stung against my face, or maybe that was just the feeling settling in my chest. I swallowed hard and felt that I should go somewhere else, anywhere away from here. But with nowhere else to go, my feet hesitated, drawing me back to her, whether she found it annoying or not.

Then one day, my dad shared something that would break apart the slightest expectation I had of me and Neha becoming friends. Neha’s mom had asked him if I could stop “bothering” her daughter. I froze in place, as if the words had knocked the air out of me. I wasn’t trying to be a burden, I was just trying to understand, to keep up, to not feel so lost in a place where I could barely communicate. 

This rejection made me feel more lost than I already was. Frankly, I didn’t want to rely on her, but I felt I had to. All I could think of was, what am I supposed to do now?

Finding My Own Way

I didn’t have someone obligated to help me anymore. But that didn’t mean I had an excuse to stop trying. It felt like I was ripping off a bandage and going into the world on my own this time.

And while it was difficult, it pushed me to find other ways to learn. My older cousins, who grew up here and speak English fluently, helped me understand my homework. My uncle, who’s been here for decades, gave me advice. He told me to watch the news and to ask for help when I needed it. Slowly, I started to learn how to find my own voice. 

The following year, I was placed into an ESL class. Every morning, I arrived before classes started to work on improving my English and better understanding my class material.

In 4th grade, less than a year after I’d moved here, one of my classmates said, “Wow, you learned English so quickly, it sounds really good.” Hearing her say that made me realize how far I’d come. Maybe I didn’t really need anyone’s help anymore. 

I started to look for more people to connect to, mostly people who were Bengali, but this time it didn’t feel like I needed them to help me. Instead, I could just be a friend to them. This gave me a sense of accomplishment and relief.

I started to make more friends and my grades also improved. I passed my reading tests with flying colors and eagerly picked out new books to read. I finally felt like maybe I did belong here, in this school, this country.

In 6th grade, I met Tara, a recent immigrant from Nepal. She was outgoing and extroverted and, by then, I was too. We talked about Hindi movies we both knew from childhood and made beaded bracelets after school. She made me feel like I finally had someone I could call my friend.

Making Peace With the Past

Neha started to become a part of a past I didn’t want to recollect. I didn’t want a reminder of the helplessness I felt, after all the progress I made.

Fitting in and finding my place here is still an ongoing journey. But at least now, instead of relying on others to speak for me, I’ve learned to use my own voice. I’m more confident in taking up space rather than trying to shrink myself.

Recently, I ran into Neha again at a college prep program. Seeing her brought back the hurt and frustration I’d felt as a kid who just needed a little bit of help. 

But it also reminded me how far I’ve come. I realized she hadn’t necessarily been cruel; she had just been a kid, like me. And here we were, years later, both of us accepted in the same competitive college prep program. Being there, with her, made me realize that I truly wasn’t behind anymore. I hadn’t been for years.