Vietnam

High School: Freshman year. My algebrateacher expected students to go up to theboard and work out problems every day. Imade mistakes virtually every time I was upthere, dropping the large, beige chalk thatwould shatter into tiny little pieces, which Iwould bend over to pick up. I felt mortifiedfor the rest of the day. Whenever I had totalk about a problem out loud to the class, Icould feel the muscles in my neck trembling.I felt like the volume of my voice wasset at zero and could not go any higher.Marcus, a classmate, would often tell methat I had a “stupid voice.” He’s the sameguy who enjoyed calling me a “fag.” My eyesoften dampened, but I made fists to holdback the tears. Instead of excitement aboutall the cool subjects I could learn, I focusedon daily survival without humiliation.At home, I idolized the movie Dennis theMenace but realized that my family wasnothing like that. Living with a violentfather and brother, both chain smokers (mybrother also smoked marijuana); a miserablemom; and a confused 9-year-old sistermade a horrible day at school look prettydecent. My dad would accuse my mom ofcheating on him, calling her obscene andinsulting names that sounded even worse inVietnamese than in English. The little timethat she had after a busy workday at a factory,my mom spent cooking dinner. Whenmy dad wasn’t satisfied, which was often, hewould dump all the food into the trash. Heinsulted her intelligence, comparing her to acow. Like Marcus at school, my brotherhounded me. Except my brother was worse.He said the whole word—“faggot!” That hitme so much harder. My sister would ask mequestions about why our family was thisway. I could never tell her why. I didn’tknow myself.Senior year. Our humanities teacher askedus to name a person from any time thatwe’d like to meet and explain why. I chosejune 2006 : 31