“You have no lice. We washed you with lice shampoo many times already before we sent you to school!”
“Ooouuccchh!” I complain as my head begin to heat up. Furiously, Eang works on my scalp, her nails like tweezers as she pulls the dead eggs off strands of my hair.
“These are dried-up lice eggs in your hair! See, they’re only flat sacks.” Eang shows me a sack on a strand of hair she’s just pulled out. “If they were live eggs, they would be plump and shiny. These are flat and dull. If they were live eggs, we would be able to pop them between our thumb nails and they would burst.” She attempts to crush the egg between her nails. No pops. “These are dead and will not pop!”
“Ouch!” I scream. I know Eang’s right but I don’t have the words to explain it to the nurse.
“That nurse cannot tell the difference between a live egg and a dead egg.”
As Eang works, she talks to herself about how we are from a good family and that we know not to send our children to school with lice. Then she begins her familiar tirade about how we must save face and do things to not embarrass our family name. For the next hour, my scalp is washed, rinsed, and pulled, and then the process repeats again until Eang is satisfied.
After she is done with my head, Eang wraps a big white towel around me and sits me down at the kitchen table. Her face softens when she looks at me wince as I drag a comb through my knotted hair. Then she opens the refrigerator door, pulls out the container of Bryer’s ice cream, puts three scoops into a bowl, and hands it to me.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
Without a word, she takes the comb from my hand and untangles my hair while I eat.
The next morning I set off to school by myself. This time I walk with a little less bounce and a lot more heaviness in my steps. Once in the class,I sit in my desk with eyes downcast while Mrs. Donaldson returns the vanilla journals back to the students. Right away, the students open their journals to read Mrs. Donaldson’s comments on their work. I don’t receive mine, but I wouldn’t be able to read her comments anyway.
“Class, please open your book and read the first story.” My classmates put away their journals and open their story books.
“Loo-ung,” Mrs. Donaldson calls me. This time I raise my arm like a vine instead of a palm tree. “Please come here.” I walk up to her desk, my arms close to my side. She holds up the yellow book I wrote in yesterday. “This is what you did this summer?”
“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.” I flash my teeth and nod my head to show her I understand her words.
“Hmm. Let’s read it together. ‘What I did this summer,’” she begins. I stare at the words and mouth the sounds she makes.
“‘I visited my grandmother and grandfather. It was fun. I love seeing them. We got a dog. I played with it a lot.’” She looks up at me. “Is that so?”
“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.” My teeth feel less bright now but I do not want to disagree with the teacher. And I do not want to lose face in front of the other students.
“Do you understand the assignment?”
“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.” My cheeks are pink.
“Do you know how to write?”
“Yes, teacher.” My face is now red.
“Can you write something for me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.”
In the journal, I write A, B, C, D, E, F …
“That’s good, thank you.” At last she understands and asks me to gather my pencil and journal. “Class, please continue to read quietly. I’ll be right back.” From their seats, the other students lift their heads out of their books and watch me gather my belongings. Then I follow Mrs. Donaldson out of the class; my legs feel closer to the ground than ever.
The next thing I know, I am sitting in a private room learning English words with another teacher through flash cards and games such as Go Fish, just like Sarah would play with us in our apartment this summer. When I am not in my special lesson, I am being tutored
“Ooouuccchh!” I complain as my head begin to heat up. Furiously, Eang works on my scalp, her nails like tweezers as she pulls the dead eggs off strands of my hair.
“These are dried-up lice eggs in your hair! See, they’re only flat sacks.” Eang shows me a sack on a strand of hair she’s just pulled out. “If they were live eggs, they would be plump and shiny. These are flat and dull. If they were live eggs, we would be able to pop them between our thumb nails and they would burst.” She attempts to crush the egg between her nails. No pops. “These are dead and will not pop!”
“Ouch!” I scream. I know Eang’s right but I don’t have the words to explain it to the nurse.
“That nurse cannot tell the difference between a live egg and a dead egg.”
As Eang works, she talks to herself about how we are from a good family and that we know not to send our children to school with lice. Then she begins her familiar tirade about how we must save face and do things to not embarrass our family name. For the next hour, my scalp is washed, rinsed, and pulled, and then the process repeats again until Eang is satisfied.
After she is done with my head, Eang wraps a big white towel around me and sits me down at the kitchen table. Her face softens when she looks at me wince as I drag a comb through my knotted hair. Then she opens the refrigerator door, pulls out the container of Bryer’s ice cream, puts three scoops into a bowl, and hands it to me.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
Without a word, she takes the comb from my hand and untangles my hair while I eat.
The next morning I set off to school by myself. This time I walk with a little less bounce and a lot more heaviness in my steps. Once in the class,I sit in my desk with eyes downcast while Mrs. Donaldson returns the vanilla journals back to the students. Right away, the students open their journals to read Mrs. Donaldson’s comments on their work. I don’t receive mine, but I wouldn’t be able to read her comments anyway.
“Class, please open your book and read the first story.” My classmates put away their journals and open their story books.
“Loo-ung,” Mrs. Donaldson calls me. This time I raise my arm like a vine instead of a palm tree. “Please come here.” I walk up to her desk, my arms close to my side. She holds up the yellow book I wrote in yesterday. “This is what you did this summer?”
“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.” I flash my teeth and nod my head to show her I understand her words.
“Hmm. Let’s read it together. ‘What I did this summer,’” she begins. I stare at the words and mouth the sounds she makes.
“‘I visited my grandmother and grandfather. It was fun. I love seeing them. We got a dog. I played with it a lot.’” She looks up at me. “Is that so?”
“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.” My teeth feel less bright now but I do not want to disagree with the teacher. And I do not want to lose face in front of the other students.
“Do you understand the assignment?”
“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.” My cheeks are pink.
“Do you know how to write?”
“Yes, teacher.” My face is now red.
“Can you write something for me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Donaldson.”
In the journal, I write A, B, C, D, E, F …
“That’s good, thank you.” At last she understands and asks me to gather my pencil and journal. “Class, please continue to read quietly. I’ll be right back.” From their seats, the other students lift their heads out of their books and watch me gather my belongings. Then I follow Mrs. Donaldson out of the class; my legs feel closer to the ground than ever.
The next thing I know, I am sitting in a private room learning English words with another teacher through flash cards and games such as Go Fish, just like Sarah would play with us in our apartment this summer. When I am not in my special lesson, I am being tutored
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