It was a there story building,with two wings that gave it the shape of a double-T connected by a central hall. It was new building,painted yellow, with a shingled roof that was mot like the red school in Mazatlan.
She strode to a door in far corner of the office, opened it and called a name. A boy of about ten years appeared in the doorway. He sat down at one end of the table. He was brown like us, a plump kid with shiny black hair combed straight back, neat,cool, and faintly obnoxious.
Miss Ryan took me to seat at the front of the room, into which I shrank-the better to survey her.
Miss Ryan called for attention. "Ernesto has learned how to pronounce butterfly!"
coaching me out my phonetic ruts in words like pasture, bow-wow-wow, and pretty, which to my mexican ear and eye had so many unnecessary sounds and letters.
To become good Americans for those who were so born, to accept the rest of us.