We all lined up at the door of our first-grade classroom in our two lines, waiting for our teacher, Sister Rita Mary, to turn off the lights and take us outside for dismissal. Each line had 15 excited first graders, all in their green and red plaid uniforms that looked more disheveled than when they had come to school that morning. Once we listened to the announcements and said the closing prayer, Sister Rita Mary turned off the lights, and in one swift movement, led us up the stairs, out the heavy French doors, and onto the blacktop covered in the crunchy leaves that had been knocked off the trees by the strong November winds.

As soon as we got onto the blacktop, the two straight lines that had left the classroom formed into one large blob as we all told each other what we were going to do that day when we got home. Sister Rita Mary led us all to the top of the blacktop on the small hill, which, to a first grader, seemed like a mountain, every step bringing us closer and closer to the large group of parents waiting to pick up their children. The big blob had now combined with the group of parents as each kid ran around to find their parent. Once I found my mom, she took my backpack, and we walked through what seemed to be endless rows of parked cars until we reached my mom’s gray Toyota Camry. My mom lifted me into the car, buckled me into my booster, got into the driver’s seat, and asked me the typical mom question: “Como foi teu dia na escola?”

I responded with the usual, “Tudo bem,” but what she did not know was that it was not all good.

In case you did not know what language that was, it was Portuguese, and she was just asking me how my day at school went. While I might have seemed like a typical first-grade girl to most in my school, my life at home was much different. My parents are both immigrants, my dad from Spain and my mom from Portugal. Because of this, at home I spoke mostly Spanish or Portuguese with just a little bit of English mixed in. This had never really affected me negatively at school until the first grade because that is when you begin to learn how to read.

I walked into the first-grade classroom on the second floor of the school, and it seemed like any other day until it was time for English. Sister Rita Mary pulled a white sheet of paper off her desk, and since the light was hitting it at the perfect angel, I could see my name written on the sheet in red cursive. She started reading off the names of five students, and sure enough, my name was one of them. She then told us to follow her down the stairs, past the gym and into a very small classroom that I never knew existed.

Sitting on a blue loveseat was an older woman who introduced herself to us as Mrs. Rice. She told us that while all our other classmates were reading in class upstairs with Sister Rita Mary, we would go to her room downstairs. At that time, I did not realize why I was chosen to go to Mrs. Rice’s room, but later I figured out that it was because I was not good at reading, and the other four classmates were the ones that people would make fun of when they tried to read aloud in class. Mrs. Rice helped us feel more comfortable with our reading skills, even though we were given a lot of work to do on our own and at home. While my other 25 classmates in Sister Rita Mary’s class did not have homework, we had to read at least two books a week, and one of those books had to be read aloud. Being forced to read two books a week was as bad as it seemed. It was just another thing that I had to do on my own.

For my other classmates, that was simple because their parents could help them with their reading and make sure that they were pronouncing everything correctly. For me, it was more difficult because my parents’ English was not the best. I would try and have them help me read, and while they did all that they could to help me, I knew that I was going to need to put in more effort. So, for at least half of the first grade, I stayed in with Mrs. Rice during our first recess in the morning and read many stories aloud, helping me get a little more comfortable with my reading.

Ever since then, reading has felt like a burden to me because of all the extra work I had to out into it. As a simple-minded first-grader, all I thought about was playing with my friends and doing the best I could with regards to my schoolwork. What I did not realize at that time was that all of the extra work I had to put into doing something that came easily to most caused a spark in my dedication and work ethic.


Ines Martinez is a member of the Penn State Class of 2020 from Washington, DC. She is a chemical engineering major and considering a minor in economics. She is trilingual and in her free time, she is an active member of the Women in Engineering Club.