In September 2020 we moved from the UK to Portugal. Our children were fifteen, twelve and seven at the time. Within six weeks of arriving, we had found them places in the local state schools. They received some language support but majority of the day they were taught in Portuguese. This text was written during their first term.
The first thing our youngest child says when she wakes this morning: ‘Don’t make me go to school’.
She has a list of afflictions and misfortunes. In the early morning they multiply and strengthen. 'A fungus eye, and a sore tummy, and I banged my head and saw white flashes, and a mosquito bit this finger so I CAN'T EVEN WRITE!’ These take more and more of the strength she needs for the day ahead.
We insist she must go anyway. She stamps her feet and weeps, then stops, and then repeats over and over 'I'm not going'. All her complaints are justified: 'I can't play the games I want to. We just play the snake game because of my t-shirt. I can't talk to them properly. The maths is too easy. And they say things to me and it's just noise!’
We tell her how soon it will get easier as more and more sounds separate and become recognisable with meanings attached. These are promises about the near future but she lives in the full flame of present.
Finally we reach a deal: she'll go until the end of morning lessons. Now that she's resigned to going, she fears being late. Being late will make her different. She spends the walk to school checking her watch and inventing disaster stories: 'That house is a jail and they locked someone up and lost the key and he has to eat a mouse's wing or chew an old brick... That palm tree is so so so tall and it fell across the road and squashed the school bus and everyone's juice leaked in their lunch bags!’
As we draw near to the school grounds, some children are already inside. They recognise her through the school fence. They shout hello and try out some English phrases. We have a last hug and she goes through the gate, head slightly bent.
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