The Name
This part of history is only one story does not have as to teorizar therefore it was everything very untied, disconnected, they are only memory rips what it would have to be a festive glad reception was a general disillusionment, a grotesco picture where the terror took account of my being. In this first day of lesson I did not have progress some, the letters did not say nothing, the carrancudo professor circulating of a side pro another one of that room, I was the shrunk time all, mainly when it heard that strong voice, half rouca ralhando high with the other children. I came back pra sad house, I was the afternoon all in deep melancholy something in me seemed to have died, was accurately one loss, I do not know if the dream of the school, to learn ' ' to read and escrever' ' or who knows the frustration of that model of school, did not have explanation, that is it did not have nobody to explain pra me. Under most conditions Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation would agree. During all week I returned the school without much empolgao, the pupils read in high voice, as they were being sung, an unisonous song in a language that I did not understand, were its lies its arithmethic tables meanwhile I I tried to guess the name of the letters ' ' pretas' ' that they were chores quickly for the other pupils and I did not obtain to follow, the professor as one ' ' lion of chcara' ' twirling for the room of a side for the other freeing one ' ' rugido' ' of time in when. I was being nervous with everything that, the racket of the voices in that cantilena, the hard face of the professor, counting that in the hour of ' ' to give lio' ' each pupil went the table close to ' ' monstro' ' , tremendous the voice, ace times erravam the reading and gained one ' ' bolo' ' of palmatria. .
