To clear something up: I was told the story needed more emotion. While I can understand that, the first chapter's intent was to be a prologue. Introducing her to America, the idea of public school, and to writing in the journal, and writing in English.
29 May 1965
Starting school this late in the year, or so they are saying, seems a bit strange. It angers me that I am getting so little taste of this new life, and then so cruelly it will be yanked away. I swear I hate Father… I may not hate him, but I am extremely cross with him.
Today was, if you did not notice, my first day on this "High School". When I went into the attendance office I was frightened, no, I was beyond frightened. I was terrified. A lady who wore, of all things, cats on her sweater gave me something she called a "schedule". It said where I would be, and when I would be there. I feel much like an animal, not having the freedom that I used to have of my education. My books were quiet heavy, and I did not understand what a "locker" was. The sheer stupidity and embarrassment I felt knowing nothing of the school or the way it worked pressed on me like a ton.
Finally, the woman sensed my confusion and called for a boy, who I might add is quite attractive to guide me through my first day of school. It was both exciting and terrifying. The halls were loud; the lockers I found out are locked metal squares to hold my books (What strange thing, to worry that my books might be stolen if I did not lock them in this box… France never did such things.)
English class was extremely embarrassing, I was forced to stand at the front of the class and present myself, "My name is Brigitte. I am from the land of France."
The teacher then said, "Brigitte, while I applaud you can already speak our language, you're sentence was spoken incorrectly. At least for the grade level you are at, you would say "My name is Brigitte and I am from the land of France. The conjunction and makes the sentence flow much easier."
My face burned with shame and confusion, but I nodded as if I understood.
As the day went on, I learned more about my handler. His name is Randy, he's student council president. He has a little sister named Virginia, and a dog named Gus. He played on something called a "Football team." And he has a steady, shame of shame I had thought when I first heard. I was saddened that I might not have a chance with this boy they call Randy, such a strange name, but that all changed with the last hour of the day.
I walked into the classroom, Randy leaving me at the door. I was relieved that soon I would be home in the comfort of Mama, and the warmth of my bed. This class was a science of sorts, called Chemistry. We were to be doing a lab today, partners assigned to us. I was assigned to a boy named Steve Randle, on station three.
This boy looked… Dangerous. His hair was slicked back and looked oily to the touch; he wore a shirt that said "DX" on it. But, that was not what made him look dangerous. It was his eyes, cold dark circles full of hate. I felt like I should tell the instructor I wasn't comfortable working with Mr. Randle, but something him drew him near me, and so I didn't. His presence feels cold and indifferent, he barely spoke to me. But, just being near him made my heart flutter and my pulse pound. I don't know about this Steve Randle, but I feel he may be the one to curve my path, if anyone.
Dear friend, I feel weak and faint from the long day I had. I think I felt every emotion today that a human can possibly feel. And So, I retire for the night.
30 May 1965
The school day went much the same, uneventful in a way. Aside from the confusion and stupidity of the school.
But, that's not what I write to you about, friend. No, I write to you about my encounter outside of school walls with Mr. Steve Randle.
Mother had asked me soon after I had returned from school to walk to something called a gas station and to get milk, she gave me money and direction, and confused I set off. Soon I saw the sign for this so called gas station, it read "DX" (At the time, I didn't think about his shirt of course, but looking back on yesterday's entry it makes sense now.) I walked into the gas station and went to a section labeled "Milk". Of course, all of this was foreign to me in France our groceries were delivered by a very kind man named Peter. The milk was behind a glass door with a handle, I pulled on the handle and the door opened, it was cool inside as if by magic. I took a carton from the magic cold box and made my way up to where people were. A golden haired boy was at the counter, he reminded me of Mr. Randle, but in a less menacing way and in a way he reminded me of a person from the picture shows.
"Excuse me, but how do I pay for this?" I asked, shame burning my cheeks again.
"I'll ring it up for you, Miss." He said, taking the milk and flashing me a grin. "That'll be one dollar and seventy five cents."
I looked at the paper and coins in my hands confused, unsure of what to give him, but too embraced to ask.
And then he came in, "What's the hold up, you've been staring at that money for five minutes?" He asked, clearly angry.
"I don't know what a dollar or a seventy five cent piece looks like." I said, shamefully.
He grabbed the money from my hand, and gave the correct amount to the other boy. He handed the rest back to me. I took the milk, ready to leave another confusing American custom behind. When a girl burst through the door. She ran to Mr. Randle, wrapping her arms around his neck, their tongues entangled.
It was in that moment that my heart felt crushed, my stomach weak, and my eyes moist. I've never experienced this feeling before, but I believe I read it in one of my school books once, it was called envy from love. Or something of the sort.
I arrived home as if nothing happened, and now I sit in my room with you old friend.
I feel upset and angered by this new world that I live in, I feel so confused and shameful all the time. Constantly looked down upon for no particular reason, aside from the fact that I came from another world than this one. Is that suddenly a crime against nature? Father told me that America was open to all that I would fit in great! But I do not, I do not belong her. I long for France, for familiarity. But, there is only one piece, one small piece smuggled in my suitcase. A blank for an infant, it had been mine knitted by Gran, who has long since passed. I long for the time when I was a child with no care in the world, other than to sleep under this warm, tiny blanket.
