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| Tumbling. I was finally a
second grader, which gave me the chance to amaze the school on that
special day in May. I could already see myself in one of the green
uniforms. It was disappointing that first graders could not try out for
the team but that was a thing of the past. I was determined to make the
team. I couldn't wait to perform a graceful routine to the Jurassic
Park theme song on the balance beam, which seemed to tower above the
ground, simply because I was so short (I was the shortest in my class,
if not in all of grade two). Better yet, there was the ribbon dance,
which I found so beautiful. Unfortunately, those routines were for the
mighty fifth graders but I would be happy to settle for less until I
was finally in the fifth grade. However, to be on the tumbling team,
I'd have to be able to do
cartwheels and round-offs, among other things. My so-called cartwheels
were embarassing but I made the team and soon enough, with practice, my
cartwheels were perfected. I even considered myself a pro at
round-offs. There was such an immense sense of complishment and
satisfaction. I loved tumbling. We practiced for months but I looked
forward to every one of the meetings. I was certainly not the only one
on the
team but in that gym full of people at the annual tumbling show, I felt
like the world was focused on me, watching me shine. ♦
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| Blood.
It poured like a river from my wound, covering my tiny hands. I wiped
it on my red sweatshirt and eyed the box of tissues in Brian King's
desk. He merely stared at my crimson hands in shock. I waited for him
to offer one to me but he never did. Don't just stare Brian! DO
SOMETHING! Finally, out of fustration, I asked him to spare one as I
tried to hide the fact that I had just cut my finger. He gave me a
Band-Aid but I realized that I didn't even know which finger I had cut.
There was no pain, just blood. I decided it was my third finger. The
blood kept pouring though and before I knew it, both of my hands were
entirely coated. The teacher eventually found out and I was sent to
office, where I began to panic. I didn't know which finger I had cut
and it wouldn't seem to stop bleeding. I couldn't find the words to
explain what happened. I cried as my wound was washed off and a bandage
was placed on the correct finger, my little pinky. I felt so stupid.
How could I not know where I had stabbed my scissors into my flesh? I
was sent home and told that I could not use those pink scissors that my
aunt had given me anymore because they were too sharp. I sat in the
office as Mrs. Low's son, a "big kid" whom I felt the need to impress, watched over me. I looked down at my feet the
entire time out of embarassment. Until this day, I still have those
scissors. The wound healed a long time ago but I must say, like certain memories, they still cut quite well. ♦
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| Kindergarten. A word that was
too large for me to comprehend. In fact, just about anything beyond
"hello", "bye", "goo mor-ling (good morning)" and the like, "ah-poe" (apple),
"bay-see-mon" (basement), and "my name is Sherry" was completely
foreign to me. Little did I know, mommy's English was poor and other
children would not understand me when I asked them to come play in my
"bay-see-mon".
I remember my first day. I had been to the school before and met Mrs.
Garfield but it was the first time I saw so many kids, none of which
spoke Cantonese. I didn't want to go in. I didn't need to go to school.
I never had. Why did I have to now? What made the number five so
special? My parents were already teaching me the alphabet. That was
good enough for me but daddy would not let me leave with him and so my
first day of school was spent sitting by the piano on the colorful
alphabet rug, crying uncontrollably, waiting for daddy to come save me
from my misery. I didn't want to be five anymore.
At home, I was too embarassed to talk about my first day. If only it
could have been my last. To my dismay, I was forced to return the next
day. Despite the curious stares, I stubbornly guarded my spot on that
rug and wept the day away.
...
Congratulations. I kept
repeating the word to myself over and over again, thankful that my
classmates turned around one by one to say that big word to me. I had to
remember it so that I could ask daddy what it meant when he came home,
but of course, only after Amy and I emptied his pockets of all of his
spare change. I decided that "thank you" would probably be the best and
safest reply. Mrs. Garfield had called me up to the front of
the room and presented me with a sturdy piece of paper. All I could
recognize was my name, printed right in the middle of it. She read it
to the class and though I was not sure what it was, I knew it was
something good and that I had just received something special
because I was the only one who got it and everyone clapped...for me.
As it turns out, it was an award for being the "most improved". I don't
know how I did it but it was not long after that dreadful first day
before I was no longer the mute little Chinese girl with the damp
cheeks everyday. I learned to speak English, just like that. ♦
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