Aaron B. Cohen
In 1963 my Dad, an exchange scientist, moved the family to London. I was ten when I entered the world of “She Loves You, Yeah, Yeah” and “Dr. Who.”
Entering fifth grade at Barrow Hill school meant I’d have to take the 11-plus, a test that sealed a child’s future. But as a visiting Yank, I had bigger fish and chips to fry, like learning there are 12 pence in a shilling, 20 shillings in a pound, and 21 shillings in a guinea. Farthings, ha’pnies, tupence, thrupence, sixpence, half crowns, crowns—those coins were heavy!
I bought my school uniform at a musty clothier’s. Out with my Lees; in with the blue wool blazer with school crest; grey shirt, shorts, high socks, and trench coat; and blue-and-red striped tie.
The beanie was icing on the cake.
On my first day, Dad steered me through the schoolyard and left me with the headmaster. I felt like a potato about to be peeled.
"I hope you brought two shillings for dinnah," he said, briefing me on the day.
"Dinner? Gee, I gotta be home for dinner," I stammered.
“You don’t ‘got’ to be home, you HAVE to be home,” he corrected me, his voice tinged with disdain for my accent.
At noon I queued in the dining hall, where a lump of shepherd's pie, a splotch of treacle pudd’ and a posse of prunes were plopped on my plate. Boys and girls peppered me with questions. When I started eating the Cockney buzz rose to a roar. "Oy, look at how the Yank eats!" I quickly learned to eat with my fork planted it in my left hand and the knife in my right.
The weeks wore on; my Midwest accent had to go. Kids aped me less if I rounded my “a’s” and softened my “r’s” like a reayal Lundahnah.
School discipline was harsh. An infraction could send you to the headmaster's office for “six of the best” with a cane across the tush.
I learned by rote and practiced Italics, dipping my nib in a porcelain inkpot and blotting my paper on worn and whittled desks. I played cricket and rounders and sang The Beatles at the top of my lungs, avoiding the bullies who spilled blood every day.
I became an English schoolboy, but of a certain type.
In daily Divinity class, a deacon of the Church of England versed me mates while we four Jewish kids sat outside on a bench. Every Friday a rabbi tended to our spiritual needs, which for me had grown considerably.
A Yank among Brits, a Jew among gentiles, I was a stranger in a strange land.
The tipping point came on a school trip to Hampton Court when some American women approached me mates and me. “Look at that cute little English schoolboy!” one said, pointing at my round spectacles.
I looked her in the eye, flattened my vowels, and shot back. “No, lady, I'm from Chicago.”