In 1964, my family had just moved from Rio, where I spent the first five years of my life, to Lynnwood, Washington.
My report cards in kindergarden all said the same thing: "Naomi would be a fine student if she applied herself. She seems to spend a grea
(more)t deal of time daydreaming. It's like she is somewhere else."
It rained that entire year--or so it seemed. The kids at school mocked my accent and foreign ways. I was demoted from first grade to kindergarden. The Americans--that's how I thought--were the coldest people I had ever met. I was used to so much life, to great shouts of laughter, to strangers hugging me on the street. No one hugged me. The sun had vanished like it had never existed. My parents were having a marital crisis. My siblings were unhappy too. My family was like ice cubes in a tray. Inside and out, it was so cold. My heart ached for my country.
I did not apply myself because I was remembering Rio and I was afraid I would forget. (less)
