Shadow /ˈʃædoʊ/ noun

A dark image projected onto a surface where light (or other radiation) is blocked by the shade of an object.

You look back at your shadow, unnaturally elongated on the New England pavement. It lies as dark and still as that of everyone else in line. If only you could fit in just as well. You search the crowd for familiar faces. Why would there be any? You wipe the sweat running down your temple. They said it would be much colder here, but what does a difference of 10 degrees Celsius mean anyway, in a new world where everything is measured differently? You knew it back then, but now it is clear that none of grandma’s cautioning or your mother’s bag of essential oils hold any weight as you shuffle forward, making an effort to push along your three bulking suitcases. You enter the room and search for the station where you are supposed to be. A kind-looking lady with a sign that reads registration waves at you, and you hurry over. She asks for your name. No, the name on your passport, of course. Fan, um hoo-ah, did I say it right? You smile, unaware of how many times you will be asked that again in the future. She then asks for your dorm. You check the little yellow envelope. Front…Saint? you ask. She looks confused, and so are you. You show her the envelope. It reads Front St.. Oh, Front Street, right! She smiles kindly, pretending not to notice your embarrassment. You smile too. Have a good day! she says. You mumble something in reply. You have never heard any official in China finish the conversation with something other than an unenthusiastic “Next!” As you walk back down where you came from, you run into some kids you were already introduced to, with long handshakes and “nice to meet you”s. How you doing? They demand one by one, with smiles that do not extend to their eyes. You stop to reply, trying to figure out how well indeed you are doing right now, but they are already gone, immersed in their own conversation. And so you keep walking along, a little bewildered, but as the next person on the path approaches, you too smile wide and toss out a how you doing! before walking right past.

Court Street, Exeter, New Hampshire

September 4th 2022

Relative darkness, especially as caused by the interruption of light; gloom; obscurity.

You step into the shadow of the stairwell. Not the fifth floor. Fourth then maybe? Your heart thumps. You do not have a watch, and your mom said you are too young for a phone, but you know it has been a long time since class started at 8. The third floor is empty as well. You can feel yourself panicking. You curse at mom silently. Why did you allow her to send you here? Look at how much your sister enjoy international school, she said. But will everything be in English? you asked, I won’t be able to understand anything. She said no, but you now know the truth. How easily you had been fooled! You run down the hallway, peeking into windows to see if you can find your class. Inside are all kids a lot bigger than you, maybe in sixth grade even. Your breathing is uneven now. You urge yourself to stay calm, but you can feel tears in the corner of your eye. Oh what are you doing here? a foreign teacher asks, startling me. 我...我找不到我的班! you mumble. Are you lost? he asks gently, not understanding. You show him your identification card, and he holds your class and leads you on. You do not remember much of what happens next, but you soon find yourself sitting down in class. The rest of the third-graders try not to stare, but they do notice your puffy eyes. Your desk-mate whispers hello, and you try to pay attention to class, doing your best to understand the constant English.

广东深圳南山区沿山路

2016年8月21号

An inseparable companion.

You step in the classroom, your uncertainty tracing behind your memories like a shadow. Seated around the tables was a diverse group, almost none of them your age. Bon, on va commencer, the teacher says. You look at the various posters plastered on the walls, a mess of articles and scribbles, so familiar, yet so different. You can see the rest of the Sorbonne Summer University’s campus from the several windows facing the door, the fading creamy white of the marble walls no longer pristine as before, its doorways flanked by neoclassical columns, as well as the grand statue of a pensive Victor Hugo in the center of the atrium. Your school is also quite beautiful, but here you feel like you are in a museum. You can feel your heart beating. You hear your new teacher ask for a round of introductions, or rather you were able to catch the word introduction from the rapid flow of French. A stubbled young man seated across from you to the left of Madame begins to speak. You are relieved to hear an English accent, until you realize he speaks with the ease of a native. Your stomach turns. You knew you should have switched down to the B1 level. You pace yourself as the attention of the room moves down the table, turning over sentences in your mind desperately. A few Turkish teenagers, an eighty-year-old lawyer from Chicago, a girl from Croatia, and…à vous, jeune homme.  On your right a blonde young man, perhaps around twenty, starts to speak, his face flushed, stumbling over his words with a rather strong German accent. You watch the extremely fluent members of the class, their face passive, trying to find any signs of judgement. They do not. You breathe a sign of relief. …euh, je viens de la Chine, mais je vais a l’école euh dans les États-Unis… You speed through your turn, trying to fully utilize your limited vocabulary. Aux États-Unis, Madame corrects. Strangely enough, you do not feel any embarrassment. You push down the nervousness that had frozen you so many times as a child, and smile, content that you get to spend the next month in the city of love.

1 rue Victor Cousin, Quartier Latin, Paris

Juin 25 2024