2 posts tagged “memoir”

Tomorrow marks the end of my second week at my new job. I work as an 8th and 9th grade teacher of a small classroom at a Summer Tutoring Academy in the Woodbridge community of Irvine. I started out as a substitute for private tutors, specifically the woman who tutored a six-year-old named Joy.

Joy, like most of the clients at the Academy, is Chinese. However she has an American last name and green eyes and light brown hair, so I think she must be a mix of some sort. Joy and I got along well at first; we had a lot in common. We both like the color pink, we both enjoy snacks and we both have sassy attitudes. I figured we’d grow to be close friends.

When I first asked Joy what she liked to do, she told me her favorite thing was to draw dolphins. Perfect, I thought. I am going to blow this kid away with my tight dolphin drawings. So I drew a dolphin with her hot pink marker on a sheet of lined paper, and she hated it. 

“That doesn’t really look like a dolphin,” she told me.

“Have you ever seen a dolphin?” She ignored me, and opened her lunchbox, full of sweet and salty treats wrapped neatly in ziplock bags.

“I will share some of my snacks with you,” she told me. I politely declined. I was not going to take food from a six-year-old. Most of the food I didn’t even recognize because it had Korean writing on the packaging, but I was hungry. So I peeled open a really unappetizing granola bar from my purse and practiced my dolphin drawings.

We did an hour of reading and writing, then took a short break and continued with math. She was smart, which I appreciated. When it was time to go, she asked me to wear pink the next day and if I would bring her some treats? 

The next day was also my last day with Joy and I arrived a few minutes late to find her waiting in the classroom, her backpack already unpacked with her markers and snacks spread across the floor under the desk.

“Are we having a picnic? I love picnics!” I exclaimed, ducking under the table to sit with her. She didn’t even look up from her drawing.

“Are you wearing lipstick?” She asked.

“Maybe. Why?” She handed me a blue marker and a sheet of lined paper.

“Does Dr. Wong know you’re wearing lipstick?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen him today.” I was squirming, uneasy and indignant under the child’s interrogating questions.  

She glared at me. “If you put lipstick on me, I won’t tell anyone you wore lipstick to work.”   

That was enough. I told her to take a seat and added that my mother allowed me to wear lipstick and one day her mother would allow her to wear lipstick and when that day came, I would be more than willing to put lipstick on her.

Halfway through our grammar lesson, she refused to finish the worksheet until I gave her a treat. I didn’t tell her I had forgotten to bring a treat, so I gave her an old lollipop I got for free at some school rally months ago. I told her that it was hers if she finished her classwork before the hour was up. She worked diligently and when she finished, she did not hesitate to reward herself by fishing it out of my purse and hastily ripping off the wrapper.  I looked at the clock, only two more hours.

“This is disgusting,” she said, spitting the lollipop onto the floor. “Can you please pick that up and throw it away?” She asked me. Me.

“That is so rude to insult my candy and then spit it out onto Dr. Wong’s carpet and make me throw it away for you. Don’t be bossy. The trash is right there,” I said very sweetly, trying to mask my utter appall at her behavior.

“But I said please,” she argued almost tauntingly and took her seat. I threw away the candy.

We didn’t get all the way through math because, to be honest, I really didn’t care. As far as I was concerned, I was not responsible for teaching her manners or proper behavior or even how to subtract double digit integers, I was only there to babysit and administer her lessons and whether or not she wanted to respect me and learn was her own decision.

She threw a tantrum when I refused to give her my Disneyland Princess charm bracelet that my mother had bought for me. She made me give her my granola bar even though I told her she would not like it if she didn’t like the cherry lollipop I tried to give her earlier. It was like she was trying to spite me. I watched her eat my whole granola bar, my only breakfast, while she had a fat puffy pink lunchbox packed with two maple donuts (still warm!), Chex mix, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, two packs of chocolate milk and a mini-pack of Original Pringles.

“Are you going to eat that?” I asked, pointing to the donut.

“No, you can have it. I hate donuts.”

Fuck it. I tore off a tiny bite and ate it, I was starving. And it was good. 

We took a short break to go hang out with her older sister who was being tutored across the hall. I carried Joy’s backpack and asked her if she wanted to eat the rest of her lunch outside and she said no, first she wanted to play Freeze Tag with her sister and her sister’s tutor and me. I said okay, but she had to promise to eat the rest of her lunch. Joy’s sister, Trinity skipped out of the classroom and asked her sister what flavor of donut she had gotten today. I felt my face go white.

“Miss Alexis ate my donut! She ate the whole thing!” She announced it to the entire Academy. I saw Trinity’s tutor raise an eyebrow as she said very tongue-in-cheekily, “My, what a nice thing to do for your teacher…”

I could have slapped them both in their chatterbox pie-holes.

After lunch break we read a short children’s book called “Little Bear’s New Friend” or something. I recognized it from my own childhood and felt a warm nostalgia rise up in me while looking through the pictures. I missed my mom. I almost forgot how furious and humiliated Joy had successfully made me feel. All of a sudden she closed the book and looked me dead in the eye.

“Santa Claus isn’t real, did you know?” She informed me very matter-of-factly. “My dad told me and he never lies.”

“Who brings you presents then?” I didn’t even miss a beat. “I always get presents. Maybe you’re just a really bad kid.”

“No. My parents give me toys. Your mom and poppa bring you your toys and presents, not Santa.”

This bitch. I looked at the clock, five more minutes. I started to pack her notebook and markers into her backpack.

“Santa brings me toys. Your dad is a liar.”