by Ellen Oh
Before I can say another word, Patrice is pulling me away. “Come on, Junie, don’t talk to him. You’ll just get frustrated by his stupidness.”
I glare at Esther as I leave, but she avoids my eyes even as she laughs with the others. What a traitor. I can’t believe she doesn’t see how racist all her friends are. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. None of them do. I see it in the faces of kids who are rolling their eyes and laughing about the vandalism. What Patrice and I find so horrifying is just a big joke to them.
Patrice and I cling to each other as we speed over to our table. There’s not a lot of students of color at Livingston Middle School, but it’s true that we tend to stick together. Patrice says we need to be our own support group because of how openly racist a lot of kids have been ever since the presidential election.
As we sit down next to Amy, I’m reminded again how she is the only white girl at our table.
“Stu Papadopolis is such a jerk!” Patrice says as she plops down on the bench.
“Him and his goon squad are jerks,” Hena replies. “Every time they walk by me, they whisper ‘terrorist.’ I hate them.” Hena is Pakistani American, with the most gorgeous set of long black curls that I’ve ever seen on a human.
Lila and Marisol nod fiercely. “Ugh, they think they’re so hilarious. Like calling us burrito and taco and telling us to go back to Mexico,” Lila says. “They’re so brainless they think that South America means Mexico.” Lila is Peruvian American and Marisol is Cuban American, and they are literally the best of friends. They do everything together and are as close as sisters and as opposite as sugar is to salt. Lila is short and brown, a bubbly fast-talker who always has a bright smile for everyone. Marisol is blond and fair and moody. But somehow their differences don’t matter when they can unite in their shared hatred of Stu Papadopolis and his gang of evil trolls.
“And they’re getting worse. They love standing in front of doors to block us and calling themselves the wall,” Marisol chimes in. “And if we get mad, they tell us to chill out and take a joke. It’s not funny.”
“Ugh, they’re horrible,” Patrice says.
Then Lila and Marisol call them a bad word in Spanish that sends everyone into giggles. Even I can’t help but smile. I love the way curse words sound in different languages, but Spanish is my favorite. It is so emphatic.
“I want to put some dog pee in his fancy Hydro Flask.” Marisol smirks.
They all laugh again, but it reminds me of my morning. “He and Tobias Thornton are the worst,” I say.
“Isn’t he that eighth grader who looks like he’s thirty?”
I nod morosely while the others laugh. Tobias is so awful I don’t even find jokes about him funny.
“Is he still picking on you?” Amy asks. “His brother used to make my brother Aaron’s life a living hell. That’s why Aaron went to a private high school.”
“Does he like it there?”
“Yeah,” Amy replies. “My parents asked if I want to go there after middle school. After today, I wonder if I should.”
If only I could run away from Tobias too. But my mom always says that running away never solves anything. You have to confront your problems head-on. But what if you’re really scared that your problem is going to physically hurt you?
“Guys, what are we gonna do about this school?” Patrice asks in a serious tone.
“What do you mean?” Amy asks. We all look at Patrice in confusion.
“The graffiti and the everyday racism. We have to do something.”
“But what can we do?” We all end up bombarding Patrice with the same question.
She gnaws on her lower lip, something she does when she is thinking hard. “We need to protest! Make people take notice of us,” she says.
I’m shaking my head. “What will that do? What will it change? They’ll just laugh at us.”
Patrice bangs her hand on the table, making all of us jump. “So?!” she says loudly. “They laugh at us anyway. Let’s do something to make them realize how wrong they are!”
Amy, Hena, and Lila are nodding their heads.
“Instead of a protest, why don’t we organize an event? Something that makes people think and talk and learn,” Hena says.
“And force them to listen to us!” Lila says as she claps her hands enthusiastically. I don’t know what it is about Lila and clapping. If she ever wants to play an instrument, I would vote for cymbals. She’d be a natural.
I can’t help but roll my eyes over their excitement. I definitely don’t want any part of this.
Patrice slaps my arm lightly. “I saw that, Junie. Stop being so negative.”
“I’m not being negative; I’m being realistic. Nothing we do is ever going to change their minds, so why even bother?”
Marisol is the only one who agrees with me. “Yeah. It’s not like we have any power. We can’t make them listen to us. They already treat us like trash. It would probably just make everything worse.”
I’m about to agree with Marisol, but I see the look in Patrice’s eyes and I stop. I can feel a headache beginning in my left temple.
“That’s not a reason not to do anything! What happened today is really bad. Aren’t you scared? This is how some of the students here think! We have to change that. Let’s get the administration to make them listen to us!” Patrice is really fired up.
Amy agrees, but that’s no surprise. Amy always agrees with Patrice. “Patrice is right! We can’t do nothing! I’m in!”
“Me too!” Hena and Lila both say.
Lila stares at Marisol, who rolls her eyes but then nods in agreement.
My head is beginning to pound, and my insides are rolling like I’m a can of soda that’s been all shook up. All the stress of the day is starting to get to me, and I’m suddenly so irritated with the world.
“Junie, stop shaking your head! We can do this!” Patrice snaps at me.
I should shut up—in my gut I know I should. But I don’t seem to have any control over my mouth. “It’s a whole lot of work for what’s going to be the biggest waste of time,” I say.
Patrice gives me a look that makes my heart wither. There’s something so adult about it, as if I am some terrible disappointment to her.
“Then don’t do anything, Junie,” she says. “We’ll do it without you. We don’t need your negativity dragging us down.”
Her words cut deep, leaving me bleeding internally. But instead of addressing the pain, I get angry.
“Fine, go ahead and do your stupid protest that nobody gives a crap about!”
I grab my lunch bag, stuff all my wrappers in it, and head out of the cafeteria. The others are calling my name and asking me to stay, but I ignore them. I can feel angry tears burning the backs of my eyes, and I don’t want anyone to see me cry. I just want to go home and crawl into my bed and never see anyone again.
NOT HAVING ANY HOMEWORK MEANS I can do whatever I want. For me, that means drawing. I do little doodles all over any paper I can get my hands on, sometimes even on my arms. A lot of times, I let my feelings out in my doodles. I’ve been doodling all the bad things that happened today. My favorite drawing is of the morning. I drew myself as a sad turtle with its head pulled halfway into its shell as it stood waiting for the bus. Behind the turtle, I drew Tobias as a big ugly pig in clothing that’s too tight, with a mean expression on his piggy face.
When my parents come home, they rush my brother and me to get ready to go to dinner at my grandparents’ house. My grandparents live fifteen minutes away in Rockville, which is the city right next to us. I always thought that was weird. If they were so close, why weren’t they in the same town? But that’s Maryland for you. If you drive for a little while in any direction you hit another city. My parents don’t even work in Maryland; they have to commute to Washington, DC. But they ride the Metro train into the city. Although I don’t get why they have to drive to the Metro, instead of just driving to work. Adults are weird.
When we a
rrive, the house is full of guests. It’s a mix of my grandparents’ old friends and some new members of Grandma’s church group. I just bow my head and smile. The Korean words flow right over me, familiar and yet incomprehensible. Only bits and pieces make any sense to me. Like the words I’ve heard enough to understand.
Mostly just “How’ve you been?” “How was school?” “You got so big!” and “Did you eat?”
Since there are no other kids, my brother and I are stuck eating with all the adults in the dining room. We’re crammed in between my parents and my grandparents on one side of the table. It’s really boring, because they speak mostly in Korean. But at least the food is delicious. My grandma is the best cook. My mom always says that if Grandma opened a restaurant, it would be crowded every single day. But instead she’s a real estate broker and is always busy driving clients all over the place. Grandpa used to work at a small import/export company until he retired a few years ago. Now he spends most of his time gardening, reading, and writing articles that he submits to the Korean newspapers. He’s also disabled due to arthritis in his spine. So he has to use a cane when he goes outside, and he can’t walk for too long. My mom says it must be so frustrating because my grandfather used to be such an active man, but he never lets it bother him. He is always happy and positive.
The dining table is covered with dumplings, and all types of meat and vegetable jeon, which is basically fried yummy stuff, and then all sorts of noodles and side dishes and the absolute staple of every Korean household, kimchee. But the highlight is the huge platter of galbi jjim, which is my favorite. It is braised short ribs that have been stewed in a delicious marinade until the meat falls off the bones. I am drooling. Grandma fills my plate up with all my favorite foods and a big dollop of white rice, and I dive right in.
Grandpa nudges me and asks, “How was school today?”
I make a sour face as I shovel a large bite of rice and meat into my mouth.
Grandpa chuckles and lightly pinches my cheek before turning back to the conversation.
My dad starts telling a story in English, and everyone is laughing. This really bugs me because for nearly an hour the conversation was all in Korean. Why can’t they talk in English all the time so I can understand everything?
“That reminds me of when I was living in Korea and I’d been playing basketball. So I’m in sweats and a T-shirt and I stop by this little grocery store to buy rice, and I ask the ahjumma for bap. And she starts yelling at me! I’m so confused. I think maybe she’s low on rice or something. So then I say, ‘No, just a little bit,’ and she grabs a broom and chases me out.”
Everyone is really laughing, and I don’t get it.
“Why did she get so mad?” I ask.
“Because ‘bap’ means cooked rice. And it also means food,” my grandfather tells me. “She thought your dad was a beggar asking for free food. What he should have said was ‘sal,’ which is the word for uncooked rice.”
I shake my head. “Korean is hard.”
My grandfather ruffles my hair. “But you should learn it anyway.”
After a while, the talk turns to politics, which always happens with adult conversations these days. It’s like they can’t help themselves.
One of the adults I don’t know is commenting on how much he likes the president because of his tax cuts. He and his wife are probably in their late twenties or early thirties. They have that I like money look. They’re also second-generation Korean American, like my parents, because their English is definitely better than their Korean.
I glance over at my mom and I see that my dad has a tight grip on her hand, as if to say Chama. It’s a Korean word that they use a lot. It means to endure and suffer through it. My grandfather says that it’s something Koreans have had to do historically, because Korea was invaded so many times. I think that’s so sad.
The guy is still going on about how much he likes the new government, and his wife agrees and says, “It’s nice to keep more of our money instead of giving it all out in welfare and handouts to illegal immigrants. We work really hard for everything we earn. Why should we have to support people who are too lazy to work themselves, or who come here illegally to take advantage of our economy?”
I can’t help it—I let out a loud gasp.
Oh, no she didn’t.
My brother, who is usually oblivious to everything, coughs and wheezes, as if he is choking on something. I can feel myself gawking at them like they’ve sprung horns and tails. I don’t have to look at my parents to know that they’re angry; I can literally feel it in the air. This electric energy of discomfort. But before anyone can say anything, my grandfather clears his throat, folds his hands together on top of the table, and leans forward to speak.
“Oh, what a terrible thing it would be if all Christians thought like that,” he says in his serious voice. “How sad Jesus would be to hear such an un-Christian sentiment.”
I can see the smug, self-righteous expressions on their faces change to shock and bewilderment.
“Let’s not forget Acts 20:35. ‘In all things I have shown you that by working hard in this way we must help the weak and remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he himself said, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”’”
The couple looks very uncomfortable now as all the others around them are nodding their heads. I’m biting my lip to keep from smiling at how nicely my grandfather is reprimanding them.
“You say that you admire our new president, but I can’t help but wonder what Jesus would think of him? After all, Jesus believed in helping the poor, the weak, the sick, the downtrodden, the hungry, whoever they were. He never said, ‘I shall help those in need, but only if they are legal immigrants.’ He loved everyone.”
I nod my head vigorously. Even though my mom is Christian, my father grew up Buddhist, and so my parents didn’t force religion on either me or my brother. But we know a lot about Christianity from our grandparents. And what I’ve learned from them is that Jesus loved and believed in helping everyone.
“However, he was Jesus and we are not. We are not perfect. We are all human with flaws. But what we can hope for is to better ourselves, be the best Christians that we can be, and always ask ourselves, what would Jesus do?”
Glancing over at my parents, I can see my dad’s dimple twitching, which means he’s trying not to laugh, and my mom is smiling widely.
The couple are now bowing and apologizing. Grandpa smiles at them. “No need to apologize. It is a good reminder to all of us that we must strive to better ourselves always.”
Since it’s a school night, we end up leaving before the others. In the car, my brother starts to snicker.
“Oh man, Grandpa really humiliated those people!” Justin crows.
Mom makes a disapproving sound. “Your grandpa would never do that.”
My dad laughs. “But you have to admit that your father is the master of putting people in their place in the nicest possible manner.”
“True, but it only works when the people have a conscience,” my mom says.
I sit back in my seat and wonder if Grandpa would be able to put the bullies at school in their place also. Would his way work on them? Should I mention this to Patrice and the others?
I don’t think so. Grandpa’s way works because he is able to subtly shame people with their own words. The bullies have no shame. And besides, Patrice is mad at me. For some reason, I’m mad also. But I can’t explain why. I feel betrayed and alone and so angry. Yes, the graffiti is a terrible way to start the year, but I have to deal with Tobias every single day on the bus by myself. Last year, Justin would at least take the bus with me whenever he didn’t have practice or workouts. And he had to deal with Satan, who really hates my brother.
It was a tough time last year. Satan would antagonize Justin, Justin would ignore him, Tobias would come after me, Justin would defend me, Satan would come after Justin, and around we would go again. This year both Justin and Satan go to high school t
ogether. But Justin is a jock and pretty popular. So Satan leaves him alone now. Lucky him.
By the time we get home, I’m feeling depressed about taking the bus again. Inside, my parents call us into the living room and ask how our day was. My brother replies by asking them for money. They go back and forth as they try to get more than nods and grunts from him. Justin was never one for talking in detail.
When they’re finally too frustrated to ask him any more questions, they turn to me.
“It was okay,” I respond. “I like most of my teachers. They all seem nice.”
My mom looks relieved and smiles happily.
I don’t think my parents have seen the email yet, because they haven’t said anything to me about the graffiti. And I’m glad. I don’t really want to talk about it. But I don’t want to ride the bus in the morning.
“Mom, Dad, can one of you give me a ride to school in the morning? I really hate taking the bus.”
I see Justin look up from his cell phone and give me the once-over.
Dad pats my back. “I can’t because I have to be at work real early the next few weeks.”
My dad is an auditor for a big accounting firm. To be honest, I don’t know what he actually does, but it all sounds complicated and boring.
“Oh, honey, it really is so much more convenient if you take the bus,” Mom replies. “The bus stop is so close, and drop-off is such a pain at your school. And just that extra fifteen minutes to drop you off means traffic gets so much worse.”
“Okay, Mom.” I sigh. “I’m going to bed, then.”
Justin gets up and pats me on the shoulder before brushing past me up the stairs. I guess that’s his way of sympathizing with me. We’ve never told our parents about the bullying. I know that for my brother, it’s because he hates when Mom comes to school. As a lawyer, Mom is a bit overprotective and aggressive. In third grade, Justin brought in a plane to school for career day and said he wanted to be a pilot when he grew up. One of the kids at his table made slanted eyes at Justin and told him Asians couldn’t fly planes because their eyes were too small to see well. When Mom found out, she made the administration call the other parents in and apologize. Justin hated it, because she caused such a huge scene. Ever since then, he’s never told her about any of his problems. I guess he rubbed off on me too. Even after an entire year of bullying by the Thornton brothers, we never told our parents. We just dealt with it. We did that Korean thing. Chama. Endure. Suffer. But now I have to do it alone. And I don’t know if I can.
