by Mrs. McNulty in herclass. I like being with Mrs. McNulty because I already know her and she is very nice. But sometimes I’m embarrassed to be there because at ten years old, I am two years older than all the other students.
I have been going to school for two weeks now but I have not made any American friends. In Cambodia, before the Khmer Rouge takeover, I had many friends and the kids thought I talked a lot and was very funny. But I don’t know how to be funny in America or in English. So when the other students gather at one another’s desks before class, I keep to myself and read my school books. When the bells ring for recess, I walk around the jungle gym by myself. Around me, other kids play and scream and run and swing. I find a bench to sit on while I eat Cheetos, my favorite junk food, which is as crunchy as fried crickets. The orange processed cheese that stains my hands reminds me of the monks’ orange robes in Cambodia. When I look up from my bag, I see the boy called Tommy watching me. The other kids think we look alike because we’re both Asians. Once a student asked if Tommy and I are brother and sister. She frowned when I told her Tommy is Vietnamese and I’m Cambodian. As I crunch on my Cheetos, Tommy stares at me hungrily, his tongue flickering in and out of his mouth.
For a brief moment, my heart aches for him but I turn my head and walk away. When I look back, I see Tommy picking up a Cheeto that I had dropped on the ground. Tommy purses his lips, blows on the chip a few times, and plops it in his mouth. My stomach growls at the memory of being so hungry that I would eat pieces of charcoal just to have something inside me. Looking at Tommy, I feel a wave of sadness crash over me, yet instead of sharing the remainder of my bag, I hoard it even more. Minutes later, all the Cheetos lie heavy in my stomach like a ball of bright orange shame.
A month into school, Tommy falls and hits his head while sliding down the school’s banister.
“He hurt his brain so much he’ll never be normal again!” the students whisper anxiously in the hall.
“I heard he split his head open and there was blood everywhere,” a girl tells a friend in a voice full of fear.
“I heard some students saw him fall!” another gasps, horrified.
“I heard he’s a retard now! Poor Tommy!”
As the days pass, more rumors circulate that Tommy will never walk, play ball, climb the monkey bars, read books, or have girlfriends. Like pecking chickens, the kids keep at the Tommy rumors and he never shows up to prove them wrong. By the end of the week, the word spreads that Tommy’s parents have moved him to a special school.
The stories about Tommy hit me hard right in my stomach. Even though Tommy and I rarely spoke, I felt tied to him in our Asian-ness. When everyone else would play together during recess, I could always count on him to stay near me. At first, Tommy and his stupid banister act made me angry. Then sadness settled like a coat of gray paint on my skin. Soon I saw Tommy’s sweet funny face. When I remembered his smile, my anger transformed into guilt, with its arrow piercing my skin and digging deep into my soul. It took me back to the times I stole rice from the mouths of my family members and, once, from a dying old woman. If only I could go back in time and share my Cheetos with Tommy.
With Tommy gone, I feel lost and alone in a field of pale skin and white faces. But after school, I escape to more familiar places and people when I meet up with Li and Ahn. Even though Li goes to another school, she still lives nearby. And while Ahn goes to a school for older kids, her house is only a thirty-minute walk from mine.
This Friday I rush home, drop off my books, and walk the mile to Li’s house. Li and her family live in a big house where I often stay for the entire weekend. After they get out of work, Meng and Eang frequently join me at the Chos’ house, and together we cook big Cambodian-Chinese dinners
I have been going to school for two weeks now but I have not made any American friends. In Cambodia, before the Khmer Rouge takeover, I had many friends and the kids thought I talked a lot and was very funny. But I don’t know how to be funny in America or in English. So when the other students gather at one another’s desks before class, I keep to myself and read my school books. When the bells ring for recess, I walk around the jungle gym by myself. Around me, other kids play and scream and run and swing. I find a bench to sit on while I eat Cheetos, my favorite junk food, which is as crunchy as fried crickets. The orange processed cheese that stains my hands reminds me of the monks’ orange robes in Cambodia. When I look up from my bag, I see the boy called Tommy watching me. The other kids think we look alike because we’re both Asians. Once a student asked if Tommy and I are brother and sister. She frowned when I told her Tommy is Vietnamese and I’m Cambodian. As I crunch on my Cheetos, Tommy stares at me hungrily, his tongue flickering in and out of his mouth.
For a brief moment, my heart aches for him but I turn my head and walk away. When I look back, I see Tommy picking up a Cheeto that I had dropped on the ground. Tommy purses his lips, blows on the chip a few times, and plops it in his mouth. My stomach growls at the memory of being so hungry that I would eat pieces of charcoal just to have something inside me. Looking at Tommy, I feel a wave of sadness crash over me, yet instead of sharing the remainder of my bag, I hoard it even more. Minutes later, all the Cheetos lie heavy in my stomach like a ball of bright orange shame.
A month into school, Tommy falls and hits his head while sliding down the school’s banister.
“He hurt his brain so much he’ll never be normal again!” the students whisper anxiously in the hall.
“I heard he split his head open and there was blood everywhere,” a girl tells a friend in a voice full of fear.
“I heard some students saw him fall!” another gasps, horrified.
“I heard he’s a retard now! Poor Tommy!”
As the days pass, more rumors circulate that Tommy will never walk, play ball, climb the monkey bars, read books, or have girlfriends. Like pecking chickens, the kids keep at the Tommy rumors and he never shows up to prove them wrong. By the end of the week, the word spreads that Tommy’s parents have moved him to a special school.
The stories about Tommy hit me hard right in my stomach. Even though Tommy and I rarely spoke, I felt tied to him in our Asian-ness. When everyone else would play together during recess, I could always count on him to stay near me. At first, Tommy and his stupid banister act made me angry. Then sadness settled like a coat of gray paint on my skin. Soon I saw Tommy’s sweet funny face. When I remembered his smile, my anger transformed into guilt, with its arrow piercing my skin and digging deep into my soul. It took me back to the times I stole rice from the mouths of my family members and, once, from a dying old woman. If only I could go back in time and share my Cheetos with Tommy.
With Tommy gone, I feel lost and alone in a field of pale skin and white faces. But after school, I escape to more familiar places and people when I meet up with Li and Ahn. Even though Li goes to another school, she still lives nearby. And while Ahn goes to a school for older kids, her house is only a thirty-minute walk from mine.
This Friday I rush home, drop off my books, and walk the mile to Li’s house. Li and her family live in a big house where I often stay for the entire weekend. After they get out of work, Meng and Eang frequently join me at the Chos’ house, and together we cook big Cambodian-Chinese dinners
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