twelfth grade homework

At break all my friends talk 

about college applications. 

Thirty universities on their college list,

which teacher recommender,

that jazz. 

I nod at their scholarly analyses

and the hours I’ve spent

in front of my computer,

glaring down the essay prompts,

as if I could win admission 

from a staring contest.

 

—

 

I’m in twelfth grade,

and I still don’t know how to start my homework.

I would know if it were, say, math, or science, 

subjects divorced from my identity.

 

As if all the college essay prompts 

didn’t ask you to talk about yourself.

How do introductions start again? 

My orientation training leader told us, 

You start with names.

A name is a personal thing, 

something to be respected.

But the bell interrupts my reminiscing,

the students scramble to class.

 

—

 

Another Monday. First period,

my teacher is gone. 

The substitute with the usual:

“Correct me if I pronounce your name wrong.”

 

Another dreaded roll call. 

The lady: Peachy complexion. 

Blond hair with grey streaks,

Clearly not Asian.

 

—

 

Another roll call with an unfamiliar sub, 

another unacquainted butcher of my name.

 

I used to watch as the gift of my parents 

was poorly translated to English.

The delicate sounds sifted through their gritty teeth

and harsh tongues unaware and unable 

to pronounce the unfamiliar intonations

of a language across the sea.

 

—

 

At home my family would make my name 

soft and smooth again. Almost with an aroma.

Tongtong, they called me

tong is a sweet-smelling tree 

one I’ve never seen,

but I like to think of it as a strong tree, 

that withstands the harsh beating of the wind and rain

and provides shade for little frolicking children.

 

—

 

Having matured, or so I thought,

no longer would I condone the slaughtering. 

Instead, I memorized where my name was 

in the class, in alphabetical order, 

for every class.

It’s easy: Just remember the people listed around you.

 

Both my first and last names 

crowd around 

the end of the alphabet,

a blessing and a curse, for

for the remainder of the time

I squirm in my seat, 

waiting.

 

Once confidently calling out names, 

the sub hesitates upon mine 

I may say this incorrectly—

I raise my hand.

That’s me. I go by Cindy.

Relieved, I turn my attention 

back to my work.

 

But the class remains silent,

the sub says, not the usual 

“Right, Cindy, that’s so much easier for me,” 

but: “Zzingttong? Is that how you say it?”

 

No. 

 

I nod anyway.

Yet she persists: 

“That can’t be right! Will you say it for me?”

The room filled with people 

waiting to hear me speak,

“Xintong. But call me Cindy if that’s easier.”

 

“All right. But you need to be firmer with correcting people who say your name wrong. Your name is beautiful and deserves to be said correctly.”

I know, 

but you’re not supposed to believe that, 

is what I think. 

Instead, I thank her 

and stare back down at my notebook. 

Previously confident, 

I see my assignment and freeze,

unsure of how to complete it, 

how to continue.

 

I’m in twelfth grade,

and I still don’t know 

how to start my homework.

 

—

 

When dropping off a certificate, 

the staff begrudgingly 

calls out my Chinese name, 

my legal name.

Of course my peers notice.

They peek at the paper

distracted squirrels asking,

“How do you say your Chinese name?”

“It’s hard to pronounce,”

I dismiss, discreetly shoving 

the award for Respect 

into my backpack.

 

—

 

In fifth grade, mama made bao zi.

Fluffy white on the outside,

glazed caramel on the inside.

I was proud to have it for lunch, until

“Cindy, is that poop?” 

Chirped my friend.

 

—

 

At the dinner table, my dad finally expresses his discontent

when I call myself an American in choppy Mandarin.

“You are Chinese,” he says.

“I just hope you can still connect to your culture,” he nearly pleads.

 

Twelve years in this country, I feel pushed and pulled in different directions.

 

—

 

Twelve years in this country,

and I still don’t know 

whether my name begins 

with a C or X.

still reluctant to correct the substitute teachers

who pronounce it wrong while reading the roster.

 

Still ashamed that the first time I’ve corrected it the right way,

hitting the true tones, envisioning the characters in my mind,

was when a white lady told me to respect my culture.