Packed, shipped, and emptied, again

[France-California]

All five of us piled into our “super shuttle,” a car that I was bizarrely fascinated by. To anyone else it was a nondescript blue van, with writing painted on it, but that was irrelevant to me because I could not read. What stood out to me were the white pegasus wings painted on the front of it. The van looked magical, and I felt very calm as we headed to our new home. The air coming through the open windows did not feel like September air; it was warm and dry. Something about it felt fake to me. As we drove, I looked out at the sea of houses. My dad pointed to the flat hills that bordered the highway and said that they were known as the golden hills. I did not question him, but to me they looked like burnt grass in desperate need of water.  

My parents enrolled my sister and me at the International School of the Peninsula (ISTP) in Palo Alto. I had two teachers: my primary teacher, Jean-Baptiste, taught most of the subjects, which were all in French, but I also had an English teacher who taught us to read and write in English. I can’t recall her name, but I vividly remember that she lived on a houseboat. I can picture one of my favorite first grade books with “Brooks” written across the back in black sharpie and something whispers inside my head that might be it - Mrs. Brooks. In France, I had been “the American” and it felt good to feel like everyone else for a change. We were all neither French nor American, and we were all okay with that. Besides the fact that we were only in first grade, it seemed that most of us recognized this was special. Sadly, my one year at ISTP was the only time I ever felt that my experiences were shared, at least in part, by almost everyone in my class.  

At ISTP, I became best friends with Estelle. I spent almost all of my time with her. Her mom was Mexican and her dad was French. Estelle spoke three languages instead of just two like most of us. The first time that I went to her house and heard her speaking Spanish to her mom was the first time that I understood why my friends in France had felt so uncomfortable whenever I spoke English to my mom. It's hard not understanding what people around you are saying to each other. Deliberate or not, my mom and I, as well as Estelle and her mom, were simply going by what felt natural. In my own experience, we tried to speak only French to each other when we had guests, but sometimes we accidentally slipped back into English. More than likely, that is exactly what happened with Estelle and her mom but I could not push away that horrible feeling of exclusion that still comes when in a group and two friends suddenly whisper in each other’s ear to share a secret.

Estelle and I had a special bond from the moment we met. She was just like me at the time, quiet and not very outspoken. She was practically the only person I played with at school, but that didn’t bother me at all because she was all I needed.  I couldn’t wait to show Estelle my snow globe collection, which was my pride and joy. I had about ten of them all lined up in my room from smallest to largest. I was obsessively protective of them because they were made of fragile glass. Estelle was the first friend I had who I trusted to treat them with the same care that I did. As she admired them and picked them up, I reached over to the other side of the table where I kept the one that didn’t fit in - it was oval instead of round, and the globe itself was plastic. I explained to her that normally this was the only one I let anyone touch because most people were too careless. I then dropped it on purpose to prove how indestructible it was and to my astonishment the plastic globe shattered, sending sparkly gluey water all over the room I shared with my sister. Luckily for us, Julia wasn’t home. Estelle and I stared in wide eyed silence at each other for five long seconds and then broke out into hilarious laughter. I was comforted by the fact that it had never fit into my collection anyway.