Face

I hear my shoes clack against the broken sidewalk. I count my steps….29,30,31…. I stare at the ground and wait for…. Wait for something, anything, a sign that someone acknowledges my presence.

My classmates at school stare at me in aw. The same stare they use to gawk at celebrities. To me, they stare at me like a purple nosed alien. And sometimes I feel that way.

They all want to talk with me, but choose not to, because they don’t think their English is up to par. They whisper into my friend J’s ear. And J repeats the question in English to me. This is when I feel like a two-nosed purple alien.

I trip about every five steps because the side walk is in ruins. The stones are flat; they rise for tree branches and sink in places that are walked over too many times.

The sinking stones remind me of Canterbury Cathedral. There are steps at Canterbury that are a hundred years worn. They are smooth. They are wavy. They are aged. Hundreds of people crawl up these steps to pay tribute to God and visit the uplifting center of the cathedral. Hundreds of people tramp through the rubbish on the sidewalk to the bus stop, for the bus with air conditioning.

One of my classes at school today was PE. Today’s activity was badminton. The badminton I know. The badminton I play for hours on end with mi Papá, until the sun sets and until we can hear the summer grasshoppers chirping.

I watched the birdie fly in the humid air and followed it until it hit my racquet, just like Papá taught me. My partner, J, asked what music I listen to. J just got back from spending a year in Indianapolis. How could I explain that I listen to Hank Green, Harry and the Potters, Chameleon Circuit and Charlie McDonnell? I responded with “Indie.”

My host grandmother walked me home from school today. I know the path already, but I must don’t want to be rude. We walked in silence. She knows no English. I know no Thai. I wanted to tell her about my day, just like I tell my family when the sun fades away the day. Instead, I watch faces. Faces of those struck by my Caucasian appearance. Faces of those who are hurting. Faces of those who are sick. Who are poor. Who are weak. Faces who always keep face.

My second friend is a teacher. He teaches English at my school. He allows the students to have fun because that’s what matters. He is a born and raised New Yorker. I can tell by the way he casually talks and the way he can carry on a conversation about Apple products for days. He gave me a piece of advice today.

“There is one thing you must remember to do everyday.”

“What is it?”

“Smile.”

I laughed.

“Smile even if you are mad, or upset. Smile even if you want to cry.”

I did not expect this.

35, 36, 37……mindlessly pacing with a hard and sullen face through the monsoons for the last time. From now on I must let the clouds carry my burden. I will let the sky cry for me when I want to cry. I will let the sun burn up for me when I am angry. And I will let the night thunder take my upsetting thoughts for me. And I will let the sticky, humid air plaster a smile on my face.