I was surrounded by stuck-up, snobby, business-partner friendships.
“I have heard what the talkers were talking,” hearing about the second houses and boat parties, country clubs and rich-kid everyday. I only had two real friends.
Being invited to a classmate’s house and asked not to touch any of her toys. They’re only for show, American Girl dolls for her to play with but for me to look at and imagine a world where I would be allowed to.
A class of fifth graders, Innocent eyes, barging into Chinatown shops, assaulting shopkeepers with questions: why did you immigrate here? why are you here? why did you come here? I still remember their faces. Terrified, wanting to run away. Scared.
“What did he just say? Did she really just say that? Did I hear what I think I heard? Did that just come out of my mouth, his mouth, your mouth?”
Insensitive, inquisitive little children. Little rich kids bumbling around their lives, not having a clue. My mom called the school to tell them that as an immigrant, she was offended and appalled at the ignorance of it all. I sat in the back of the car, hands tucked between my legs.
At lunch in eighth grade, my friend cursed me out. She blew up at something that was her fault, deflected it onto me. Her friends joined in. She called me a shitty friend, a bitch, motherfucker. Any insult she could throw at me that meant that I would be weak and she would be strong. She would be right and I would be wrong.
“Did she really just say that?”
Little rich kids, walking through life oblivious, blinkered vision seeing only what they want to see.
In some ways, I’m thankful. My old school taught me that not all people are nice. My old school taught me that
even though people will call you annoying and an awful friend,
even though some will call you a cheater and motherfucker, a little shit and weak bitch,
even though you grew a thick skin and made yourself the butt of your own jokes because everyone thought that’s what you were, a joke,
you’re not any of that. That’s what people want to see.
That’s different from what you are.
I am me, and that’s all that matters.
*Includes quotes (order of appearance): page 3 of Song of Ourselves, page 9 of Citizen.