One foot in front of the other. There you go. Left, right –
“Chink!”
Left, right, left – before I could take my next step, I found myself falling face first into the floor.
* * *
Ugly, clunky Payless sandals. Unstylish, too-short jeans. Oversized sweatshirts. At twelve, all I wanted to do was belong. I sure as hell couldn’t walk in those sandals, but I wore them anyway. Middle school was a time of big feet, geekiness, and insecurities. My mother still sent me to school in an ugly pink dress for picture day back then, and I had the trademark hairstyle of the eighties: big bangs and a ponytail secured by a scrunchie. I got labeled teacher’s pet because I was always the first kid chosen to get a Pepsi out of the vending machine for them during class. But I wasn’t good at anything worth being good at according to my classmates. Sports. Friends. Looks. Life. Normalcy.
* * *
Since the day I considered myself “Americanized,” my most vivid memory of stories I’ve been told remains the day my older brother, Mike, asked Mom and Dad “Can we send her back to the airport?” At one and a half, I had the typical fat-head syndrome and growing up in a family where I’ve often been considered the source of comic relief, moments like these were not uncommon. I sort of shrugged off their silly comments.
Since becoming a member of the states, I’ve been a Michigan resident. My family has lived in the heart of Teacherville forever, which fits I guess. My parents, who have beat their teaching certificates to death, think they know everything. I have friends who agree. They’ll say things like, “Dude, your dad created the universe!” My mom is an overworked and underpaid elementary music teacher who, if secretly recorded at two o’clock in the morning can be heard rambling excessive and incoherently, snoring, and singing bits and pieces of songs from Annie, Get Your Gun.
My brothers and I have this awkward relationship. We rarely talk to each other. Mike is too busy cleaning carpets and taking classes at the nearby community college, what he calls the Harvard of the Midwest, and Will occupies most of his time snowboarding or hanging out at the nearby country western bar. The only thing we shared growing up and took seriously was playing soccer. My mother proudly sported the Soccer Mom sweatshirts and those damn pins with our pictures on them to work.
I’ve never considered myself very socially able. Becoming acquainted with people in elementary school was easy. All I had to do was lend my periwinkle crayon to the kid sitting next to me. Middle school consisted of facing classmates who had something to prove: they were assholes. I finally interacted with a few people I could call friends during high school. As borderline social outcasts and the epitome of goody goodies who didn’t party, we weren’t usually the first invited to the big social gatherings. Instead, we typically bowled, watched movies, ate popcorn, played Taboo, and had sleepovers. I played Hostess.
But none of that really mattered. I was still destined to be ridiculed by the world’s cruel bastards.
* * *
Most mornings, I’d stumble up the stairs at school in my platform sandals and my oversized sweatshirt, left, right, left, right down the hall, notice a snickering group of classmates crowded around my locker, and stop. They’d spot me, and quickly split in opposite directions down the hall. Those stupid bastards. I already knew what I’d find. Typically, I approached a mess of photographs from ripped magazines, mostly of poor or homeless Asians plastered all over what I called my locker. Offended, but usually more pissed and embarrassed, I’d bolt for the bathroom and kick open the stall door. Sometimes I contemplated locking myself there for a while with my tears and toilet paper.
* * *
Back in the hallway, I trudged along in my size eight-and-a-halfs a little faster. People gawked at me, as if seeing someone walk to class was the most interesting thing they’d ever seen. It kinda made me feel like a zoo exhibit. I stared at my feet and minded my own business so I didn’t have to look at anyone. Mostly, I just wanted to avoid embracing the floor again.
As the classroom door approached my sight, I thought I was safe.
“Hey Emily.” Shit. “Where’s your green card?”
I didn’t slow down to acknowledge him. I just headed straight for the classroom, pretending that his comment was directed at someone else. Sure.
After class, the stupid kid handed me a piece of paper.
“Hey, here’s your green card,” he said. I glanced down at the ‘green card’ that his dumb ass had crafted out of paper and markers. No big deal, I’ll just go die now. Of course I wanted my fist to have a serious encounter with his face, but more than that, I wanted to disappear. What could my comeback possibly be at this point? Uh…where’s yours? Is there a card that excuses ignorant idiots? Nah. I just took it as my cue to hibernate some more.
Back to the bathroom. Left right, left –
“I chink I know you, but I might be wong.”
I gave him the finger…right, left, right.
* * *
Eight years later, I spotted a familiar face at a friend’s band gig. He ran toward me with open arms and said, “Emily! I haven’t seen you in so long.”
I hugged him back and said, “I know.” I still refer to him as the Green Card Kid.
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