A Child of the Orient

by Demetra Vaka

I was delighted to accept this proposal. Not being permitted to speak any English with the pupils materially impeded my own progress; but there was a girl in the school who lived there without being a pupil, and who, although she spoke French fluently, often talked English with me, to give me practice. We became very good friends: she said I was to be her daughter, and she would be my mother. To her I owe a great deal of the pleasure I had during my first few years in America.

The principal of the school also took the greatest pains with my English. It is true, she did not permit me to speak it with the girls, but she herself spoke it constantly with me. I could have had no better person to take as a pattern, for she had a lovely accent, the best to be found among Anglo-Saxons anywhere. She chose the books I was to read, and told me the phrases to use, as if I were her most expensive pupil.

My general impression of America now was kindness. It was given to me with the lavishness which is one of the chief characteristics of the Americans. Yet because they were so different from the people I was accustomed to, I could not understand them at all, and misunderstanding them I could not exactly love them. In spite of their kindness they had a certain crudity of manner, which constantly hurt me. Besides, they seemed to me to live their lives in blazing lights. I missed the twilights and starlights, the poetry and charm of our life at home—just as I missed the spring in their calendar.

It will perhaps surprise Americans to hear that, in spite of the excellent table at the school, I was almost starved before I could learn to eat American food. It seemed to me painfully tasteless: the beef and mutton were so tough, compared to the meat in Turkey, and all the vegetables were cooked in water—while as for the potatoes I had never seen such quantities in my life. We had them for breakfast, for luncheon, and for dinner, in some form or other. Just before we sat down to table the principal said grace, in which were the words, “Bless that of which we are about to partake.” To my untrained ear “partake” and “potatoes” sounded exactly alike, and I wrote home that the Americans not only ate potatoes morning, noon, and night, but that they even prayed to the Lord to keep them supplied with potatoes, instead of daily bread.

My Greek pupil and his wife, and also my first American friend of the Normal College found me pupils, so that I now earned considerable money. My outside pupils, mostly married women, were very nice to me; but I felt that they did not quite know how to take me. I had a terribly direct way of speaking; and, being still under the impression that as a nation they were my inferiors, my attitude must have displayed something of that feeling.

I began to be asked out to luncheons and dinners—partly as a freak, I am afraid—and at one of these dinners I became the victim of American humour. Happening to mention that I was surprised at not seeing any real Americans in New York, I was asked what I meant. I explained that I meant pure-blooded Indians. Thereupon my host very soberly told me that I could see them any day at five o’clock, on Broadway, at the corner where now stands the beautiful Flatiron building. He cautioned me to be there at five exactly.

The very first day I was free I went to the designated corner. I arrived at half-past four, and waited there till almost six, without seeing one Indian. Fearing that I had made a mistake in the corner, I went into a shop and, in my broken English, made inquiries. Two or three clerks gathered together and discussed the problem, and then one of them, repressing a smile, said to me: “I am afraid some one has played a joke on you. There are no Indians to be seen anywhere in New York, except in shows.”

That evening at school I told the whole story at table, feeling highly indignant, and believing that my hearers would share my indignation. To my amazement every one burst out laughing, and declared it to be the best joke they had heard for a long time. Some of the girls even said they should write home and tell it, because it was so “terribly funny.”

Their attitude was a revelation to me. My host had deceived me, and had wasted two hours of my time and my strength, by giving me a piece of information that he knew to be false; yet every one thought it delightfully humorous. The only excuse I could find for this conduct was that they were a nation of half-breeds, and did not know any better. Indeed, as time went on, American humour was to me the most disagreeable part of Americans. It lacked finesse: it was not funny to me—only undeveloped and childish. Daily I was told that I had no sense of humour, and that, like an Englishman, I needed a surgical operation to appreciate what was so highly appreciable.

Finally, I got very tired of being told I had no humour and could not understand an American joke; so I determined to prove to them that I not only understood their silly jokes but could play them myself, if I chose. Now to me the essence of an American joke was a lie, told with a sober face, and in an earnest voice. I played one on a girl boarder. To my surprise, the girl, instead of laughing, began to cry and sob, and almost went into hysterics. It made a great rumpus in the school, and the principal sent for me.