Este es mi paìs

Do you remember in school when they used to make you do perspective portraits? How the teachers spent weeks making sure that you understood how our intellectual minds perceived the world. As my brother and I walked down the winding road, I couldn’t help but imagine this scene as a painting. Tall but skinny trees and fat, luscious green bushes blocking the way between you and miles of yellow fields, lining the narrowing road. I wish that then, in school, I had known about the marvels of fields, so I could paint this picture.

There are times when I miss Spain. It was a beautiful city, but honestly, it was more than a pretty face. The bright and bold buildings, the fluffy topped trees, the brilliant, blazing lights- it was all familiar. Canada has some incredible scenes but it will never measure up to the unimaginable streets of Barcelona. After all, Spain was home.

“Do you think that we’ll ever go back home?” asked Kemen. We always used to wish and dream about the day we could come to Ontario, but now we were wishing to go back. Looking into his tiny brown eyes that were so filled with hope I felt a wave of pity wash over me.

 “I don’t know” I replied, and that was the truth, I didn’t know if we would ever go back. We walked about another half mile before breaking the calm silence. “Isla, is this the right way?” I glanced around, stopping suddenly. We had passed a few houses but no street signs. It struck me like a bullet straight through the skull- we were lost and in a city that we had only been in for one month.

“I can fix this,” I told Keamen. Pulling us over to the side, I began scanning the scenery trying to determine any major indications of where we were. So far nothing but trees and fields along a slowly setting horizon. Totally and utterly lost in a world we didn’t know.

I knew that claiming we could walk home from the park alone was a bad idea. Luckily when we moved to America, our Dad gave us each a phone to use in emergencies. Moving from one country where nobody in our town had ever missed church on a Sunday to a province in another country where only 65% of the province was Christian was a little nerve-wracking. So, yes he was slightly worried and insisted on cell phones for us.

My mother arrived in wet sobs. Choking slightly, she cried “I’m so sorry you poor things got lost!” Cradling each of our faces in her hand she says “I’m so sorry mi amor por favor perdoname!” Which is Spanish for “I’m so sorry my love please forgive me”. We climbed into the cab of her car. Sailing off into the sunset.

From that day forward we were not permitted to leave any structure by ourselves. Not even school.

I was always the class clown because I never fit in anywhere else. In Spain, most of the schools in my area centred around art. Kids in my class always seemed so excited to learn the newest popular artist and see bold images of beautiful Barcelona. Math was my favourite subject but I wasn’t good at it. I wasn’t the brainiac or the art geek. The only way for me to be respected was by being ridiculously misbehaved. Otherwise, I would be ridiculously misfit.

“Okay, Okay. Let me take…..” Struggling between his broken English my Dad held a camera up to my face. Keaman’s eyes rolled far into his head as soon as he found the words “Picture! Aha!” Always, always positive my dad was. It took a lot for him to decide to move our family to Canada, Barcelona was his home sweet home. I remember him being so disappointed when I brought home a C- on my history exam in 4th grade because I was ‘fooling around with my friends’ during class. I will never forget how his face fell like a puppy dog in the rain. This was for him. “Smile!”, he sang as the camera shot off a bright flash of light. 

My mother packed my brother and I each a homemade Jamon and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I had never tried American sandwiches even though they were very popular with tourists in Spain. Saying goodbye to my parents at school, was the hardest and easiest thing I had ever done. I waved tearfully, but then the second I turned around I was filled with joy. I needed to do this. For Keamen, for Mom, for grandma back in Spain and mostly for my father.

Rushing down the halls and bumping into people on the way brought a rush to my head. No one said anything about it, in fact, they were saying sorry. Canadians. I could not be late for my first class on my first day of 8th grade. I hung my backpack on a hook as quickly as I could manage in the hustling, loud hallways. Grabbing every learning material I had and bracing myself I took the first steps into the classroom.

It was like a baby taking their first steps and officially becoming a toddler. So magical and life-changing. This was the start of a new, more mature, chapter of my life.

The classroom smelt like fresh cedar shavings on a crisp autumn afternoon. The wind rushed through open windows creating a cool breeze and a slight hum. The air felt fresh and relaxed like no one was judging. And it looked…...empty.

A woman in her late twenties to early thirties looked up from the largest desk I had ever seen. She smiled, the kind of smile that made you feel instantly safe. Like a hot coffee on a chilly day. A mother's smile. “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice brimming with compassion.

Slowly and quietly I asked, “Is this Ms. Konp’s class?”. She tapped a white sign on her desk and nodded. My nerves washed away when she said “Please take a seat”. This was my teacher and my year.

We talked for a while, while she prepared lesson plans and seating arrangements. She was so easy to talk to that I hardly even noticed when there were periods of silence. I was right too when I thought she was a mother, it turns out she became a mother when she was 17. She had a picture of her son, Bowie, on her desk. She laughed at how my brother always wore his shirts backwards because he was afraid that the ‘Forward fumpies’ (a made-up street gang) were going to get him. Finally, I told her my story about coming to Canada, but then kids started to come in. Each with a friend or friends linked to their sides, chatting noisily. 

Slinking down in my seat as Ms. Konp started to introduce herself and the school, I wished I could disappear. None of the first questions she asked made sense so I couldn’t answer. What did you learn last year? Who was your teacher? Did anyone read any books on summer vacation? I felt invisible, like an old poster on a memory board. There but not present.

My mood flipped inside out though when she started the first lesson. “Today we’re going to talk about Spain” the word seeped through my nervous system like a bolt of electricity. “Now, does anyone know what the capital of Spain is?” I have raised my hand many times before but this time was quicker than ever. And the best part was that I didn’t care what the people around me thought. I wanted to do this. She calls my name and my answer is out in fractions of a millisecond. “Madrid.” I wasn’t just doing this for my family, I was doing this for me. A second chance.