9999 ÷ 3
by Cristina Coppa
The dull thumps of my Artesco pencil on the graph paper synchronized with the rapid beats coursing through my blood vessels. I already knew how embarrassing my second day of school in Peru would be. Some of my new classmates were surprised that such an easy numerical expression had been assigned for homework and others had already solved it by the time the final bell rang. So how could I return to the classroom the next day without knowing the answer to 9999 ÷ 3? Mathematics was the only course where I couldn’t be excused for my rudimentary Spanish. After all, numbers are numbers, even if they’re four digits long. But how could I recuperate from these concatenating humiliations?!
My first day had started with my grandmother helping me put on my school uniform: a Peter Pan collared blouse, a tartan pinafore, burgundy cardigan and tie, knee-high socks and shiny black Mary Janes. In the United States, I had always changed into my clothes myself because I easily slipped into a shirt, jeans, and Converse. So, it’s embarrassing that your grandmother needs to help you with putting on a uniform when a pinafore’s strap gets tangled with the miniature pre-made four-in-hand. What made me feel even more embarrassed, though, was not my “gringo” accent when introducing myself to the classroom, but the questions I was subsequently asked.
“Why do you say ‘um’ and ‘uh’ all the time? Do all Americans speak that way or is it just you?”
“I never really noticed doing that at all, but I guess I just make those sounds when I don’t want it to be silent when I speak,” I replied.
“Is it true that everyone has a boyfriend or girlfriend in the USA? Did you have someone?”
I was looking down at the polished floor because I didn’t want my new classmates to see me blush. “Not everyone. And that stuff usually happens in high school so no, I didn’t have a boyfriend.”
A series of inquiries regarding ridiculous stereotypes such as my lack of blonde hair and blue eyes followed while I was thinking of ways to answer my future friends without injuring my American pride. I dodged certain embarrassing questions until a girl, who would become my nemesis in the succeeding months, lured me into a false cognate trap.
“What’s your favorite food?”
Italian pasta has always been my addiction. Still, it was incredibly difficult to pick a favorite. Maybe I could have said spaghetti and meatballs, but I wanted my palate to appear sophisticated. I was about to say spaghetti and chicken parmigiana but decided spaghetti as a word was too childish. Then, a dish my grandmother had made the prior week popped into my mind, but I didn’t know the name for it. I pondered for a few milliseconds and decided to repeat the name of my order at a trattoria my parents had taken me. It was this sequence of thoughts in this exact order that led to my downfall into the deepest depths of despair.
“Penne Alfredo.”
There have been more than 9999 Italian pasta dishes and their variations prepared throughout the course of history. Yet, three consecutive cause-and-effect deliberations led to girls laughing behind palmed mouths, boys blushing, the teacher reproaching me with a disdainful scowl and me chewing on my lip without understanding the hidden depravity of my comment.
As a member of the Anglosphere, penne was simply a cylindrical type of pasta cut diagonally at the ends. However, when this term is pronounced in Spanish, it is immediately confused with its homophone: “pene,” which means penis in English. You can imagine the added obscenity of pairing penne with Alfredo sauce.
Miss Sandra later spoke with my granny about her granddaughter’s vulgar language, to which my granny laughed and explained the misunderstanding; all while my pencil eraser tapped on my notebook as I tried to figure out 9999 ÷ 3.
As I focused on the mathematical problem, I tried to ignore the linguistic problem that would follow me outside the classroom. Peru had welcomed me with open arms. It was only I who did not know how to return the greeting. There were many times when I felt lost because the meaning of my words was lost in translation. But as much as I confused people with my foreign words and as displaced as they made me feel with theirs, I learned to greet everyone with a hug, a peck on the cheek, a willingness to laugh at false cognates, and an invitation to my new home.