| | You call yourself a lot of things. Chinese, because that's what you've
been told. Cantonese because that's what you'd speak if you rewound
time to when you were 1 year old. Burmese because that's where your
parents are from. Asian American, because you're more Asian than
Chinese. It's hard for you to define yourself. What you used to know
were priorities: Family first, parents then siblings. Next,
teachers. Next, friends. That was your world. Loyalty was
unquestioned, literally so innate that there was no question of it. If
any of them held out a knife and told you to hold my arm out, you would
do it.
Now imagine your parents, smiling, when you were born.
Imagine you had a brother, two sisters. Imagine you had teachers who
cherished you, and classmates who envied you.
A few years pass.
Now imagine coming home to a silent house. Always, it was silent like
that when you came home. Your brother played his videogames, pointedly
attached to the screen. Your sisters closed their shared door, glowing
light emitting from the bottom, squeals of shared laughter muffled
through the wood. You walk on. You let your backpack slide from your
fingers, not even noticing the thump as it hits the floor, and then you
do your damnedest to disappear.
Earlier in the day, you had
reported to school. Your eyes desperately sought the desk as
teacher-dearest eyed you, snake-like, before proceeding to ridicule you
before the class, listing everything you had not done in the past few
weeks, and would not do because of this. Your classmates look away
from you. Some snicker. Resentment, anger, shame, and misery all coil
in your gut, burn, edge up your throat like bile, but you can't find
the words, you can't find the words, so you whisper words, forbidden
words, things you know you can never say out loud.
bitch.
whore.
god damned son of a bitch god damn god damn fuck fuck FUCK!
You
don't even notice when she's stopped talking to you, exasperated by the
lack of response. Your classmates look away. The day passes by much
easier when you don't think about anything but hate.
"You have wandering hands, don't you?"
You did not just kick the back of my head. You bitch. You BITCH.
"Why don't you do your work? Everyone else does their work."
I'm sick.
"You're not sick. You didn't do your homework, did you. You know what? Fine. Just leave. Be sick."
I AM sick. I'm sick of your SHIT.
You get home.
Home is the safehaven. Home is safe. Home is where you find a screen
to stare at and everything goes away. Until your parents come home.
The
come home, and you mourn, because you no longer rejoice in their coming
home. They come home and you no longer rush to the door. Instead, you
bury yourself further into your screen. Later, you are huddled in on
yourself as they scream, huddled at the kitchen table, huddled in the
car, huddled in your bed, sobbing. Your betrayal of their expectations
burns in their eyes. They tell you that your sister will be demeaned
as stupid because of your ruining the family name. They tell you that
everything depends on grades, and you failed. You failed your teacher,
you failed your parents, you failed your entire family.
Obey your parents. Obey your teacher. Obey, obey, obey.
Failure. Failure. Failure. Failure, failure, failure, failure, failure failure fail failfailfailaiailaillailall.
It's
safe at night, now. Night is the new safehaven. Two o clock, three o
clock, four o clock, when no one is there to not look at you, when no
one is there to yell, when no one is even awake to think of you, that's
when you're safest. Maybe...maybe, you can...fix it. Escape. Get
away.
The kitchen drawer opens as if by itself as the green
light from the digital clock shines off of your eye. No thought
touches your mind as the cool metal touches your wrist. You briefly
wonder how to do it. You've read that there is a right way and a wrong
way, and mild consternation builds as you wonder how it's done. Then
you shrug mentally, realizing that either way, by the time they find
you, you'll have gotten away.
Silence.
Sharp steel. You've watched it cut through pennies in a demonstration.
Your
life doesn't flash past your eyes. It chugs sluggishly by. Your
teacher. You failed her. You hate to admit it, but you did. The work
was easy. Your parents. You failed them. They told you so, in so
many ways. You failed yourself. Your classmates, your cousins, even
your siblings wouldn't look at you, wouldn't treat you the same way.
Your parents can't brag about you to your aunts like they used to, so
your cousins get the limelight. Your classmates don't speak to you.
Your siblings may sympathize, but they won't say anything.
The metal is still cold. Funny, it seems as if it's been against your skin for so very long. You brace yourself.
Something
inside you growls angrily. Your jaws clench. You grip the knife so
tightly you think you might have started cutting yourself with the dull
end.
Your little ball of hate roars out to the world,
white-fanged and wild-eyed. You slam the knife back into the drawer
and whip the drawer closed. Someone might wake up, but you didn't give
What? Who? Wait...
What the FUCK. WHO?
WHO MADE ME EVEN THINK OF THIS? MY TEACHER...MY PARENTS?
Disbelief flashes through your mind. Then a soul-deep sense of utter betrayal.
NO ONE DOES THIS TO ME!
Your
anger makes you stand upright, as you have not in months. Your face is
a rictus of feral anger, hatred. You storm out of the kitchen,
slamming a fist into the doorframe, knuckles cracking, wood fiber
rattling out a sharp complaint, and you revel in the pain, the absolute
conviction that. You. Are. Right.
You have not failed.
You have not failed.
They have failed you, and no other.
No other. The night fades away as black flames bring you life, then
many other nights after that. Nothing matters, then, because you are
perfection. You smile at your teacher and think idly of ways to kill
her while your parents fade to a buzz in the background.
You will remember the knife, though. You will remember how you almost made the only mistake you are capable of making.
Escaping.
I hate this story. I don't know what I'm trying to say to you exactly, otherwise I'd say it, but you have to find something inside yourself to turn and fight instead of running. Run, and you will be running for a long time. Fight, and it only lasts an instant.
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| | Posted 4/9/2006 1:23 AM - 27 Views - 22 eProps - 14 comments
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