"I remember my first day of school with such clarity that it might as well have happened last week. I was five, and I was starting in the local kindergarten, along with all the other kids my age. Except for one difference: I didn't speak a word of English. Not a one. The only thing I knew how to do was write my own name-- M-A-R-I-A -- so that I could recognize it if the need arose. I practiced it over and over in the days leading up to that morning. It was my one safety net, the only thing I knew I could be sure of." In this beautiful essay, a writer reflects on the profound gift of language -- a gift she doesn't take for granted.
