Hide and Seek

So, against my gut feelings, I said “yes” to the hide-and-seek session in the band room. It was a pretty childish game, I guess. I was probably too mature to be playing hide-and-seek at the age of 9, or so I thought.

Boy, was I wrong. Plenty of 4th graders were excited to mess around in a classroom.

Ever seen a game of hide-and-seek and tag at the same time?

Epic.

And so I hid and ran, bumping into chairs and whatnot. I was almost too thrilled to remember that I had just partaken in the most mischievous act I was ever a part of: lying about having band practice.

A few kids, especially the teacherʼs pets, thought we were a ridiculous bunch for lying to teachers and parents.

But there were a lot more kids who just said “screw the rules” and locked the door.

And I was one of them.

And I didnʼt even consider what the consequences might be.

About six oʼclock, we decided to wrap things up. As I was walking out, I saw my momʼs car parked in the usual spot, next to the gate. After I got into the car, reality hit me. And it stabbed me right in the chest.

“I had waited for you the past two hours,” Mom said.

Ouch.

“How was band practice?” she asked.

“It was fun,” I said.

“Well, Iʼm glad that you enjoyed your last day.”

“...”

I could handle scolding.

But not this.

In hindsight, it wasnʼt a big deal.

But that lie, and the idea of making my mom wait two hours for some stupid game, had made me feel pretty shameful about myself.

I was a bad kid breaking rules with other bad kids.

It made me feel awful.

I just felt guilty and childish. I sat there in the backseat, silent, and remembered how I convinced myself to join the hide-and-seek. I reassured myself that, because today is my last day at the school, I get to do whatever I want. And I knew that if I didnʼt, I'll regret it for the rest of my life.

And then I wondered what my day would have been like if I had gone home right after school. Damn, that would be lame. But I couldnʼt get over the guilt. I wouldnʼt get over it. Still, no matter how much I hated what I did today, I would never regret my decision. Never.

At least, I hope Iʼd never regret it.

Internal Monologue

Before you know it, we're in the pick-up lobby at San Francisco International Airport.

“Iʼm tired,” I said.

“Iʼm tired, too,” Mom said.

She looked me in the eyes. Her eyes looked like she just pulled an all-nighter.

“Donʼt sit on the luggage cart,” she said. “You can always just walk around if youʼre tired of sitting on the benches.”

“Fine,” I said. “Can I sit on the suitcase though?”

And so I sat on my suitcase completely exhausted. And slightly nervous.

Can you imagine what it would feel like to abandon the life you grew up with?

I would have felt heartbroken. Distressed. Petrified.

Or at least thatʼs what I thought.

You canʼt just leave everything behind and then act like it was no big deal. It was a one-way ticket. Literally. There was no way to go back, even if I wanted to.

And here I am. Sitting on my suitcase. On the other side of the world.

“Shouldnʼt I be sad?” I asked myself. “I left all of my friends. It's like graduating.”

But I wasnʼt sad. And I knew it.

“Maybe Iʼm a heartless monster who doesnʼt cry at graduation,” I thought.

But I can tell my mom is the complete opposite. I didnʼt want to be a heartless monster and a psychopath who doesnʼt have empathy.

“Iʼm a bit nervous,” I said, trying to make myself relatable.

“Iʼm nervous too,” she said.

Then it was silence again.

I felt bored so I climbed off the suitcase and walked to the exit for the 100th time. It was packed.

So I stood on the side and watched people walk in and walk out.

It was still early afternoon and we had a good hour or so to go until my dad came to pick us up. Actually, no, it went from an hour to two, to three, and to three-and-a-half hours. It felt like an eternity.

Finally, he arrived. We loaded our suitcases into the car and began driving down the roads of San Francisco.

I stared at the scenery in front of me. The trees vanished behind the car window, just like my life up to this point. What was I doing in the US of A, a completely different country with a different language and a different everything, thereby making me the stranger in town?

I should be sad. I should be nervous. Heck, I should even be excited about starting a whole new chapter in my life!

But Iʼm not. I feel nothing. Zero. Líng.

Maybe Iʼm too tired to care. Long-haul flights are no joke.

So, feeling tired and confused, I just zoned out. And pretty soon, we arrived at our destination, our home for the next two years.

But the feeling of nothingness still lingered in my head.

Maybe I'll burst into tears now at any given moment. I'll cry about how scared I am and yada yada yada…

But no, none of that. Still too tired to care. Still five-suitcases-and-two-bags-to-unpack away from caring.

“Okay,” I said to myself. “This is my new life.”

I Bless the Rains Down in Africa

Okay, so now you know that my English sucks. And that four years of English class had taught me nothing. But no matter how bad I am at English, school will never go away. I wish I could just take a lesson on Duolingo, or watch a Minecraft let's play on YouTube, and somehow magically master the English language overnight. But I canʼt do that. Nobody can do that, not even the greatest prodigy in the world.

I wish I was a genius, but I am really just an average immigrant kid living with her average immigrant parents surrounded by other average immigrants in wonderful San Francisco. The only difference is that all the immigrant kids in my school know how to speak English, and chances are itʼs because they are raised in America.

Do you know whatʼs the worst thing about being a first-generation immigrant? Oh, maybe youʼve done some calculations in your head and you figured:
Not knowing English + not being culturally assimilated = difficulties in all aspects of life

And sure, sometimes, I feel alienated because I couldnʼt understand the slangs and jokes, but I know that, sooner or later, I will be able to crack the code to what makes 69 a funny number.

Fourth Graders.

And yes I hear you being impatient. “Okay, okay, Ms. Captain Obvious, Ms. Chinese not-so-American, Ms. Socially Awkward, what are you trying to say?”

So, okay, Iʼm going to tell you why it sucks to suck at English.

The other day we watched a documentary about what it was like to live in a certain African nation. (I mean, at least that's what I think it was.) Weʼre supposed to write a summary of the movie.

I tried my best to follow along, but the lack of subtitles really didnʼt help.

Honestly, I didnʼt understand a single thing. It was like playing Pictionary except I don't understand the rules and I don't know how to say the word in English.

Luckily, I had a friend next to me who was Chinese.

“Hey Romilly,” I said (in Chinese). “Is ‘weatherʼ the English word for 天气?”

“Yes, thatʼs correct,” she whispered.

“Whatʼs the word for ‘高速公路ʼ in English?”

“Highway,” she said. Answering my question yet again.

And again.

But she was getting annoyed. I could tell by the way she was talking. She sounded impatient. Her answers were getting shorter and louder, which makes sense. People raise their voices and pretend like theyʼre not acting snarky when they get angry.

“Hey, how do you say ‘塑料ʼ in English?”

That was the final straw.

“ITʼS PLASTIC!! GOSH NOW STOP BOTHERING ME IʼM TRYING TO FOCUS!!!!!”

Yep, I got yelled at. Well, it wasnʼt as dramatically loud as I made it out to be. But when everyone is watching a movie in silence, anything louder than the sound of pencils rubbing against papers is pretty dang loud. And trust me, the last thing you want is for your failure to become the center of attention.

“Iʼm sorry,” I said. “I promise I wonʼt bother you again.”

This time I got no response.

Jeez, how embarrassing was that? You bet Iʼm holding back those tears of shame as I apologize.

To be fair, I would get annoyed too if I was her.

Sucks to suck for me.

I looked down at my paper and the four pitiful sentences I had written in bad English.

I wanted to throw that piece of paper into the trashcan.

I wanted to throw myself into the trashcan.

I wanted to blame my Mom and Dad for my misery.

But I canʼt blame my parents because they wanted the best for ME, and that's why I'm here, in America, struggling to learn English.

It sucks to be a newbie, and it sucks to feel like that somehow makes you inferior. You start to notice all the times that people started giggling after you said something. Then you start to believe that they are laughing at you, not with you. And because you couldnʼt fit in you start to see yourself as a complete outsider and it hurts.

Challenges in life donʼt make you stronger. No, challenges only discourage you from stepping out of your comfort zone.

So, being the wimp I am, I asked the teacher if I could write the summary in Chinese.

Surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly after the fiasco, he said yes.

Which definitely encouraged me to learn English.

Bless You

When I was in fourth grade, I had one of the most memorable experiences of my life, called culture shock. Every sneeze had to be followed by a phrase that sounded like gibberish. I didn't understand what I was supposed to say or why I was supposed to say it, but I knew I needed to follow the herd. Of course, I wanted to fit in. It was a cultural thing, and even though I was still a rookie, I knew that I wouldn't want to be seen as a weirdo who is uncultured, ungracious, and un-American.

One day, at recess, with no one around, I got up the courage to ask a friend.

“So… what exactly is ‘bread-shoeʼ?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Yʼknow, like ‘bread-shoeʼ? ‘Bled-stewʼ?”

“Huh?”

“The thing that weʼre supposed to say after someone sneezes?” I asked again, desperate.

A moment of awkward silence later.

“Oh you mean Bless You?” She said.

“Wait, say that again?”

“Bless You.”

“Yea that.”

“How do you not know this?”

And that almost brought me to tears. Man, I was such a snowflake.

“Itʼs just a nice thing we say.”

“Okay.” I said.

I lied. I was not okay. But at least I'm now one step closer to being a real American.

Exposed

The cafeteria is the infamous, popular part of the school that happens to be right next to the recess playground. And the experience was not the best if Iʼm being honest. It was filled with loud, stupid kids and angry supervisors who yelled at every kid that wasnʼt sitting down.

One time during lunch, a bunch of kids got STD: Sentenced To Detention.

The cafeteria has always been like that, with shenanigans and pranks and food fights.

But one instance stood out to me.

“HEY EVERYONE!! QUIET AND SIT DOWN!!” one of the supervisors yelled.

Nothing unusual. Until she pointed at me.

“Why canʼt you guys be like her?” She said. “Look at her, sheʼs reading a book, quiet, enjoying her lunch.”

“No, I am not enjoying my lunch,” I said to myself. I couldnʼt believe this was happening. For me, this was the equivalent of saying “hey look at her being a teacher's pet.”

And no one likes the teacher's pet.

Worst yet, take a guess at what kind of book I was reading.

Yep, itʼs a book in Chinese. It was almost like the whole universe was against me. I couldnʼt even feel legitimate for being a good kid.

I mean, there's nothing wrong with reading a book in your native language, so maybe Iʼm wrong for making it a big deal for myself. And being a bookworm isnʼt bad either. But what is bad is that Iʼm reading in my native language, because itʼs the only language I know.

The other kids got called out for being dumb kids, while I got called out for being a dumb kid who doesnʼt know English.

Welp, I guess this is the downside of being an overthinker.

You overthink.