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Volume 23: Community
20 June 2023
By a Year 8 pupil at All Saints Catholic Voluntary Academy, Sheffield
A short story about going to school as an immigrant to the UK in the 20th century.
Beep, beep, beep. I was awoken by the annoying repetitive sound of my alarm. I begrudgingly crawledout of my bed (which I shared with 3 others) and got ready for my school day. I cautiously trod down the stairs, careful not to wake the others with the awful creaking sound of the stairs.
The carpet was florescent yellow but had been tainted by grime and dust. The walls were moist due to the humidity, and the air was thick with dust. There was little to no light in the house and rodents occasionally crawled around. But it wasn’t our fault; it was hard getting a decent house when you’re an immigrant; we’re treated as if we aren’t human. The only houseswe can manage to get are tenements (which are usually overcrowded and poorly built). If one person gets sick,we all do;it spreadslike the plague, but this is the only place we haveso I need to be respectful; I'd rather have a dirty house than not have one at all.
I quickly slipped on my shoes and quietly left the house, saying my goodbyes in a whisper. Then it was time for the thing I dreaded most; school.
When I arrived at school, I kept my head down, avoiding the insults and glares that came my way. Tears threatened my eyes and there was a lump in my throat that wouldn’t disappear. As soon as I stepped into the room, I put up a façade and hoped the day would get better.
Once I entered the classroom, I heard students laughing with each other and saying things that I could only guess were words as they sounded like pure gibberish to me; it was English. The school had placed me in an English-only classroom and didn’t supply me with anyway to communicate with others. The lessons focused on three things: writing, reading, and arithmetic. I wasn’t able to do two of those things. The school was neglectful,and my culture wasn’t respected in any form, and I was forced to follow their culture. In addition, I had to be in the same class as children below my age, but there was nothing I could do about it; all the newcomers were placed in Year 2 regardless of age, especially if you were an immigrant.
At the end of the school day, the older years would sneer and mock me, but there was nothing I could do about it, at least it was better than before. Filled with sadness, I would walk back home, only for the cycle to repeat again.
Beep, beep, beep....
Category: Creative Writing
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