So far, life in Geneva was hell. I hated it. What a contrast from ironically wanting to escape Africa to come and live in the promised land of Switzerland. I was struggling mainly with the language, although acceptance too. I was terrible and everyone knew it. Also, I started to realise I was being treated different only because of the colour of my skin. What I struggled the most was the language. What was clear also, my mum and sister adapted well in Geneva so far compared to my dad and myself. At least he spoke French, which wasn’t the case for me yet. You see, there is a massive difference when you’re learning a language, where it is all broken down and translated, than when you are thrown in the mix and expected to pick up quickly. In class, all the tasks, reading and even the teacher only spoke in French. You’d think, well I would pick up. It wasn’t as easy as that. When nothing is broken down, no visuals and the teacher who already couldn’t stand me, it was very hard for me to pick up. I couldn’t associate my Portuguese to French. Sensing my frustration, my mum and dad took over and taught us French. I learned much more outside the classroom than in class. The book that helped me so much, is the first thousand words in French. At last, visuals and pronunciations.Just like that, I learnt French from scratch and was picking up. At playtime, I would play often with boys because of my aggressive behaviour and overall tough personality. Also, in terms of languages, boys don’t talk as much as girls. Additionally, the boys would use gestures for me to understand what they are saying. In other words, boys were much easier to understand than girls. Even for picture day, I was sat and surrounded by the boys as all the girls were standing together. I wasn’t bothered to be honest. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t get on well with girls. I wasn’t on the top set in class nor was I popular. It was strange but this is how it worked, some cliques were forming and you need to be a certain way to be accepted. In my class, I was the only girl then of colour, that was immediately a red flag. I was terrible, aggressive and couldn’t speak the language yet. No wonder why the girls didn’t want to play with me. There was a boy, darker than me whom I despised so much. Surprisingly, even though he was terrible too, he used to get away with it all the time. He would do things when teachers wouldn’t be looking. He was as sneaky as a fox. We clashed often and he used my language barrier against me by saying lies knowing full well I couldn’t defend myself. Of course, to his delight, I would get in trouble frequently thanks to him. We’d fight as well all the time. Once again, I’d be the one who would be in trouble. I was trapped, the boys were the ones I used to hang around with and he was always there, sometimes turning them against me when I didn’t comply. I also wondered how come the teacher who was so horrible to me, would be always nice to him? Curious, I asked my mum why he would get a different treatment. I found out he was adopted by a Swiss couple, both white and both wealthy. It shocked me how we were so similar yet so different: We were both coloured and obviously foreigners in Switzerland. However he was rich and I was poor. His parents always used to spoil him rotten. Now I understood why the teacher treated him so nicely. Jealousy invaded my whole body. I was fuming when he’d make remarks in class to me and many joined. I realised he always used my language barrier against me. I could defend myself with my hands but not with my words resulting in always getting in trouble. He knew that. He just knew how to use my weakness against me. I wish more than anything to have a friend who was like me; coloured and struggling with the language. I knew it wasn’t going to happen. But then, my prayers were answered.

What a bad feeling to stay behind one year. I felt like I let myself down.From teasing my sister’s friends and classmates, now they are my classmates. I must admit I wasn’t always nice to them during break time nor during lunchtime. In fact I was never nice to many pupils. No wonder why I didn’t have many friends. I was often reported to the nuns, teachers and just like that I became notorious. My name was synonymous with troublemaker. My teacher in particular was losing the little patience she had left with me.

I always craved attention when I was little, I just loved the spotlight. This type of attention however wasn’t good for me. I was always getting in trouble. The reality was I was struggling in school, academically as well as socially. I must take some responsibility for my poor behaviour. I was still young, about 5 or 6.

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When I was home, I was always told off by my mum. I also sensed my father’s unhappiness in Switzerland. It was a stark contrast, my mum and sister adapting very well in Geneva, whilst me and my dad weren’t. I just wanted to return home. A feeling equally shared by my father. We knew it wasn’t possible. That’s why me and my dad had a very strong bond: We both didn’t like being told what to do, were stubborn and were trouble. My poor mum had the patience of a saint.

School was becoming a challenge for me each day, but I was trying. One day, to my horror, the unthinkable happened. So I was struggling with completing my tasks as per usual. I could sense the teacher approaching as her heels were getting louder and louder towards my direction. She checked my progress and each time she came by, I obviously didn’t progress because I just couldn’t understand French still. I could understand it orally but not yet read it. Each time she came by, she was shouting louder and louder at me. The once beautiful rose, became a poisonous oak instantly. Shocked and panicking, I simply froze which earned me staring and mocks from my classmates. I wanted to disappear and hide from my humiliation. Little did I know the worst was yet to come shortly. When everyone handed their tasks, I remained on my chair alone while everyone were lining up to go outside for either break time or lunch time.I’d remain behind yet again. My teacher stood up and approached me once again. I felt like a trapped rabbit in a cage with no way out. She saw red. Standing next to me, I could hear my heart beating and took a deep breath and looked her in her eyes. As she screamed at the lack of my work completion, she reached my hair. My mum that day made 2 ponytails at each side of my head. I felt my head shaking on one side up and down as she pulled my hair harder and harder. Once her deed done, she left me alone. I touched my hair immediately at first worried about how my hair must look after being pulled so hard repeatedly.

I looked around wanting my mum or dad knowing full well I was alone. I wanted to cry but opted to sob quietly instead. The last thing I wanted was having the whole class pointing at me and laughing. The pain I felt that day stuck with me for the whole day, perhaps for the whole week.I still remember that day today as if it happened yesterday. I became withdrawn in class and at school too. I quickly became aware that groups were forming in the class; those who were well ahead academically usually stuck together, those who were the teacher’s pet also stuck together. Girls who had a certain popularity picked their friends to play with that day. Now people like me, who not only struggle academically and also troublemakers, were often disregarded by the teacher and classmates. I became used to being the outsider. All I knew back then, this type of treatment from the teacher would get worse. It seemed I even became accustomed to it and didn’t talk to no one about it, not even my parents. I didn’t know what I found worse, my teacher’s physical/emotional abuse or my parent’s reaction to what was happening? Lost, angry and hurt my troubles, including my poor behaviour, would simply increase from then on.

I was actually excited at the prospect of starting school in Geneva for the first time. Wow, first day in sight. The adrenaline was rushing through my veins like electricity.

Our dad as always, went to work by his borrowed motorcycle. Looking at his miserable face, he wasn’t delighted to go to work unlike us, excited bees. Once my mum finished preparing us, we were on our way to a brand new adventure in the beautiful city . As ever, we were admiring our surroundings. The sweet smell of the fresh air invading our nostrils. Patiently waiting for the bus, we admired the tramway so much for some reason. Tramways in Lisbon are usually located in the city and not the suburbs. In Geneva, tramways are everywhere. On our way to our new school we went.

At first, when we arrived at school, all the children only spoke French, which was hard for us as we only spoke Portuguese or creole. French is a very hard language to learn let alone talk. Our parents spoke French fluently and obviously frequently gave us lessons. Once my mum dropped us off to our respective class, she ensured us she was around. Reassured, I went to my classroom. As I settled, I just couldn’t stop admiring the beauty of my teacher. She had short dark blond hair. Her emerald eyes pierced right through me. Her beauty spread through the whole classroom. I’ll learn a lesson for life: looks can sometimes be deceiving.

From the get go, I struggled in school and as a result didn’t fair well at all. It wasn’t the fact that I didn’t apply myself, I just did not understand French. The language was a barrier which I struggled to cross. I couldn’t manage completing simple tasks. Even when asked to use a pencil, I would take a colouring pencil instead, often a black one. Inevitably, I didn’t follow any instructions and was getting in trouble often. Soon my notoriety would be known throughout the whole school.
To return to my struggles in class, at the time, the teacher was the sole lessons provider, therefore we couldn’t ask for support and support staff in Geneva then (probably still even now) were non existent. It soon became clear that I wasn’t learning anything. The teacher spotted that and resorted to new measures. So instead of supporting me or finding ways to break things down to support me, her solution was to simply place me at the back of the class. The back of the class consisted of the play area. So from then on, while my classmates were learning, I was playing or reading for the whole day. At first, of course I found it fun and even looked forward to go to the classes as all I did was play. I also used to read books, well attempting anyway.

Suddenly, I realised what was happening right under my nose: all my classmates at the front were physically as well as mentally ahead of me, while I was left behind. I felt like an outsider, like the odd one out after a while. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t make friends in class. It resulted in my playtime being so boring. I was at fault sometimes as when other children approached me, I couldn’t communicate with them. I would kick and sometimes bite them simply because they couldn’t understand me. This frustration of mine was a time bomb waiting to explode further.

Clearly things were not going well. I was missing home, Lisbon and I just wanted to return to my source of comfort; my dad. My dad was the only person who understood me, accepted me the way I was and he was the only person who knew me inside out. My dad simply knew what I like and what I didn’t. He knew how to console me unlike my teacher, the nuns or my mum who were always nagging. My dad was my rock and in a way I was his distraction for when he came back downhearted from work. Despite the unconditional love from my dad and mum, I wasn’t making myself any favours either. However, my teacher was concerned of my progress and addressed the issues to my worried mum.

My behaviour started being poor and my progress too. My teacher suggested for me to redo the year. Not only was I slowly cast away completely from my classmates, but I would inherit my sister’s friends. My sister would have to redo a year also. The suggestion I believe was what the teacher thought would be best.

I had mixed feelings of course. On one hand, I’d have the same teacher so I’d be guaranteed my comfort blanket. On the other hand,

while my classmates will move up to the next year, I wouldn’t and will literally remain behind. This outsider stigma would always stay with me always. To put it simply I was a black sheep. Soon, I would identify that stigma to my favourite characters in books, films and animation. To sum up, my first excitement on starting a new school in Geneva ended in disaster. Sadly, I’d experience worse in schools as my defiance and bad behaviour would feed from the bad experiences I would be forced to received at the hand of those who were supposed to support me