Ivy Ramírez

The projector illuminates the blue screen that is all too familiar. An almost blinding white light paints the image of a castle. The classic music begins as a magical arch forms above the castle, and the words "Walt Disney Studios" make me jump in my tiny blue seat. The faint squeak of a chair fills the classroom, followed by the snickers of my classmates. 

"Sssshhh!" my kindergarten teacher says harshly. 

The credits roll with menu looking letters. After an eternity of old-fashioned singing and changing colors on the screen, the film begins. Froufrou is pulling a carriage with the lady in the back with her four cats. The madame is dressed in a fancy vibrant pink dress with a puffy scarf and she begins to speak. Her voice is heavier than what I remember. The character of the madame has a thick accent. Is this the movie I remember? Why are the words disconnected and without emotion? My teacher told us yesterday that we would watch the Aristocats. Surprisingly many kids in my class have not watched it, which seems bizarre. How come they have not seen it? 

I love this film, but now it's dead to me. My classmates laugh at the part when the mouse rides the motorcycle with Edgar. They didn't laugh at the scene where the mouse dips the cookie into the milk. All the voices are horrible to my ears. It's like someone is rattling nails in a jar, and it doesn't stop. There is no melody when they speak it’s flat. When I watched this film in Spanish with my parents, there was a rhythm in the character's voices.  They flowed like syrup dripping off pancakes. The music and speech were lively, not dead!  

The brown table in front of me is more interesting. I want to go home and watch the Aristocats with beautiful voices. Not in this lifeless language called English! I don't want to hear the deep old sounding voice of Thomas O’Malley. How did Duchess even follow him with that horrendous voice? Everywhere in the dark classroom, there is laughter. My classmates are paying attention except for the small kid in the front. His head is stuck to the table and his quiet breathing blends into the background noise of the running VHS. How I’d wish we’d trade places. My classmates gets to a free ticket to dreamland while I am here. 

The teacher turns on the lights and my eyes squint in pain. She clicks the silver projector and fiddles with it till the credits of the dancing characters fade from the screen. Her sudden clap rattles our tables. 

"Was it a good movie?" my teacher asks sweetly.

The blonde girl next to me raises her hand. She shares what she liked about the film. My other classmates start joining in the class discussion. Everyone loved the movie, all but me. 

"What did you think about it?" my teacher asked me.

"It was different," I say as the stares of blue and green eyes look at me.

They are all so different from my own eyes and even their skin is pale like marble, and I am different. I feel bitter and nauseous at the same time. I didn't enjoy the film because I am different. I am heavy and disconnected because I speak another language. I am an alien, a foreigner.