Hidden Girl: The True Story of a Modern-Day Child Slave by Shyima Hall Page A
Authors: Shyima Hall
Ads: Link
struggling through first-grade work. That was me.
Eventually my social workers thought I was ready for more and asked my foster parents to put me in school. Because this family was a traditional Muslim one, they would consider only Muslim schools. The first school they approached, the school that was closest to where we lived, felt I was too old for the grades they offered. They were concerned that the age difference between their elementary school students and me would prove to be too much for both the other kids and me to overcome. They may have been right.
I did go for a brief time to another Muslim school, though. This school had kids my age, but even though the administrators put me into their special education classes, I was too far behind for their teachers to help me. I was perfectly happy to end up back in our little home school.
One reason I wanted to be there was that I liked my teacher a lot. She was kind and patient with me, as were her daughters, who were the other students. Of the two daughters, there was a girl my age and one a year younger. While both became dear friends, I spent more time with the younger daughter, Assana. It turned out that I wasn’t just way behind in my formal education. I was far behind in my social skills too, and because Assana was younger, she was closer to me on that level.
Without the opportunity to form friendships and play, as most other kids do, I had missed out on important developmental milestones. The preteen birthday parties, young-girl crushes on the boy next door, sleepovers, Girl Scouts, choir practice, camping, sports—I had experienced none of the normal things that other young girls do in America. My teacher and her girls helped me experience several of those things for the first time, and I am pleased that I got to share those times with these wonderful people.
I loved Assana and her family and stayed overnight at their home often. There I learned to ride a bike and use a computer. On a social level I didn’t understand that there was work time, playtime, break time, homework time, et cetera, and they helped me over that little hump of understanding too.
At this point in time I was a quiet person. I was unsure of what to say or do when I was around other people. And if I had something to say, my English was often not good enough for me to express my feelings. Assana was also a quiet person, and we became the kind of friends who understand each other intuitively. I often watched her to see what she would say or do in a given situation, so just by being herself she was teaching me.
• • •
While I enjoyed my time with Assana and her family, life with my foster family wasn’t turning out to be everything I had hoped. One reason was that I was overwhelmed with everything about my new life. I know I have used that word a lot, “overwhelmed,” but I have no other word to describe how emotionally overloaded I was. It was still hard for me to believe that simple freedoms—such as being able to sleep later than daybreak on a weekend morning, or sitting down at a table to eat rather than serving the meal—were mine.
I had had such a rigid schedule with my captors, and there had also been a routine at Orangewood. I had hated the first and enjoyed the second, but with my foster family the schedule was less formal, and that meant I had more time to myself. That was another new concept for me: personal time. I had no idea what I should do when I wasn’t responsible for something or someone else. There had never been time for me to explore my interests or talents, so I didn’t even know what I liked to do. Hike, sing, draw, play cards—I had no clue what I was good at or how to spend my time.
I ended up spending most of my free time alone in my room. I did puzzles and played with flash cards, both of which I am sure helped me developmentally but weren’t that exciting. My room became my best friend because there was a lot of arguing going on in
Eventually my social workers thought I was ready for more and asked my foster parents to put me in school. Because this family was a traditional Muslim one, they would consider only Muslim schools. The first school they approached, the school that was closest to where we lived, felt I was too old for the grades they offered. They were concerned that the age difference between their elementary school students and me would prove to be too much for both the other kids and me to overcome. They may have been right.
I did go for a brief time to another Muslim school, though. This school had kids my age, but even though the administrators put me into their special education classes, I was too far behind for their teachers to help me. I was perfectly happy to end up back in our little home school.
One reason I wanted to be there was that I liked my teacher a lot. She was kind and patient with me, as were her daughters, who were the other students. Of the two daughters, there was a girl my age and one a year younger. While both became dear friends, I spent more time with the younger daughter, Assana. It turned out that I wasn’t just way behind in my formal education. I was far behind in my social skills too, and because Assana was younger, she was closer to me on that level.
Without the opportunity to form friendships and play, as most other kids do, I had missed out on important developmental milestones. The preteen birthday parties, young-girl crushes on the boy next door, sleepovers, Girl Scouts, choir practice, camping, sports—I had experienced none of the normal things that other young girls do in America. My teacher and her girls helped me experience several of those things for the first time, and I am pleased that I got to share those times with these wonderful people.
I loved Assana and her family and stayed overnight at their home often. There I learned to ride a bike and use a computer. On a social level I didn’t understand that there was work time, playtime, break time, homework time, et cetera, and they helped me over that little hump of understanding too.
At this point in time I was a quiet person. I was unsure of what to say or do when I was around other people. And if I had something to say, my English was often not good enough for me to express my feelings. Assana was also a quiet person, and we became the kind of friends who understand each other intuitively. I often watched her to see what she would say or do in a given situation, so just by being herself she was teaching me.
• • •
While I enjoyed my time with Assana and her family, life with my foster family wasn’t turning out to be everything I had hoped. One reason was that I was overwhelmed with everything about my new life. I know I have used that word a lot, “overwhelmed,” but I have no other word to describe how emotionally overloaded I was. It was still hard for me to believe that simple freedoms—such as being able to sleep later than daybreak on a weekend morning, or sitting down at a table to eat rather than serving the meal—were mine.
I had had such a rigid schedule with my captors, and there had also been a routine at Orangewood. I had hated the first and enjoyed the second, but with my foster family the schedule was less formal, and that meant I had more time to myself. That was another new concept for me: personal time. I had no idea what I should do when I wasn’t responsible for something or someone else. There had never been time for me to explore my interests or talents, so I didn’t even know what I liked to do. Hike, sing, draw, play cards—I had no clue what I was good at or how to spend my time.
I ended up spending most of my free time alone in my room. I did puzzles and played with flash cards, both of which I am sure helped me developmentally but weren’t that exciting. My room became my best friend because there was a lot of arguing going on in
Similar Books
