“What is your name?” the principal inquires.

Seconds elapse with no answer. He clears his throat, then repeats his question. Shame consumes me as I attempt to piece together what he said. However, the silence and my anxious expression betray me, revealing my lack of English. My family is from Egypt, and at home we speak Arabic. The man sighs, disappointment evident on his face. I cringe at his disapproval. If only language was universal.

My mother steps in, always at my rescue.

“Rana. Her name is Rana. She smart, will try harder,” she says in her broken English.

Nodding at my mother, the man sneaks a glance at me and my crushed confidence. His expression immediately softens. His mind made up, he tells my parents of the struggles, conflicts, and encounters I will face as a student at his school.

Amidst the tsunami of information that he is throwing at us, one thought remains bright and clear: I am in way over my head.

  • • •

School demands all my attention and energy. Right away, my deficiency in English becomes my critical weakness. As the other second graders enhance their writing and reading skills, I endeavor to relearn everything in a strange tongue.

However, the English sounds are inherently foreign to my ears and the grammar too complex to my seven-year-old mind. Comprehension becomes a destination beyond my grasp.

Days become weeks. Weeks turn into months. Still little improvement. My unsuccessful efforts are evident, especially to my teachers.

“Unfortunately, Rana is falling behind the others in reading,” my second grade teacher, Mrs. Hoffman, informs my mother and me. “Even with the help of our English Second Language staff, she is struggling.”

“What can we do?” my mother asks, her voice pitched with desperation.

“We’re already doing everything we can. I’m afraid that if we don’t see improvement soon, she will have to repeat the year.”

The news jolts something in us both. Pain. Shock. Frustration. I lower my eyes in defeat, ashamed to have failed my family. However, as I search my mother’s face, I see neither disappointment nor anger. Instead, I recognize her optimism, her faith, as it illuminates her features. She still has hope.

That very night my mom takes me to a bookstore and buys every appropriate book we can find.

“Starting today, we will read together every night, practicing until you become fluent,” she tells me in Arabic.

She notices my terrified eyes.

“I’m not very good myself,” she admits, “so when we do this, we are both learning, both improving. I believe in you.”

In her words, I find the confidence that I lack in myself. As my eyes lock with hers, I am determined not to disappoint her. I nod my commitment.

The next few months my mother and I embrace our ritual. Every night comprises three to four hours of reading, comprehension questions, and pronunciation corrections. My mother demands perfection, and I strive to give her nothing less.

Amid the disorder of my life, my mother’s routine gives me structure. The specificity and familiarity of the practice gives me balance. Confidence. Order. Moreover, her unfailing faith in me becomes the ignition that pushes me past my capabilities and allows me to thrive.

Gradually, I find myself making progress. My English becomes more natural, my accent less apparent. I am even able to differentiate between words like your and you’re, and pronounce the variation in girl and squirrel. With it, a strong appreciation for literature blossoms within me. I revel in the intricately strung stories and marvel at the realistic characters. More importantly, I take pleasure in a book’s ability to stop time, allowing me to escape my fears temporarily.

As a result of my growing passion for reading, the English language embraces me like a snug sweater. This too, the teachers notice.

“I’m happy to announce that your reading has improved drastically since our last assessment,” Mrs. Hoffman exclaims.

I am moved up several reading levels. By the end of the year, not only have I reached my classmates’ abilities but I have surpassed them.

It is decided that I will continue on to third grade with the rest of my classmates. All my hard work had paid off. However, our routine is still ongoing. I am not fluent yet.

• • •

On the first day of third grade, I hug my mother tightly before I say good-bye. I take in her triumphant, wet eyes and her wide smile.

“I made it.”

“You made it,” she repeats.