Being Different

​Today, I want to write about how I discovered I was different in a country of not enough. It happened on September 1, 1961. I was seven and ready to start my formal education. This skinny little kid could not wait for the first day of school to come fast enough. With anticipation and full of excitement, I packed my school supplies into a school bag the night before. I chatted all the way through as I showed each item to my parents before putting them inside a designated spot. I had a box for pencils, erasers, and counting sticks, which my brother helped me to pick up at a bookstore. I neatly organized the schoolbooks and notebooks by sliding them between the dividers. 

As soon as I woke up, I put on my school uniform and a white apron. In the Soviet Union, the students wore white aprons for special occasions only. And what could be more memorable than the first day of school? Mama was the one who had sewn my garment. She trimmed the apron with lace around the edges of its straps that crossed in the back. My brown dress had pleats, long sleeves, and a white color, just like the protocol required.  

The night before, Mama and I had our serious talk. "Why don't you help your brother and sister with house chores?" Mama said.
My siblings ratted me out. I did not blame them. Cleaning was the most minor favorite thing on my mind.
"Mama, do you want me to be the best student in class?"
"Of course. I do not expect anything else from you."
"Then don't bother me with chores. I promise I will be the number one pupil in my class."

On September 1, 1961, holding on to Mama's hand, I entered the schoolyard in Kotovsk, Ukraine. One of the teachers approached us and asked Mama for information about the class I belonged to. Without a smile or saying one word, she took my hand and led me to a group of children my age. She then pointed to me where to stand and left. 

Befuddled and uncomfortable, I stood amongst the sea of students and wondered how quiet each seven-year-old was. Until then, the children I met were playful and rambunctious. On the first day of school, I realized I would have to become one of the obedient little bots. 

The Welcoming ceremony lasted a long time. It was full of pomp and circumstance. The Soviets were good at doing it. A slew of Communist Party members gave speeches, including the director and dean of the school. The ten graders also talked about the excellent education and encouraged us to study hard to be the best. The National Anthem of the Soviet Union played as the soon-to-be graduates carried the flags in and out. As a naive child, I loved the performances and thought they were great. 

But everything changed when most of the children dispersed inside the building. Inside the cemented yard without a spring of green, only two groups remained—ten and first graders. Each ten-grader approached a first grader to exchange a gift for a bouquet they held in their hands. I did not have a bouquet. No one told Mama I needed one. That day, I was the only child who stood in the middle of a schoolyard without a gift. I felt distraught, and to make things worse, Mama ran toward the soon-to-be graduates, begging them to give me a gift. In my memory, the first day of school was the most humiliating day of my life. But it did not end there. 

Inside the classroom, my teacher made fun of my name. She embarrassed me by singling me out. That day, I realized I was different. It was because my first and last names were Jewish. That day, I knew I had to fight an uphill battle.