Chinese Boy

Weekly duties are perhaps worse than sitting in class all day, especially in the heat, humidity, sun blaring through the windows. He exhales deeply to dispel the frustration, the exasperation (he's a child, not a slave).

The trash bags are swollen, overweight, and he wonders how his instructors can go through so much waste in a week. In his small hands he bunches as much plastic as he can, hunches over to accompany the exertion. He walks quickly and the bags bang against his legs as he escorts the odorous bunches out the door (though it's hardly worth the hassle).

It's just one of those days when he needs to get home, avoid the judgment, the condescension, the stress. His sister should be let alone to deal with it, not him.

"Aiya..." he mutters to himself, sees in his mind his sister staying up late hours to study, to please her instructors, hears the praise she receives and the reprimands forced upon him. His parents are worrying but he's still not studying for these horrible teachers who oppress him and throw too much trash away.

The irritation of the day builds. He just wants to go home to parents who don't stress too much over him, go to the mountain with his little brother and forget boarding school and growing up, but he can't because this trash is terribly full, there's a stench, a terrible odor leaking from the plastic, and there's something gruesome leaking from the bottom, dripping onto his shoes, onto the floor laboriously kept clean.

And his sister is getting straight A's and his parents are proud of her, disappointed in him and this trash smells and is making everything a mess. These teachers are adults, they're supposed to keep things clean and orderly and set a "perfect" example--

With trembling hands he grabs the chalk, chooses a spot on the wiped down blackboard, stabs quickly the first words that come to his heated mind (in the handwriting they've tried so hard to make perfect): "Please keep your trashcan clean."

He blinks back the burn of anger, slams the chalk down so hard it breaks in two, uses incredible effort to carry the leaking trash bag out without throwing it to the ground, dumping the contents on the instructor's desk or flinging it down the hall.

He hates this place.


His mother answers the phone, unsuspecting. Apprehension settles deep in his stomach and his chest turns to ice (every call has made him jumpy, he's guilty, almost regretful).

From the other room he hears his mother's calm tone, then her words accelerate, the volume escalate and he shuts his eyes. All too quickly it dies down in submission, in resignation because this type of phone call is not a surprise.

He clutches his chest, rolls over on his bed, is tired of that tone in his mother's voice that tells him that it's becoming more and more difficult for her to accept him as her son.


The next morning he walks into the classroom and all eyes are on him, inquisitive, judging. They all know (word spreads so damn fast in this school) and he's angry at all of them because they're obsessed with their school uniform and faulty expectations.

He scans the faces, mildly wondering who ratted him out. However, before he can shoot accusatory stares at top suspects, his name is called from the doorway. He turns his slim body around and exits the room, unsurprised.

The walk down the hallway is long, the dissonance he feels on a daily basis growing with each step. He wonders why things have to be like this, always like this, when all he wants is a trashcan that is not impossible to clean.

As he enters her office, her stare is death, alive and infuriated under sagging eyelids, her jaw clenched tight under drooping skin. Still, he stands straight, intimidated by her authority but determined to have his voice heard.

"How dare you."

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, hands behind his back, wobbly preteen knees clenched together.

"Who do you think you are?" Her unwavering glare, deeply set under liver-spotted skin burns into his skull. "You're just a student."

His teeth are hard pressed as he prays his sister does not come up in conversation.

When he opens his mouth to speak her eyes widen, her appall evident. "But, I didn't write it for you..." her stare, so cold. "I just think it'd make it easier for us."

"You all are students," she interjects, leans back in her chair, crosses her arms. "Don't expect anything more."

He has shamed her and angered her and she dismisses him from the office, seeming pleased to never see him again. He grits his teeth as he exits, suffocated, misunderstood.


A few days later, the youngest instructor approaches him (surprises him, really, he sets his guard up immediately because he can't seem to escape any sort of ridicule lately).

She only shares a few words, for very little are necessary. "Hao-Hsiang, I understand."

It takes a few seconds for the words to register, and still he is speechless. A small smile and she leaves him there, stunned. When his feet can work again he rushes to the restroom.

He locks himself in a stall, grips his chest and cries hard.