“First Day, First Frame”
Some memories feel stuck in place,
Like picture frames with captions only I can read.
This one is 8 a.m.,
Me being late again,
Except this wasn’t a normal Tuesday—
It was my first day of school in America.
My shirt felt too tight,
My khaki pants unfamiliar,
My bag heavy enough to make each step feel unsure.
When I walked into the classroom,
Twenty-two pairs of eyes turned toward me.
The lights were bright
But somehow dim at the same time.
I sat down after Ms. Kaur welcomed me,
Her voice strangely soft and familiar as she asked,
“What language do you speak, Muhammad?”
I told her the list—
Urdu, Punjabi, some Hindi, English.
She smiled
And responded in Punjabi
And then Hindi,
Which confused me.
Wasn’t this supposed to be America?
I tried speaking to the boys next to me,
But they didn’t answer.
Later I’d realize it wasn’t rudeness—
They just didn’t understand me.
Only one kid in the room spoke English,
But he sat on the opposite side of the classroom,
Too far to help me feel grounded.
I soon learned this was an English Language Learners class
For kids who weren’t fluent.
Except… I thought I was fluent.
I understood cartoons.
Didn’t that count?
But nearly everyone else spoke Spanish,
Shared Spanish jokes,
Spanish shows,
Spanish everything.
I had none of that.
I had subtitles in my head
And a quiet seat in the corner.
No one bullied me,
But I was easy to miss.
That was its own kind of isolation.
And slowly I learned
That language isn’t just words—
It’s belonging.
It’s whether people see you
As someone worth talking to.
That first day taught me
That fluency doesn’t guarantee acceptance,
And being an immigrant means carrying things
Others never see.
The lights were bright,
But they never felt fully warm.

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