Straight as a nun I sit.

Question

My fingers foolish before paper and pen hide in my palms. I hear the slow, accented echo How are yu? I ahm fine. How are yu? of the other women who clutch notebooks and blush at their stiff lips resting sounds that float graceful as bubbles from their children's mouths My teacher bends over me, gently squeezes my shoulders, the squeeze I give my sons, hands louder than words.

She slides her arms around me: a warm shawl, lifts my left arm onto the cold, lined paper.

"Señora, don't let it slip away," she says

and opens the ugly, soap-wrinkled fingers of my right hand with a pen like I pry open the lips of a stubborn grandchild. My hand cramps around the thin hardness. "Let it breathe," says this woman who knows my hand and tongue knot, but she guides and I dig the tip of my pen into that white. I carve my crooked name, and again at night until my hand and arm are sore, I carve my crooked name, my name.

Simplify the text

Answer 1

I sit still like a nun.

My hands fidget as they hide in my palms. I can hear the other women nervously asking each other, "How are you?" and replying, "I’m fine." They hold their notebooks tightly, their lips awkwardly forming sounds as they think of their children. My teacher leans close, gently squeezing my shoulders, just like I do with my sons.

She puts her arms around me, warm like a shawl, and lifts my left arm to the cold paper.

“Don’t let it slip away,” she reminds me.

Then she opens my right hand, holding a pen, like I gently open my stubborn grandchild’s lips. My hand cramps around the thin pen. “Let it breathe,” she says. She understands my struggle to express myself, but she encourages me. I press the pen into the paper and write my name, over and over at night until my hand hurts, I keep writing my name, my name.