Sweet, Difficult Sounds

It was the first day of school, and students swarmed the hallways like a roaming mass of bookbags. Nothukula wasn’t sure what to do, so she watched her new schoolmates as they slammed lockers shut, hugged each other and handed out high fives.

She turned and began to struggle with her locker combination. She didn’t notice someone was beside her until she heard them speak. “Hey, I’m Ashley,” said a dark-haired girl at the locker next to hers removing her backpack from her shoulders. “You new here?”

Yes, Nothukula wanted to say. But not just to Freedman High School, she was also new to the country. She had arrived in the summer from Zimbabwe.

“Can you speak English?” Ashley asked. Nothukula stared at her. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand English. They had spoken it at school back home, and then there were the American soap operas that she loved to watch. “Are you new?” Ashley spoke loudly and slowly, like Nothukula had trouble hearing. She was still standing there, staring at Nothukula, as if tapping the glass of a fish tank, waiting for any reaction. It made Nothukula nervous, stiffening her tongue. With each wordless second that passed, she felt more pressure to make up for the awkwardness, say the right thing to Ashley and ensure it came out perfectly. She opened her mouth, but not a single thing came out. 

Rolling her eyes, Ashley looked away, checking her face in a compact mirror and calling after one of her friends. Nothukula just stood there, like a deer in headlights. She was still deciding what to say when the homeroom bell rang.

Lost in the school’s big hallways, she made it to homeroom just in time. The teacher gestured for Nothukula to find a seat. She continued with roll call but paused at Nothukula’s name. “What should we call you?” she asked.

Freshly intimidated by her silent exchange with Ashley, Nothukula froze again. She didn’t know what to say to forty students staring blankly at her from their seats, how best to introduce herself when she felt like an alien descending from a spaceship. “No-no-thu-ku-la,” she stammered out.

Her classmates exchanged confused glances. She realized how funny her name must sound to them. It was in her mother tongue, Ndebele, which they had probably never heard before. Or perhaps it was her accent? Nothukula knew she sounded nothing like the American actresses she loved to watch on TV. It felt like everyone in the room was laughing at her.

Then she saw a boy near the door with a wireless earbud tucked into one ear, nodding along to something only he could hear. When Nothukula locked eyes with him, he smiled at her for the longest moment. Too afraid to reciprocate, she looked away and shrank in her seat as her classmates began snickering. She didn’t say another word all day; as teachers asked questions in class, Nothukula said nothing, even when she knew the answer. 

That evening, Nothukula thought over the humiliating scene in homeroom. She told herself that the tears sliding down her cheeks were just from the onions she was dicing for that night’s dovi, a chicken and peanut stew that her mother had taught her to make back home in Zimbabwe.

Nothukula lived with her Auntie Thandi, her mother’s youngest sister. Auntie Thandi had been in the U.S. for two years and worked as a nurse in a nearby hospital. She got home late in the evenings, so Nothukula usually prepared dinner. While Auntie Thandi worked sixty hours a week in the emergency room, her niece was a quiet little mouse, helping out with the cooking and household chores.

Usually, making her mother’s recipes soothed Nothukula, filling the kitchen and her heart with the smells of home. But that night she felt only misery.

The door opened and Auntie Thandi came in, slipping off her shoes before kissing Nothukula’s cheek. “How was your first day at school?”

Nothukula’s eyes creased, listening to the way her auntie pronounced her words. It was like being back in Zimbabwe, listening to her teachers. Nothukula preferred it when they spoke in Ndebele. “It was fine,” she replied.

“Did you make any friends?”

Nothukula shook her head. “They look at me as if I am funny.”

“You are funny,” Auntie Thandi replied grinning. “Our smart inyoni.”

Nothukula groaned. Her parents had nicknamed her that as a child because she talked so much. She would hear a word and instantly repeat it back to them, saying it over and over again, as if she were singing. By the time she was four, she was in love with American television and would consume common phrases as if they were pieces of fruit, eagerly repeating them back to her family: “Too cool.” “Yeah, right!” “No way!”

 Nothukula spooned the dovi into bowls. “I want to go back home,” she said.

“Ey!” Auntie Thandi looked at her sharply. “After just one day of school?”

“I don’t like it there.”

Auntie Thandi came closer. “You have to give it a try.” She took the bowls from Nothukula and set them on the counter. “This is your home now. This is your chance to start anew. Besides, Zimbabwe will always be here,” she said, pointing to Nothukula’s chest. “You carry it with you.” 

But as the months passed, Zimbabwe began to feel like just a name on a map. It was February and she had barely spoken to anyone at school other than Ms. Johnson.

Ms. Johnson was her English teacher, a calm, soft-spoken woman with a youthful style, and the only person at Freedmen that Nothukula felt comfortable talking to. Because Nothukula had learned English in school in Zimbabwe, she tested out of the English classes for kids new to the language, but Ms. Johnson arranged for them to meet up after school each Tuesday and Thursday “just in case you have some questions about this crazy new place you’re in.” And, man, did she ever have questions! “How do I figure out which city bus goes where?” “Why do Americans play this strange game of running into each other and call it ‘football’? That’s not football!” “What on Earth is a ‘chicken finger’?”

But aside from her one-on-ones with Ms. Johnson, Nothukula went through her days at Freedmen silent as a ghost. The other kids assumed she didn’t know English and Nothukula never corrected them. She felt invisible most of the time. 

But then there was Cole, the boy who had smiled at her on her first day at the school. Cole was tall and lanky with deep dimples and kind eyes that reminded her of ubude Moffat. Even though they had never really spoken, Nothukula felt close to him for some reason. Like her, he didn’t quite fit in. During lunchtime, she sometimes overheard Ashley and the other girls poking fun at him. They made jokes about his habit of stuttering. He would try to speak to Nothukula during class, whenever they sat close together. Cole would speak slowly and enunciate his words, thinking she wouldn’t understand him. Nothukula would cover her mouth to stop herself from giggling. Of course she understood him, but she never answered him, not even when he offered to help her with her English after school. She smiled awkwardly and shrugged her shoulders. What if my English sounds stupid to him? she thought. What if my accent is so strange that he can’t understand me? 

At lunchtime, she sat alone with her tray as other students clustered together, swapping expressions and talking over each other. “It’ll be lit!” “Oh, she’s got jokes.” “Come through!” “Spill the tea, girl.” Nothukula wished that her words sounded like theirs, flowing so freely, without even having to think about it. Ashley sat nearby, surrounded by friends. They complained about many things: boys, their teachers, parents, adding the word “like” to almost every statement. “He was like... she was like... I was like...” Like what? Nothukula wondered.

One of the girls looked up and saw that Nothukula was watching them. Nothukula picked up her sandwich and returned to the book she was reading. She glanced up again to see the girl was gesturing for her to join them. At that moment, Ashley looked over and shook her head. “She’s from Africa, Cynthia. She doesn’t understand you,” Ashley said.

Nothukula bristled and whispered under her breath, “I’m from Zimbabwe, and I understand you perfectly.”

That evening she went home and planned what she would say to Cole the next time she got a chance. She wrote it down in her notebook so that she could memorize it. Each version of what she thought she might say started with, “Hey Cole! You’re too cool!” Then she would ask him what kind of music he liked and tell him about how everyone in Zimbabwe learns English. She’d use the word “like” a lot, like Ashley did, and try her best to sound American. 

The next morning, she waited and waited for the right moment to speak to Cole. There were too many people around during gym class, and Ms. LaVelle didn’t allow any English at all in her French class. By the time she stood in line in the cafeteria, waiting for chicken fingers, Nothukula was ready to give up.

Just then, a voice behind her asked, “So, what’s the special today?” Turning, Nothukula saw Cole smiling at her. As always, he had one earbud in, and his kind eyes looked directly into hers.

This was her chance! She flashed him a smile and thought about her reply. He’d asked a question, so replying to it with what she had rehearsed — “Hey Cole! You’re too cool!” — would just sound stupid. Despite all her preparation, the clever, American-sounding speeches she had written in her notebook flew right out of her brain. There she was again, her mouth open and her brain frozen.

Ashley was at the register and decided to chime in, answering for Nothukula before she had a chance to say something, “T-t-tater t-t-ots, f-f-freak.”

All the students within earshot started laughing and pointing in Cole’s direction. Dropping his eyes, Cole plugged his dangling earbud into his ear and turned up the volume on his phone. He slid out of line and disappeared into the crowd.

In that moment, Nothukula felt herself get scorching hot, as mad as Auntie Thandi got when patients asked for another nurse “who speaks English.” She had English class with Cole last period. Slitting her eyes at Ashley, she told herself she would speak to him then. 

When Nothukula got to English class, Cole was already seated. There were no seats beside him, so she sat at the back of the room by the window and half-listened as students got up and rehearsed for the first round of the school-wide poetry recital. The winners of the school contest would get a chance to perform in the state-wide competition. Nothukula loved poetry, but her thoughts drifted off to her old life with her mother and father, ubude Moffat and all her friends back home, where she was a talkative, happy little bird who was always writing, speaking, and even teaching the other kids new words to say.

“Nothukula? It’s your turn,” Ms. Johnson said, interrupting her thoughts. Nothukula had chosen one of her favorite poems, Paul Laurence Dunbar’s “Sympathy,” and she had it memorized. She replayed it in her mind:

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals —
I know what the caged bird feels!

Though she knew the lines, she had been praying that Ms. Johnson would never call on her. She didn’t want her classmates to hear her say anything ever again. She never wanted to give them another opportunity to laugh at her accent. Sinking lower in her seat, she kept her mouth shut and shook her head.

“It’s not optional, Nothukula,” Ms. Johnson said, gesturing to the front of the room. Now everyone was looking at her, including Cole. Nothukula rose from her seat.

Clenching her hands so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, she began to recite the poem:

“I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes — ”

“A little louder,” Ms. Johnson said, smiling at her. “We want to hear you.”

Nothukula started over, but this time she tried to imitate the high-pitched, breathless pace of Ashley and her crew, saying the word “bird” in the same off-handed way they did with the word “like.” She pretended she hadn’t a care in the world, but, really, she was ready to hurl. Nothukula’s stomach was doing backflips and cartwheels.

“I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be... would be...”

And then, in the middle of the poem, her mind suddenly went blank. She’d forgotten the next line!

As she stood there fidgeting and fumbling, repeating the same lines over and over, the majority of the class stopped paying attention. They passed notes back and forth and watched the clock, waiting for Nothukula to shut up so class could be dismissed. When Nothukula confused the lines in the final verse, she decided to give up and spare herself any further embarrassment. Flopping down in her chair, she ducked her head, her cheeks burning.

Cole began to clap. One girl laughed, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “What was that?” someone said. The bell rang, and there was a rush as everyone headed for the door.

Nothukula was the last to pack her books into her backpack. Ms. Johnson stopped her on the way to the door. “Nothukula,” she said. “What happened? You’ve had weeks to memorize this poem. I thought for sure you’d know it by now.”

Nothukula’s heart sank. She wanted to tell Ms. Johnson that she had memorized the poem, that she didn’t know what had happened or why her mind suddenly went blank. But she could feel tears coming to her eyes, so she choked out, “I’m so sorry, Ms. Johnson,” and bolted out the door. 

That evening, Nothukula was at the kitchen table, staring at a copy of the poem, when Auntie Thandi got home from another double shift at the hospital. Nothukula fixed her a plate while she changed from her scrubs to sweats.

“Salibonani,” her aunt said, stretching her back as she walked into the kitchen. “Unjani?”

“Fine,” Nothukula answered, setting her aunt’s plate on the table and slumping down in her chair.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

Auntie Thandi raised her eyebrows and tilted her head. “Nothukula?”

Nothukula told her about what had happened during English class and how she had to recite “Sympathy” again the next day.

Auntie Thandi cupped Nothukula’s chin, gently raising her face so she could see Nothukula’s eyes. “Just be yourself, inyoni. You can do this.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Nothukula said. “You don’t understand. I can recite the poem in my head, but when I have to say it aloud, I forget the words.”

“You can practice in front of me then,” Auntie Thandi said, digging a spoon into the sadza and gravy Nothukula had prepared. 

“You don’t understand,” Nothukula said again. “They all stare at me. They’re so cold, and unfeeling, as if I am invisible. As if...”

“Go on.”

“As if they can’t even see me.”

Auntie Thandi set down her spoon and leaned back. But then her eyes lit up. She sprang out of her seat and dashed to a bookshelf in the corner. She started pulling out dozens of books, as many as she could find that had a picture of the author on the cover.

“Seems to me as if you need to practice fighting fire with fire.” She started standing the books up around the room, on the sofa, chairs, table — everywhere!

“What do you mean?”

“You said the other students act like you aren’t really there. Maybe you need to start pretending that they, as an audience, aren’t really there either. Maybe that’ll help.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Look at all these faces,” Auntie Thandi said, gesturing to the book covers. “All these eyes staring at you. Except they’re not really there. They’re not really staring at you. Practice your poetry with this in mind. Keep reminding yourself as you speak and soon it won’t matter if they are really there or not.”

Auntie Thandi sat back down to her dinner and Nothukula stood up. She began to recite the poem in front of her “audience”: Auntie Thandi and the books. It felt silly at first, and she giggled her way through the poem. But soon she was looking into the eyes of these book authors and repeating her poem from start to finish, again and again, without any slip-ups.

“You already know what to say,” her aunt reminded her. “Just let yourself be heard. Do whatever works for you.” Nothukula ran through the poem several more times. By the time she finished, it didn’t matter to her whether her audience was real or not. 

The next day in English class, Nothukula’s palms were sweaty. She wiped her hands on her jeans and slumped deeper into her chair. Maybe Ms. Johnson will forget about me, she thought. But sure enough, with fifteen minutes left on the clock, Ms. Johnson quieted the class and called her up to the front.

The whole room fell silent as Nothukula got up and shuffled slowly up to the chalkboard. She felt her heart thumping out of her chest, and did her best to ignore it. She just had to get this dreadful assignment over with.

She stared out at her classmates and scanned their bored and amused expressions, searching in vain for a friendly face. They are not real, she told herself as she began reciting the poem. The lines sounded painful and strained, so Nothukula started to speed up. She could see smirks on her classmate’s faces and knew they were remembering her terrible performance the day before. Sweat sprang out along her hairline, but she fought the sinking feeling and continued:

“I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, —
When he beats his bars and he would be free —”

She paused. She couldn’t recall the following line, and each second she remained silent felt like an hour. She was ready to hide under a rock. Her tongue was a block of stone. Why did I trust Auntie’s ridiculous idea? Nothukula asked herself. Book covers don’t whisper and laugh at you. The sound of the students giggling grew louder and louder, and Nothukula became more flustered. The only one showing any interest was Cole.

Then she remembered something else that Auntie Thandi had said: “Do whatever works for you.” She continued to recite, becoming more and more composed the more she focused on Cole. She never missed another beat, and her classmates stopped laughing as her voice rose, coming to an end with the booming lines:

“It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —
I know why the caged bird sings!”

For a moment the whole room was silent. Then Nothukula’s mouth dropped open as Ashley began to clap. The other students joined her, and Cole called out, “Bravo!” Then the final bell rang and the entire class gathered their things and rushed out of the room. Still buzzing with pride, Nothukula went to collect her things. When she was the only person left in the classroom, Ms. Johnson said, “Good job, Nothukula! You have a good chance of making it to the regional competition.”

Nothukula was stunned. “Really?” she said. “You think so?” Blushing, Nothukula made a note to give Auntie Thandi a big hug when she got home that night. “Thank you, Ms. Johnson.”

As she wandered out the classroom door, Nothukula saw that Cole was waiting for her. For a while, they wandered down the empty hallway together, neither saying a word. Then, finally, Cole said, “You were gr-gr-great.”

“No way.” Nothukula blushed again, turning to face him. “I can’t stand the way I sound.”

Cole shook his head. “You have a pretty voice.” He looked down at his shoes, then slowly met Nothukula’s eyes. “Kuhle ukukubona.” Cole pronounced the words delicately, unsure if he said them right.

Nothukula’s heart warmed. His accent was horrible, but the effort was all she needed. “Pleased to meet you, too.”

That night, Nothukula told Auntie Thandi all about how she had conquered the poem.

“I knew it!” her aunt crowed. “I demand my own performance, inyoni!”

Standing tall in her kitchen, Nothukula proceeded to recite the poem, proudly and imperfectly, entirely in her own voice.

After she was done, Auntie Thandi was quiet for a long time. “You see,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes, “indlovu ibulawa yibunyonyo.”

Nothukula grinned. “Yes, Auntie. A lot of small steps can overcome even the biggest problem.”