4.2

Cries and Laughters

“I’d like to shake my fists in his face, scream some sense in his ears, and expose him as the social plague that he is.”

Diary:

Junior high school. It’s pretty small with only seventh and eighth graders attending, and classes are not serious enough to be a chore. And there’s something special about it, something special I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe that it’s coed? Certainly a contrast from Korea.

Small classes. Orange plastic chairs. Playful walls. Too cheerful to be a place of learning. More like a place for social gatherings with education as a secondary goal. Maybe it just seems that way because schools in Korea were dreary places. Maybe education is supposed to be fun. What a concept.

They picked most of the classes for me, but still, I had to think about some electives. Two English, math, science, music, and typing/speech. Music probably won’t help me much with English, but I couldn’t resist, I wanted at least one class I could look forward to. It was either music or art, and I decided against art because I didn’t have the stomach to ask my stepmother or Father to buy all those art supplies for me. With music, well, you just show up and sing. Would’ve been nice to have both but I had to be practical, and typing/speech did seem useful.

The students, as well as the teachers, are almost all white. I saw one or two black kids, I think, but certainly no Asians, at least in none of my classes. I’m the snowman in the desert. Impossible to ignore, impossible to sustain. People watch me wherever I go. They know how out of place I am, they know I’m putting up a front, and I can imagine their snickers when I’m not around. I’m too different, I look too different. They’re all smiles when face-to-face, but I can imagine what they must be thinking.

I hate it. It makes me self-conscious. Of every step, of every turn of my head, of every change in my facial expression, of every bodily motion I make. I’m learning how to walk all over again, how to breathe all over again, how to open doors all over again, not because I don’t know how, but because I haven’t done them consciously.

Thrust onto a stage against my will, there’s no escape. A huge audience observes me with skeptical eyes, curious eyes, and mean eyes. Watching every move I make, listening to every word I utter, just waiting for me to make a mistake, to do something dumb. So they can laugh and relax, their suspicions confirmed.

I can’t let that happen. Though I don’t want to, I must learn. How to do this, how to do that, all in front of their eyes, all completely natural, yet utterly false because I’m a pretender.

Can’t even let them see that I know. Have to pretend to be oblivious of the stage, of the audience, of the fact that everything I do is judged. It wouldn’t be appropriate if an actor stopped the play, turned around, and said to the audience, “Oh, wait, I’m just an actor in this play, and you are the audience. Mind if I take a break?”

Or would it? What would happen? What if everyone told the truth? What if nothing was hidden? What if we threw away all conventions, all expectations, and acted exactly as we feel, exactly as we think, exactly as the situation calls for?

Idle thoughts I guess. No one could be that honest. I couldn’t be that honest. Too many secrets, too many shameful memories. Only a perfect person with nothing to hide. Maybe Jesus. Or an insane, desperate person who doesn’t care, who has nothing to lose. A serial killer sentenced to die. Or maybe someone who’s completely at peace with himself. Buddha?

Not me. I can’t even face myself. Would do anything, suffer anything, but that. Perpetually projecting this ideal person I know I’m not as if it could fool anyone, as if I could get away from myself by simply practicing perfection. It’s not self-improvement. It’s not a quest for virtue, for holiness. No, it’s self-denial, self-deception, and I don’t even care.

Still, wouldn’t mind indulging myself a little. Maybe grab a hold of that Mr. Righteous Preacher. Shake his delusions, shake his smugness, demand some responsibility. This pretense that he knows anything at all. A simple, ignorant man enslaving your mind and your future based on his stupid, unjustified beliefs. Pretending that God talks to him. Pretending to have the truth, the truth, about God, about the universe, about right and wrong, about everything you need to know. Satan could be whispering in his ears and he wouldn’t know. Satan could’ve inspired the Bible and he wouldn’t know. He believes because the Book says so. He believes because that’s what he was told. Believes because he doesn’t know any better, because he’s not supposed to doubt, a neat little circle guaranteed to produce morons, automatons, more slaves to the ancient rhetoric.

And monsters. Who will threaten eternal damnation if you don’t agree. Who will kill you if it suits their purpose. All in the name of righteousness, all in the name of God, all while professing to be saints, martyrs, angels, merely doing their master’s bidding. Their pathetic God who can’t even do His own dirty work, who can’t even justify His selfish judgments.

Yeah, I’d like to shake my fists in his face, scream some sense in his ears, and expose him as the social plague that he is.

“Looking at your schedule, I think I can put you in for pre-algebra.”

“What?”

“A course before algebra. It’s pretty advanced.”

“OK.”

“Show this to your new teacher, she’ll give you a book.”

Pretty . . .

Your eyes. So sparkling, so cavorting, so teasing . . .

How can you see with those eyes, pretty girl? How can you see with so many sparkles, so much happiness? Don’t they get in the way?

You can’t see evil. You can’t see ugliness. Not with those eyes, not without shattering them.

Look at me, Sparkles, what do you see? Do you see happiness? Do you see hope? Can you see me at all? . . .

“You’re singing it wrong.”

“What?”

“The pronunciation. It’s ‘yon’ not ‘you.’”

“I don’t understand.”

“Round yon virgin mother and child.”

“Oh.”

No wonder they think I’m an idiot . . .

Smile again, pretty girl, and spread that happiness around . . . Yes, a face that has seen no anguish, how I envy you. You know exactly who you are, you live in the moment with no need for pretensions, creating happiness wherever you go. Won’t you be generous and share?

“You again! So that class was easy too?”

“Sorry.”

“Well, I can rearrange your schedule and put you in for algebra. But this is the most advanced course, so there’s no transferring out of this one, you understand.”

“OK.”

“There’s only one class for it, and I have to change your lunch period. This is the new schedule.”

“Right.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Playing hide-and-seek, are we? But I found you again.

What’s your name, pretty girl?

Where are you going?

“Go on, have a seat anywhere.”

All eyes on me. Quiet. Expectant. A stage within a stage.

Why the stares? Do I look that ugly? Is my hair that black? Is my skin that brown? Am I so different from you?

Ah, this is the smart kids’ math class, they don’t think I belong here. Well, maybe I don’t.

Algebra . . . much better . . . Lots of review materials, but not too ridiculous. Maybe math won’t be my worst subject after all . . .

Okay, look around a little, they’ve stopped staring.

No one I recognize . . . except . . .

Sparkles!

“Before you go, don’t forget to turn in your homework assignments on my desk.”

Wait. Not yet.

OK, now.

After you, Sparkles, just waiting for you.

There you go. What a neatly done assignment. And your name is . . .

Stephanie.

A serialized coming-of-age novel about a boy who must decide whether to live or die after surviving an abusive family and the death of his love. Read in order: 1.1, 1.2, 2.1, 2.2, 3.1, 3.2, 4.1. Next: 5.1