“
When I was fourteen years old, my mother sent me to America for high school. She as-
sured me it was for a better future, but I initially resented her for it. It was like being dropped into a jungle blind and deaf. I had prepared for the worst, but I had not expected for my first weeks of school to be a living nightmare.
Somebody That I Used To Know
”
by Amelie Zhao
I
am late on my first day of school. I
rush along the wide, empty corridors,
Or want one that we can use?” She is asking me to change my name.
Frustration simmers within me, but I grit my teeth and sit, still and silent like
lined with red lockers and unblinking
The only fragment of who I am that I
fluorescent lights that create an ascetic
can hold onto. For a moment, I struggle
feeling. It is like being in a futuristic
internally between the familiarity
terrifying. The swarm of students
American movie. My heart is flut-
of my Chinese name and the ease of
leads me to an enormous, sunless hall
tering in my chest and my palms are
blending in that an English name could
that is artificially lit with fluorescent
moist, and I wish I were facing those
give me. Zhang Xinyi, I think to myself,
lights. Circular tables line the hall,
monsters from the movie instead of a
and my resolve hardens. I am Zhang
some already crammed with extra
classroom of yellow-haired Americans.
Xinyi. “I will keep my name,” I say
chairs and some with only a few people
carefully, stumbling over the words
sitting there. On the far side of the hall
with my heavy, ugly accent. “Xinyi.”
are steamy glass panes with food and
I blink at the bright light as I enter, and all I see is the teacher at the board turning to me before the world blurs.
The snickers and whispers that
a statue amongst the unfamiliar faces. I find that the cafeteria is even more
servers behind them. I head there first.
An ocean of faces turns to me and
follow me as I find my seat make
My heart starts a drumroll as I
blends into a mixture of yellow hair,
me wish I had chosen otherwise.
stand in line, waiting, observing, and
green eyes, brown hair, blue eyes …
The American classroom is strange
carefully mimicking what everybody
“Zeenyee Zang?”
and uncomfortable. The spaces between
around me is doing. I watch the chefs
I blink away the unfamiliar
the desks are too wide, and it feels too
and students yell at each other over the
hairs and eyes and turn to see
empty. I am used to jostling for space
noise, gesturing at the food they want.
my new teacher staring point-
against elbows and shoulders, and hear-
I scramble for a tray and eating utensils
edly at me. “Zeenyee Zang?”
ing my best friend’s breathing as she
and skim the row of food, struggling
And I realize she is saying my name.
works next to me, her face inches from
to work out the labels. Chicken tacos.
“Yes,” I say in English, and add
the parchment. Here, I am alone. The
Spaghetti. Fish fingers. I do not know
for a more American effect, “hi.”
lights are too bright over my head, the
what any of that tastes like. Help-
There are sniggers around the
walls are too colorful and ornamented
lessly, I gesture at a random item and
classroom. My face burns. It feels
with maps and posters and scrambles
receive a plateful of green gooey pie.
bad to be rejected; it feels abso-
of letters. The teacher speaks too fast,
lutely humiliating to be made fun
and the students slouch in their seats,
myself lost among a sea of faces.
of when I am trying to blend in.
and I am trying my hardest to listen but
Chairs are scraping and students are
I only catch fragments of sentences.
congregating in little groups, laugh-
“Do you have an English name? Read our blog
generasian.org
I turn to the dining hall and find
Somebody that I Used to Know 27