Language

And when I landed in America, aged ten,
I knew the language was the same. And yet
At once the alien words confronted me
Like tests I must perform before I passed:
Gotten and cootie and the way they said
’erb, and the different gas, and turning on
The faucet. That first Christmas, presents wrapped
In something called excelsior, just bits
Of wood-shavings.

      I learned fast, but still baulked
Later at sniggerings over those secret words
Too bad to be explained: jamrag — a pad
Of cotton-wool I saw, stained, on the road;
And, inexplicably worse, the taunt
Thrown at a boy just down the way from me —
‘He’s just a ferry — keep away from him.’
How could a kind of boat be a boy too,
And one to be avoided?

      It took ten more years
To pass that test.