I'm not looking for sympathy, just writing about my past to get things of my chest.
English is not my first language since both my parents arrived as adult refugees/immigrants unable to speak any English.
English language problems interwoven with mental health issues has plagued all three of us.
Both my early home and school life was a nightmare. At home I was isolated, not playing with other children because when I tried to talk I couldn't understand anything they said and vice versa.
At primary school I was almost completely mute. Being physically punished daily for almost anything such as not answering, not following instructions, not writing, not doing homework.
At home my father was often violent taking out his frustrations on me. Once I was beaten badly with the metal buckle end of the belt because a visitor spoke to me in English and I remained silent. My mother explained that I don't understand English. And this visitor gave them a right tongue lashing about not teaching me to speak English. The irony was that they were trying to keep secret the fact that neither of them spoke English themselves. They relied on the family and next door neighbour who was bilingual for help.
At school I stopped attending for several weeks at a time because I just couldn't cope.
When I was eight I was sent to our ethnic Saturday morning school. That was even worse. I was bullied, shunned, made fun off. And I soon got the drift that my family were persona non grata in our community and so was I. In that school I sat alone at the back, crying quietly, thinking of walking under a bus to finish it.
Worst day in that school was when my father collected me and was escorting me home. When walking past a Sikh temple he started shouting racist abuse at the Sikhs ( in our language. luckily nobody understood what he was shouting or at who) on the opposite side of the road. And the wanted me to join in. I just kept on walking, arrived home alone. A few minutes later he arrived and beat me for refusing to join him. (A case of do as I do). My mother told me I deserved it, leaving him alone shouting in the street.
At the age of 9 I was placed in a special school with other emotionally special needs children. This was actually inside the grounds of a major hospital. For a year this was a safe haven. Although it was technically a school there was no academic teaching. But the best part was no violence and I managed to improve my English.
Thirty years later I found out more about my first day at primary school. My mother was reminiscing about our bilingual next door neighbour in the 1960s, what a fine, helpful woman she was. How she saw me playing in the garden and took an interest, how old I was ? And why wasn't I in school? It was November, school year started in September!
So I asked her, why wasn't I in school? After all my older sister was in school, why was I kept at home? She explained that they didn't send my sister to school, she was friends with another girl and that girls mother registered them both with the local school. But there was no point in sending me to school because I didn't speak a word of English so I wouldn't understand anything said to me. Then she added that she was protecting me from other people's cooking. At school I would have to eat food that wasn't cooked by her.