Cover letter: My moment is a reflection of what it felt like to be an outsider, especially, on the first day of school in a new country. Curious, nervous, and silently learning what belonging really means. It’s talking not just about language, but the invisible borders it creates between people. This narrative told from the pov of the author in younger years captures the innocence of a child and the thought process, going from personal experience and basic information to logical conclusions to make sense of the world and come to terms with reality and destroyed expectations. It also captures that quiet distance, how understanding doesn’t always come through words, but through the spaces between them, and how those spaces slowly teach you who you are. 

LLN: My Moment

Some memories in my mind are stored like a singular or multiple picture frame(s), with some invisible text explaining what’s happening. This one I remember like it was yesterday. It’s 8 in the morning, and I am late as usual, except this isn’t just any other day, it’s my first day of school, not just middle school but my first day of school in America. I’m precipitating slightly, feeling the weight of the bag on my back, a dark blue T shirt with the logo of my new school on it and brown(or khaki as my mother called it) pants, a uniform style unfamiliar to me. I walk into the classroom feeling a sense of nostalgia and wooziness, being led by a staff member, and the first thing I see… is exactly that of a classroom, but the feeling I got from it was entirely new. The brights were light, yet they felt dim at the same time. As I walked in I felt 22 pairs of eyes on me, that of seemingly 20 kids sitting across these triangular desks with round edges, and the 2 teachers in the front, making me feel more anxious. Although, I was excited at the same time at the notion of… well everything, it all seemed so strange and fresh. I could feel my heart beating, not loudly but enough for me to precipitate a little more and recognize this feeling. 

I sat down as soon as Ms.Kaur welcomed me, I don’t remember exactly what she said at the start but I do remember her voice and her leaning figure as she asked me, “What language do you speak, Muhammad?” I was confused but answered honestly, “I speak Urdu, Punjabi, a little Hindi and English.” “That’s great,” she answered and said a few sentences in Punjabi that I can’t really remember. I paid attention, as much as an 11 year old could, but was confused

why she was now speaking to me in Hindi, after all this was America. “What’s your name?” I asked the other boy at the desk. He didn’t respond and instead looked at the person next to him and said something I couldn’t understand. What I thought was me being ignored turned out to be not being understood by them–I realized later. I could only hear 3 people speaking English, the teachers and 1 boy, the friend I made that year, but he was on the other side of the classroom, not very encouraging. That question was slowly answered over the course of the next school year, as my pubescent mind started to grow and understand what had happened, what America was like or really what anything was beyond what I comprehended and could figure out through cartoons. I had been placed in a class of English language learners, which was basically for immigrant kids who weren’t proficient in English. I didn’t understand, I spoke English just fine so why, and the small premonition I had on that first day came to be real

You see every one of the kids except 1 spoke Spanish, and knew less than basic English. It created two problems, it made it difficult to communicate beyond even 2 sentences, but also it set me apart. As is with every society, there were social circles and as the only one who didn’t share something common with them it separated us. It wasn’t just basic communication, it was also a culture much of which I didn’t

understand. They weren’t mean, but every time I tried communicating and they spoke to each other in a language beyond my comprehension it made me curious and feel left out, which I was. It didn’t help that my understanding came from cartoons, which used the setting of rich private schools as I found out. I only made 1 real friend that year, which wasn’t sad but it certainly was an interesting experience. It wasn’t their fault or the teachers’, or the parents’, it’s more of one with human nature. I was from a different background, much more than the rest, but they had differences too, but I couldn’t learn more about them. They could talk about their backgrounds, families, countries, food, class, talk about how they don’t like the math teacher, what to play, ask about homework and come closer together, but with me we never really got past acquaintances. The reason was because I was too unfamiliar, the oddball, the unknown, outside the area of what they knew.

The disparity created between us wasn’t just about a difference of language it just stemmed from it. That first day showed me something bigger than school. Language is about what you share with others. It creates circles of belonging, and when you’re outside of that circle, the difference grows quickly. For me, it was a lesson in what it means to be an immigrant child in America—not that I couldn’t succeed in the classroom, but that success didn’t erase the weight of feeling different. The disparity between us was never really about English alone, but what came with it: culture, history, and connection.