This is an essay that I wrote my senior year in HS. It was also published in the Asian American students' magazine in college. I keep it around to remind me why keeping silent and ignoring a problem will not make it go away, especially racism. Some things that happened recently made me realize it was time to dredge it up again. 20 years to the day almost since I first wrote this. Does the world ever change? I hope so. At least I know I have friends and there are good people out there.
Words
The first person ever to say, “Sticks and stones may
break my bones, but words will never hurt me!” was either a complete imbecile,
or trying to him or herself that hateful, hurtful taunts weren’t as bad as they
seemed. I should know, I’ve lost count
of how many times I’ve flung those words back at someone to hide my own pain,
to show them and convince myself that I didn’t care.
The first time I remember hearing that was in
kindergarten. Two of my fellow
kindergarteners were fighting and calling each other names, like stupid, ugly,
etc. They were the best of friends. Inevitably, one said to the other in a
singsong voice, “Sticks and stones…” The next time I remember hearing it was
from a teacher. Teachers should know
better, shouldn’t they? Mrs. Weinstein,
my third grade teacher, told me that. It
wasn’t in response to the usual name-calling, which eight and nine year olds
indulged in, but to a racial slur.
* * *
The class was all lined up in two files, boys on the
left and girls on the right, with about a foot of space between the two
files. We took up about half the
hallway. I remember running my hands
along the pale yellow bricks, separated by dark grey cement. The bricks were about a foot in length a half
a foot in width. The square beige tiles
with white dashes reflected form the fluorescent lights above. The sunlight streaming through the window
just a few yards down the hall, casting up such a glare that you barely look at
it. I can still see the picture vividly
in my mind, class 3-117 waiting on line from the bathroom. Mrs. Weinstein took us twice a day.
I had just come out of the bathroom and got on the
back of the line, right behind Jamele.
No one really knew her that well, except that she had gotten left
back. She was loud and always arguing
wit the teacher. At this time, she was
talking to the girl in front of her, which was just fine with me. I was waiting
for my best friend, Sandy, to come out of the bathroom. She came out a few moments later and we
started talking. So it was much to my
surprise when Jamele turned around and called me a “chink.”
I looked up at her dumbfounded and failed to find
anything intelligent to say. “What in
the world is a chink?” I thought
blankly. I could tell it was an insult
from her tone and expression, but that was all.
Not knowing what else to do, I turned back and continued my conversation
with Sandy. Another sterling piece of
wisdom bestowed upon me by my all-knowing elders. “If people make fun of you, ignore them. They’ll leave you along if you don’t give
them the satisfaction of reacting.”
Whoever thought that up obviously didn’t know that’s precisely the wrong
way to deal with racism.
Jamele continued taunting me until we returned to
class. I spent the rest of the day
trying to avoid her and trying to figure out why she was calling me names. When I got home that day I told my mother
what had happened and asked her why.
She looked surprised, “tell her to stop,” she
said. “And if she doesn’t stop, just
ignore it.”
“All right,” I answered, doubtfully.
The next day at school I followed my mother’s sage
advice. It didn’t work, as a matter of
fact it got worse. She used to make fun
of my eyes and appearance in general. It
got to the point where I couldn’t bear going to school. So I told my mother that her advice wasn’t
working. This time my father was with
her. He told her to give her a taste of
her own medicine, and tell the teacher.
Mom started arguing with him about how two wrongs don’t make a right.
The following day, Jamele started calling me names
again. So I decided to try out my
father’s advice, the part about telling the teacher, anyway. Seeing that my parents didn’t quite agree
about me calling Jamele a “nigger.” Mrs.
Weinstein in her unfailing wisdom told Jamele to stop in a bored tone. Predictably she didn’t. Again I appealed to higher authority. Only to be told by Mrs. Weinstein, “Sticks
and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” In other words, “don’t make such big deal
about nothing.”
Afterwards not knowing what else to do, I kept
everything to myself, coming to the conclusion – perhaps incorrectly – that
there wasn’t anything else I could do.
Not realizing that Jamele was going to make the rest of elementary school
a nightmare.
* * *
Looking back now, I realize this was the point where
my naïve notions of the innate fairness of the world received a large dent,
along with my faith in the infallibility of my elders. Perhaps I should have made a bigger fuss. Who knows?
Perhaps the one who was hurt the most by the whole incident was my
tormentor. The only thing she learned
was that it’s all right to be a bigot.
Michele Chang
February 14, 1992
