Tomatoes

It is 2019, and you are from Somalia or Colombia, Vietnam or Uzbekistan, Togo or Tibet. You came to Minnesota to escape violence, to work, or to join family. Before coming here, you lived in a refugee camp or a house, in a crowded city or an isolated village. You completed college or elementary school or no school.

A family member or coworker or the internet tells you about the school for learning English. You ask your spouse or cousin or friend to make the call for the registration appointment. You will have to fill out forms, they say. You will have to take a test. A reading test in English on the computer.

There is so much you can’t read here: emails from your child’s teacher, the lease for your apartment, the instructions you bring home from the doctor. You don’t need a test to tell you that. Put me in the lowest level, you say. I want to start at the beginning. The test will tell you your level, they say.

The test is so difficult that you’re sure they will put you in the lowest class after all.

You’re wrong. You will be in high intermediate basic education, they say. The middle level of English. You will be in Teacher Amy’s class, they say. Room 342. Class starts at 9 am.   You don’t know enough English to be in the middle level, you say. The test put you in that level, they say. The test decides. You don’t decide.

It’s one bus ride from your apartment to the school. Your cousin has explained the route and how to walk to the school from the bus stop, which you have memorized. You get to the bus stop early, grateful for your big coat, hat, and gloves. You are enormous, but you’re not cold.

You arrive at school a little early, surprised at all the cars. Before, when you came for registration, the parking lot had been empty. The stairway was empty. The classrooms were empty. You couldn’t imagine so many people coming to learn English. Some students gather to wait for the creaking elevator, but you take the crowded stairs. Your knee is not bothering you today.

Your teacher is in the classroom when you get there. Welcome, she says and finds your name on her computer. She asks how to say it, and you are impressed at how close she comes. Better than anyone at work. Better than the people at registration. You relax a tiny bit.

You can sit anywhere, she says. You look around the room. The walls are a scuffed beige, and the tables are plastic made to look like wood. Chairs crowd each table. Too close together, you think. All along one wall are windows that don’t open. The dead flies on the window ledge must have hoped they did. The front wall is covered by a white board and a bulletin board where the teacher put up colorful photos of bees and flowers and some other things you don’t know the English words for. Soon, you hope. The rest of the walls are covered with maps.

The USA you recognize. That shape is familiar. Fifty states. And one map is the whole world. You can see your country, yellow on this map, surrounded by orange and green and purple neighbors. But the other maps, you don’t have any idea.

The teacher sees you looking. That one is Minnesota. And this one is our suburb. See? This is where we are. You sit under the map of Minnesota, in the middle of the room, but toward the back. A good spot to watch and listen, you think.

The teacher leaves to go make copies, and more students start arriving. They already know each other, know where they will sit. You think you must be in someone’s spot, but nobody is upset. Everyone greets you with a smile. They don’t look nervous like you, though a man who sits in the back near the window doesn’t say anything to anybody, and another woman keeps her hand over her mouth when she talks, like she’s trying to keep the wrong words from spilling out. Some people sit with classmates who speak their language, but most students scatter.

“Are you new student?” a woman in a burgundy hijab asks as she sits down across from you.

You nod.

“It is good, this class.”  

You nod. You want to cover your mouth to keep your English mistakes inside, but instead you smile at her.

You look around your table. A slight young man checks his phone, a stout balding man turns and chats with a student at another table, a tired middle aged woman falls into her chair, and a woman who could be a grandmother tucks her scarf into her coat sleeve, places a notebook in front of her, and gets out a mechanical pencil. 

The teacher bursts back into the room with an armful of copies. Every table is full now.

Good morning everyone. We have a new student today. She tries and comes close to pronouncing your name correctly. She knows it’s not perfect. Can you say it for me one more time? I want to get it right. Everyone is looking at you, and every shred of English leaves you. But you know how to say your name correctly. Even in this new country. The teacher tries a few more times, each time coming closer. You like the way she tries. You smile.

Don’t worry if you don’t understand everything today. It’s okay. I’ll talk a lot, but you’ll also get to talk. Even if it’s hard, it will get easier. I promise.

You want to believe her. That life will get easier. That English is the way to make it happen.

Why don’t we do some quick questions and answers before we start today? Three questions: What is your name? Where are you from? How long have you lived in Minnesota? The teacher writes them on the board. You can answer, My name is ______. I’m from _________. I have lived in Minnesota for _____.  This last one is in present perfect tense, which we’ll practice later. Okay. I’ll start with Abdi, then Abdi will ask Jorge. Jorge will ask Sokhom, Sokhom will ask Oksana, and we’ll go around the room.

Abdi, what is your name? The class laughs.

Partway around the room the teacher reminds everyone to use ‘is.’ My name IS Amy. The question uses ‘is,’ too. What IS your name? Let’s practice.” You are careful to say IS very loudly when it is your turn. Then you say your country and your number. Four. Four months.

You remember how your name used to be known in your country, rolling sweet from the mouths of friends and strangers. No one mangled it. Neighbors knew it because your business was facilitating money transfers from overseas. Wired money from Minnesota became cash in their hands. That’s why when your neighborhood was destroyed, you knew to come here. But you miss hearing your name—perfect— in other people’s mouths. You think now that perhaps you can’t enjoy life here without that.

Rathana is the fourth student to have trouble saying the contraction ‘I’m.’ The teacher has the class practice ah-ee-mm. Very slow, then faster. When the class gets it right the teacher cheers and claps. Yes! She is so happy when students understand. You want to make her happy. Maybe you will feel a little happy, too. 

Teacher Amy points at the agenda on the board: Picture from the News. She talks about it, but you don’t understand. Sadia and Oksana ask for meanings of specific words, while you haven’t even figured out what is in the picture. Maybe an office? You panic. How will you succeed in this place if you can’t understand the news? In your language, You used to read national economic forecasts, local weather forecasts.  You knew how things got done in your village or your neighborhood. Here you don’t see your neighbors. You just hear their loud music through the walls. You don’t know how to ask them to be quiet. You find your country again on the world map, then glance at the Minnesota map. Back and forth until you are calm again.

Okay. Time for conversation. I’m going to give you a number, and you need to go to the table with that number. She points to a number on your table, which you haven’t noticed.

What do you need to do, everyone?

Remember our numbers!

You can remember your cousin’s cell phone number, calculate the exchange rate on your currency against the dollar, recite PI to ten digits, but you forget your number as soon as she says it.

Go to your tables. You wander around the room while everyone else takes a seat.

What was your number? You shake your head. Well, don’t worry. You can join this group right here. A young woman in tight jeans gestures to the chair next to her and smiles.

Okay. Here is the conversation topic for today: Talk about your boss now or in the past. Some words you might use are friendly, patient, and flexible. Or unfriendly, impatient and strict.

You don’t remember any of these new people’s names. The young woman next to you says she is Ana. She asks your name and tries to pronounce it. She is not close. You write it for her, and show her. She still can’t say it, but she copies it into her notebook as if it is important information that she wants to remember. You like her for that. She asks where you are from and you remember to use IS. “My from IS ___.” She looks confused, so you go to the world map and point to your country. She nods. “My from Mexico,” she says, and you are proud that you remembered IS, and she didn’t. 

A large woman in a brown hijab and matching skirt named Amina talks about working in a hospital. At least, that’s what you think she says. She speaks very fast.

Remember that everybody needs to talk. Nobody just sits and listens. Teacher Amy is standing by your table. You wonder if she means you.

“How about you?” Amina says to an older man with grey hair and glasses.

The teacher is happy. Very good, Amina. Everyone try that. How about you?

The man with glasses says he likes his boss at Amazon. A woman with gold earrings says she is the boss at home with her kids. Ana says that her boss at a restaurant is not flexible because he won’t let her switch shifts. She turns to you. “How about you?”

Your English has deserted you, but you think you should say something about work. Last month you started a job at a fast food restaurant. It isn’t the one close to your apartment. You have to take the bus there, too. From this school, you’ll need to take two buses to get there. You worry you’ll be late. Buses in this city are rare, not like in your country, where they are everywhere, rattling as if trying to shake off passengers.

If you are late, your child-boss will be angry again. He is the manager, though his pale skin is covered in acne, and his hair is as greasy as the French fries. He enjoys being angry, making threats, causing misery. You can tell he is angry when the skin on the back of his neck darkens to the same purple as the largest boil on his face. When he is older, his face will be pitted with scars more visible than the scars you carry on your body.

You have mostly avoided his anger, but last week it was your turn. It was something about slicing the tomatoes, though you can’t understand English when it is shouted. But he was gesturing to your work, which was tomatoes. Tomatoes are for people with the least English. You were silent, frozen with fear. Were you fired? You asked the person on fries after the manager walked away. Because fries are for more English. They said— slowly so you could understand— “He asked why you don’t speak English.”

How silly, you think. You don’t speak English because you grew up speaking something else, and you didn’t learn it in school, or enough of it when you were able to go to school, and nobody can master a language in four months. The pimply manager would never be able to speak your language in four months. Besides, before anything else, you had to find work. Your family needs money. Does that boy think you can learn English by magic?

But here you are in English class with no magic, and the whole table is looking at you. “How about you?”

You try to think of something to say about work. Tomatoes. You use that word every day. It’s a question you ask when you come to work. Tomatoes? And it’s the answer the child-boss gives you every day. Tomatoes. That’s what you say to the group at your table. Tomatoes.

They are confused. “My boss tomatoes,” you say. You attempt the name of the fast food restaurant, but that doesn’t help.

The people at your table look at you with compassion. They know you’re stuck, and they’ll try to help you say something, anything comprehensible in English. Maria asks if you are saying you like to eat tomatoes. You shake your head. The man with glasses asks if you sold tomatoes in a store in your country. You shake your head again. Amina asks if you are talking about the future. Next year. She gestures outward… A garden?

You had a garden in your country, big enough to harvest vegetables for your family. And you kept a few goats, too, for the milk. You glance outside. So far in Minnesota you have seen the trees turn brown and bare, the daylight weaken, and the ground disappear under snow. Surely nothing as sun-thirsty as tomatoes could grow here. You shake your head again.

“My boss very—” You make an angry face. Everyone smiles and relaxes. You have done it. Been understood. Conversation is finished, and you leave these strangers to go back to your seat next to Carlos, across from Sadia. They already feel like home.

Teacher Amy is back at the board. She points to the conversation question. Okay. You talked about this question. Now we write. Remember, if you can say it in English, you can write it. Your spelling and grammar won’t be perfect, but that’s okay right now.

Everyone starts writing. Oksana seems to do it easily, and Sadia asks her how to spell ‘because.’ Rathana copies down the question. Jorge strokes his phone as if it will transfer the words he needs through his fingertips to his pencil, and Carlos holds his phone under the table, typing something fast. You type fast, too, in your language: 

My boss is very young and insecure. I think that’s why he acts in such an aggressive manner toward his older employees. He knows that we can’t understand the worst of what he says, only the tone. He also knows that we need to keep our jobs, so we won’t quit. I hope to learn enough English to have a different boss someday.

You are just about to translate it to English, when the teacher says, Oh, I forgot to say, No Phones. It’s important to use the English that you know, not what Translate tells you. First, it’s not always correct, and second, you need to practice using the English already in your brain. It’s hard, but not impossible.

You toss your phone onto the table, guilty. Without it, you write:

             My boss IS impatient. He IS unfriendly. He IS children. He IS loud noisy of                          tomatoes. He IS red. He IS strict. I hope new boss.

Writing time is finished. You hand your paper to the teacher, ashamed, but the teacher isn’t angry like your child-boss. She smiles and reminds you to put your name at the top of the paper. She is ready to move on.

I’m so excited. Remember what I said we’re going to learn about?

“Story,” says a man sitting by the teacher’s desk who is still wearing his big coat.

Right, Minh. History. Say it with me. Hi-sto-ry. The history of this place we call the US. Does anybody know when we should start?

Students murmur answers. Thirteen Colonies. Constitution. Declaration of Independence.

Some of you probably took the citizenship test already, right? Those are good answers for the test. But that was when European Americans started this government. What about before that?

The teacher makes a timeline on the board. She marks one spot Europeans. Then she starts drawing the line to the left, the past. She gets to the edge of the board and pretends to keep drawing past the bulletin board. To the door. Out the door.

That’s when the history of this place begins. Way before the Declaration of Independence. Who lived here before the Europeans came?

Nobody shouts out an answer. They don’t want to risk it. Amina finally says, “Native Americans.”

Yes. The first people who lived here are often called Native Americans. But it was Europeans who named this place America. When they came, people were already living here. Does anybody know what language they spoke?

You can tell this is a trick, but a young woman in a yellow t-shirt chirps, “English.”

That’s a good guess, because English is spoken here now. But English comes from England. Can somebody point to England on the map? Right. It’s part of Europe. It was the Europeans who brought English. They started the government that we have now, and that’s why you have to learn English. But Native people spoke many different languages before that.

The teacher explains that before Minnesota was part of the US, two different Native groups, or tribes, lived here. You listen to a recording of the Dakota language. You can’t understand it, but it settles into your ears easier than English, and you wish Dakota was the language you had to learn to live here.

Now Native people speak both English and their tribal languages. But for a long time, Native children were sent away from their families to schools where they couldn’t use their language or practice their religion.

Some of the mothers in the classroom gasp.

Languages were lost at the boarding schools, but now there are schools where children use those languages again.

The teacher plays a video of a classroom where children are being taught in the Dakota language you heard before. They look a little like your children, and you wonder how they’re doing in their classrooms right now, being taught in English. They already know more of this new language than you do, and soon they’ll be fluent while you are not. They will outgrow you in this new place before you are ready, and maybe they won’t need to be taken away to lose their culture. The only thing you’ll be able to say about it is, “tomatoes.”

The Dakota people tell stories about their past. They say that they have always been in the place where the two rivers come together. Do you know where that is? It’s not far. Teacher Amy points to the place on the Minnesota map.

Okay. Now we’re going to look at an important animal to the Dakota people. She goes back to the projector on her desk to show a picture of a massive, shaggy-headed creature unlike anything you have ever seen. She calls it a bison. You look it up, but there is no word for it in your language.

The Dakota people used this animal for food and clothing and even houses. There used to be millions and millions of bison on this land. She shows a picture of many bison.

Here’s another question. Native people used to live all over America. Where do they live now?

Silence. You tense, fearing the answer.

OK. This table, come with me to the hallway. The hallway is Europe. Stay there until I tell you to come in. You guys at this table are Native people. When I come from the hall and tell you to move over, what do you do? The closest student gets up and stands by the wall.

Right. You move. Or you might say no and fight me. Or maybe you get sick from me and die. The students leave the table as she points to them.

She calls the students from the hallway, and together they say, “Move over,” to every table.

 Now who has all the land?

The Europeans!

Right. All of you who moved from your tables, you are going to be at one table now. The people from the hallway get everything else.

She gestures to the table by the trash can.

Americans call these little pieces of land reservations. Try to say that. 

She shows a map of Minnesota reservations. There are about a dozen small patches of land scattered around the state, most in the north.

Native people live on these reservations, where they have their own governments, but they also live in cities. They are your neighbors.

The class reads a story about bison on computers. It takes you a long time to figure out the new words. You only have time to answer four of the six questions at the end, and you get one of them wrong. You panic, but remember that Sadia, who speaks well, got three wrong, too. And Oksana, who got them all right, struggles to speak in class. And Jorge hasn’t spoken all day. You are in the right place.

It’s time for grammar. Present perfect, like at the beginning of class. Teacher Amy reminds everyone that it is used for something that started in the past and is still happening. She makes a dot on the board and an arrow going forward. The dot is when the action started. And we can use the word ‘for’ to measure the time. If I say,“I have lived in Minnesota for twenty years,” you know that I moved here twenty years ago, and that I still live here. She hands out a short worksheet where you need to choose the correct verb.

     1. Native people lived / have lived here for 30,000 years.

     2. Bison lived / have lived here for 5000 years.

     3. European Americans lived / have lived here for 500 years.

     4. Stories say the Dakota people lived / have lived in Minnesota forever.

     5. I lived / have lived in Minnesota for _____ years.

You circle have lived five times and fill in zero for the years you have lived in Minnesota.

At 12:30, class is over. Students shove papers into bags, zip up coats, locate gloves. You glance at your country on the world map, and then at the map of Minnesota. You’ll sit between the two places again tomorrow. Sadia will sit across from you. Carlos will sit next to you.

You make your way down the stairs to the parking lot. You’re surprised by how fast the school clears out. You walk to the bus stop and take two buses to work. You’re not early, but you’re not late.

You find the child-boss sitting in a booth, staring at a paper filled with numbers.

“Good morning,” you say before he can speak. “Ah-ee-mm tomatoes today?” You have never been so confident. You’re proud of your I’m. It’s an I’m that would make the teacher clap with delight.

The child-boss blinks. No. Not today. I’m putting you on fries. Do you think you can handle that?

You nod. “Yes. Ah-ee-mm fries.”