Girl in Translation

The next day, I went to meet my English tutor, Kerry, in an empty classroom. When I stepped inside the room, she got up and shook my hand. She was quite short and I could see the gap in between her two front teeth when she smiled. She told me she was a senior.

I sat down and waited for her to tell me what to do, expecting her to pull out a grammar book. She waited as well.

Then she said, “What should we do, Kimberly?”

I stared at her. She was the tutor. In Hong Kong, I’d never heard of any teacher or mentor allowing the students to influence the material.

She leaned back. “What would help you the most?”

I needed help in everything. I thought for a moment. “To speak.”

“Good. How about if we talk and I’ll correct everything you say that’s wrong?”

“Yes! Thank you!” I was so glad to have someone actually help me to improve my English. I wanted to hug her.

In our ensuing conversation, I found out that she was a scholarship student too.

Reacting to my surprise, she said, “Not all the scholarship students are minorities, you know. This place is really expensive.”

“How you like Harrison?”

“How DO you like Harrison,” she said, correcting me. “It takes some getting used to, especially at first, but it helps a lot if you get involved in some activities. You know, like te

“Yes, that good idea,” I said, but I knew I wouldn’t do anything extra after school. Ma couldn’t get the shipments out on time without my help.

Greg and his friends were feared. He had his targets, and his taunts were cruel and calculated: Elizabeth, so shy she rarely spoke, the whiteness of her skin punctured by freckles (“Miss Chicken Pox”); Gi

My classes were much harder than those at my elementary school. Despite the relief of not having Mr. Bogart as a teacher anymore, I struggled to keep up. One of the biggest hurdles was the daily current-events quiz in Social Studies, which I failed time and time again. Mr. Scoggins did not understand why we couldn’t simply watch the six-o’clock news each evening, or take a peek at our parents’ New York Times.

“If you don’t understand something, ask your parents about it,” he said. “Discussing the news is one of the most important things we can do with each other.”

I imagined Ma and me having long discussions over a polished dining room table like the one at A

“Why would anyone want to save animals like tigers?” she’d asked, baffled. She looked sad. “A baby in our old village in China was taken by one.”

I saw her looking through my books sometimes, attempting to sound out a word here or there, but she kept trying to read from right to left. She had a thin book she’d bought in Chinatown to learn English and I tried to teach her on Sundays, but Ma had always been bad at languages. And the two languages were so different, it was as if I were asking her to change her eye color.

At the factory, I kept the radio on while we were working, and tried to grasp the main events, but the boiler was right next to our workstation and made a regular hissing sound, drowning out many of the words. There was so much vocabulary I didn’t know. Even when I could understand the sentences, I usually didn’t have enough background to understand most of the stories.

I managed in Life Science and Math because those subjects came naturally to me, but in my other classes it took me three times longer to read the textbooks in English than if they’d been in Chinese. I couldn’t skim at all. If my concentration sagged for even a moment, the sentence became incomprehensible and I had to reread the whole thing. Every few words, I had to look one up in the dictionary. Often, I could barely understand the questions, let alone the answers I was supposed to be finding.

Trace the theme of violence in the story from inception to its inevitable climax; how is violence unleashed in each of the main characters?

I looked up to see Ma getting ready for bed. Her fragile frame was weighed down by layers of clothing, bound together by a furry vest made out of the stuffed animal fabric we had found. She had pulled on her gloves but she still rubbed her hands together to warm them. That past summer, I had read a passage in a children’s book in which the father sat down with his daughter to teach her how to write a check. I thought about that scene often.

“Can I do anything to help you?” Ma asked.

“No, Ma.”

She sighed. “You have to work so hard. Don’t stay up too late, little one.”

I wanted to go to bed. I felt the back of my neck growing heavier, weighing down my head, my eyes. The apartment was dark and empty. A few mice scurried in the kitchen.

I rubbed my temples and studied the question again.

A few weeks later, I had just finished dressing in the toilet stall when I heard a noise from above. There was a large skylight in the ceiling and I saw shadows moving in it.

One of the girls shrieked, “Boys!”

There was the sound of laughter and footsteps above our heads, and then the shadows disappeared.

Instead of being upset, many of the girls seemed pleased by this event and there was a great deal of whispering. The next day, Greg yelled down the hall as I passed by, “Are those boxing shorts comfortable?”

The boys and girls around him exploded with laughter. I kept on walking as I burned with embarrassment. Something had to be done.

“The other kids have started teasing me about my underwear,” I said to Ma at the factory.

She flinched and I was glad, glad to punish her by having been right. This was Ma’s fault.

“How did they see you?” she asked, not meeting my stare.

My pain from all the teasing cracked open like a rice pot from the heat. “I told you, everyone changes together and everyone looks at each other! This isn’t China, Ma!”

She was silent. Then she said, “We can go shopping on Sunday.”

I had to endure the rest of the week before our shopping trip. When we had gym, Sheryl started peeking into the stall where I dressed. I heard her and the other girls giggling outside, and their laughter had become more merciless, as if the fact that I was still wearing the underwear was my silent consent to their teasing.

On Friday of that week, in desperation, I wore my one swimsuit instead of my homemade underwear under my clothes. A neighbor back home had given it to me as a going-away present. It had become too small and the straps cut into my shoulders. The bright yellow material was faintly visible through the white of my shirt but its tightness was reassuring to me. At least this was new, store-bought; at least this was taut and trim like the others’ underwear.

In gym class, Greg made a point of saying to everyone, “Hmm, are we going swimming today?”

I realized I had only made things worse.

We bought a package of panties for me at Woolworth’s, but the store didn’t have any bras that were small enough, so we had to go to the Macy’s across the street. Aunt Paula talked about shopping there and we knew we couldn’t really afford it, but there was nowhere else we knew to go.

Under the sparkling lights, saleswomen sprayed passersby with perfume but ignored Ma and me. We were too poorly dressed, too Chinese. The counters were crammed with things we didn’t dare look at: leather handbags, fake diamonds, lipsticks. Girls were perched on stools having their makeup done by women in lab coats. The entire store smelled ripe and exotic.