“I will never be able to finish this assignment.” I, a 4th grader at the time, stared at my notebook with agony. Then, I slightly raised my head and took a quick peek around the classroom. It was about 6 o’clock in the afternoon. Rows of empty desks and chairs quietly lay in the late spring dusk. “It’s getting dark. I should have gone back home two hours ago. It is really getting dark outside.” My voice was trembling inside.
The classroom was not completely empty. My friend Gu and the Chinese teacher were still around. Gu was busy working on the same assignment. However, his hopeless look betrayed him. He knew he had no chance of finishing it either. My Chinese teacher, a slightly chubby young lady in her mid 20s, was sitting behind the podium, holding a magazine in one hand and a big red apple in the other. The sound of her biting the apple kept reminding me how hungry I was.
The so called “assignment” was to copy the entire Chapter Three in the textbook 100 times by hand. It was the teacher’s way of punishment for our misbehavior during the break. My writing of “Gu is a fat pig” on the chalkboard angered her greatly for some reason. Gu could have played the victim card nicely if he hadn’t mis-aimed and hit the teacher on the head with the chalk. Once the entire classroom turned into a circus, I knew we were in big trouble. So, several hours later, I was still stuck at school.
Suddenly I heard my mother’s voice echoing in the hallway. She was asking for directions. My heart started racing. My palms were getting wet and I felt a little bit nauseous. I slowly sunk into the chair like a deflated balloon. The worst was happening.
I was always afraid of my mother at that age. She was rigid and full of principal. She was the enforcer at home. Although she didn’t rule with brute force, her scolding, mixed with chilling stares, was highly effective. I considered my mother as one of them, those who made my life unnecessarily difficult. My Chinese teacher, my neighbor’s wild dog, and the big kids upstairs at school were all part of them.
When my mother entered the class room, I kept my head down and avoided any eye contact. I was petrified. Moments later, She and the teacher started whispering in the hallway. They must be talking about me, I figured. I turned to Gu for some support, but Gu gave me this solemn look as if he was mourning a dying horse. Several minutes later, they both returned. To my surprise, the teacher announced that Gu and I were free to go. I couldn’t believe my ears. I didn’t say anything though. I quickly gathered my stuff and followed my mother out of the school.
Walking slowly behind her, I was waiting for the inevitable. One way or another, my mother would teach me a lesson for what happened today. The road to home felt dreadfully long. Even the spring breeze felt annoyingly warm that day. Neither of us did any talking. The silence was suffocating. Once we were at home, my father asked us what happened. My mother briefly mentioned that I was held up at school for some assignment without providing much detail. Then at dinner time, she had this strange look on her face and kept urging me to eat more. “You must be very hungry today.” She said it over and over.
The scolding never came. As if nothing ever happened, my mother never mentioned this incident again, nor did my Chinese teacher. What exactly did my mother say to the teacher that day in the hallway? That’s question I have wondered ever since. Also after that day, I started to think that maybe, just maybe, my mother was not one of them, but rather one of us.
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