When I was young, I lived in the Brighton Park neighborhood of Chicago, but we moved to the Midway neighborhood when I was in second grade. It was a difficult transition for me because the school I used to attend in Brighton Park had a bilingual program, and we would mostly learn in Spanish.
But once we moved to Midway, I had to walk into a classroom that only spoke English. It was very difficult not being able to communicate with others, so I wouldn’t talk much. During recess I would just stare at other kids and see what they were doing and try to understand what they were saying. But I was only able to catch on to a word or two from the whole conversation.
I would always get horrible grades because my teacher only spoke English, and I didn’t know how to spell anything. I never did homework because I didn’t understand it or know how to write English. We had tests every week, and that was the longest time period of the school day for me because I would see everyone else writing while I just stared blankly at my paper. I think the teacher thought I just wasn’t trying, but in reality I had no clue how to spell anything. I was also very embarrassed of not writing it correctly.
My dad used to always help me with my schoolwork from kindergarten to first grade when we lived in Brighton Park, but then I remember him saying I had to figure it out since he couldn’t help anymore because of the language barrier. I always appreciated his efforts because he was a single dad raising a daughter all by himself, but I hated always feeling dumb and always getting low grades. Especially when it was report card pick-up day, and my grades looked low all the time.
Overall, the Midway neighborhood seemed nice; it seemed more taken care of than our previous one. The lawns were always done, and houses looked better. There were also block parties every year that were lots of fun.
My childhood friends had also moved a couple blocks away shortly after we moved to Midway. My dad also liked that the school was two blocks away from our house, and it was considered a safe neighborhood
I didn’t miss my old neighborhood because I had everything I had in the new neighborhood. My only struggle was with school, but I think it was for the best that I had to learn more English anyway.
This essay is one in a series of Columbia College students’ reflections on how class and race put a mark on where they grew up. They answered these questions: What should people know about the place where I grew up in? What are the stories I tell about my life there?
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