Focus

At the beginning of each ESOL class, Susan, our instructor, writes her name and my name on the white board under the heading 'teachers.' She then writes the words 'speaking, listening, writing, reading' in a list. 

"My name is Susan Woodworth. First name Susan; last name Woodworth," she says, pointing to the words with her finger. Then she'll do the same with my name.

"We are teachers," she says, pointing out the pluralizing s. "There are two teachers in the classroom today."

The students seem to be fascinated by my last name. I'll be standing there, off to the side of the three rows of folding tables, attention fixed on the white board, and I'll hear it. 

Cebula. Cebula.

se-BOO-lah.

SEH-boo-leh.

Cebulacebulacebulacebula.

I'll look around and three or four of the students will be looking at the white board, or at Susan, fairly expressionless, just repeating the sounds of my last name, quietly, just above a whisper, as if just to themselves, as if they're trying to memorize it. They don't even seem to realize they're doing it. 

The first time I noticed this, I thought they were trying to figure out how to pronounce it. I have to repeat their names many times to get them right. Udaya and Sharifahon and Draupadi are not combinations of syllables commonly found in my mental dictionary of names. But they don't repeat my first name over and over; they simply call me Sharon--actually they call me 'Saron' or 'teetser,' which is how they pronounce my name and the word teacher. Nepali does not seem to accommodate th, ch, or fricative sounds. 

But the word 'Cebula' catches their fancy somehow. I wonder why. I wonder if it sounds like a word in Nepali, or if it makes a sound that is musical to them, or if it just feels good to say. When I first saw the name, I put the emphasis on the first syllable, making it rhyme with the word nebula, which I thought was really cool. After meeting the man attached to the name, the man who would become my husband, I learned that cebula is the Polish word for onion, so it became even cooler for me. 

And it does have a rhytmic quality to it, kind of like the three-beat of a polka with a beat of rest in between: ce-BU-la (pause) ce-BU-la (pause) ce-Bu-la. It can sound like a chant or a marching anthem. When the Nepali students repeat it in hushed tones in the basement classroom, the little hairs on the back of my neck prick up and butterflies flutter in my belly. The whispery sound of their repeatings makes me think of the audience in the old Looney Toons opera cartoon, the one where Bugs takes the place of a famous orchestra conductor: when the audience thinks the renowned master is approaching the stage they all whisper among themselves, "Leapold! Leapold! Leapold!" 

It's not an unpleasant sensation, hearing these sweet people savor my married name. It's just odd. I'm sure they're not doing it with any kind of malicious intent--they all seem to be very gracious, kind-hearted people. I just wonder what their thoughts are. I constantly wonder what they think of me, of Americans in general, of Akron, of Ohio, of the Institute, of the advertisements and cars and people they see and hear all day every day. 

When I leave the Institute on Mondays and Wednesdays, I am particularly aware of the cacophony of images and sounds that surround us constantly in this country. Tallmadge Avenue, just outside the Institute, is a very busy street, with buses and trucks and cars screeching to a stop at the red light right out front, then vrooming off again for two blocks to another light. A muffler shop just across the street adds hydrolic tools whirling and buzzing, their metallic pings and and bangs ringing out over the mad rush of traffic. Above all this, endless billboards assail the eyes with images of cell phone ads, pet clinics, pregnancy care notices, festival dates, and reminders that Jesus loves you. The quiet focus of the Institute basement stays with me for an hour or two after I leave it, making me drive a little more slowly, observe crosswalks more closely, stop fully and completely at every stop sign. I look forward to the four hours every week when the most important things for me to remember are the names of twenty-five Nepali immigrants, and the most difficult task we work on is adding up coins to buy fruit.