I Hit a Boy in Sunday School but Jesus Would Have Approved

So far Sunday School is turning out better than I thought. The teacher is nice and I know she didn’t think I could read because at the start of class we went around the circle and said our names and how old we are and I said I’m five but I’ll be six on December first which is in five months. Also I’m pretty little because I’m Korean so before that she probably even thought I was only four. After my turn she said “very good reading” but then she had to say “hush now” because my sentence was about how dogs licked the beggar’s sores so then two boys across from me started making pretend throw-up noises.

Then all of a sudden everybody was going “ew” and “gross” and I thought they were pointing at me but really they were pointing at the girl sitting right next to me because it turns out she was throwing up for real. But the funny thing is, unlike those boys, she wasn’t making any noise at all; she was doing it totally silent. I could tell she had cereal for breakfast because milk was coming out of her mouth slow and steady like a faucet. And then I looked down and you’ll never believe this but it was making a perfect circle of throw up and there were even whole Cheerios in it and it kind of looked like art if you didn’t know what it was.

After she stopped throwing up she started to cry. I don’t know why. I haven’t thrown up since I was a baby. Last year when we lived in North Carolina my friend Paula threw up one time when I was at her house and she cried too. We were having hamburgers and she kept taking way too big bites. Then on top of the hamburger, she tried to stuff in a pickle and it all came back out. Her Mom rocked her while she cried and kept saying “aw hun, it was jest that last little pickle wadn’t it?” I really wanted to stand up for that pickle but I just sat next to Paula’s plate of throw-up and didn’t say anything.

After the teacher helped the Throw-Up Girl stand up she told the rest of us to get in line over by the door. There were only six of us including the teacher and the Throw-Up Girl and we all marched down the hall to the first-through-third grade classroom where our teacher told the other teacher what happened and then left with the Throw-Up Girl to find her parents.

So now we’re in this classroom where they’re doing an art project to make glass jars look like pottery from the bible. The older kids are rubbing shoe polish all over some jars they already covered in little pieces of ripped-up masking tape and if I did not know they had just done this, I swear I would never have guessed that these were not real jars from bible times. That is how good they look.

The teacher says we can do our own as long as we can be very, very careful because the jars are real glass and we are only Pre-K and Kindergarteners. But we have to use only baby food jars because there’s not enough time left to do anything bigger and there might not be enough time to even finish those.

Challenge accepted. I am going to present my parents with a completed baby food jar from bible times when they pick me up from class if it is the last thing I do. I grab my jar and a roll of tape and begin tearing and sticking it right there at the supply table. The others will just have to work around me. There’s not a moment to lose.

I work fast and in just a couple of minutes, I’ve covered my whole jar in torn masking tape. The pieces are a lot bigger than the ones on the other jars but I decide it will make it look like ancient pottery that is kind of newer.

I reach across the table for the tin of shoe polish but just as I’m about to grab it a hand suddenly snatches it away. I am small and all the way across the table from him so there is no way for me to get the shoe polish back but the boy who took it from me wants to make sure I understand that he is purposefully withholding it so he puts it behind his back.

“CHI-nese,” he jeers at me. He’s not one of the biggest kids in the class but he’s bigger than me. I don’t know what to do so I stand there. I don’t know what to say so I say nothing. My heart is beating really fast and my chest feels hollow and my head feels hot. Finally, I remember:

“I’m not Chinese.”

“JAP-anese.” I feel like he’s spitting the word at me. It’s an insult, a dare, and a threat all at the same time.

“I’m Korean,” I tell him. As soon as I say it, I want to take it back. It’s the only thing I have that makes me feel like I’m better than him. Because I don’t think he even knows about Korea and that means he’s so stupid he doesn’t even know how stupid he is. But now I’m the stupid one because I gave him my only protection and now he’s gonna use it against me.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds his hand out to me, palm up, and places the shoe polish on top of it.

“Glasshoppah. Snatch da pebber flom my hond,” he says, in a fakey Chinese voice.

I don’t know what he’s doing. Alls I know is I’m mad that he is trying to make me feel bad on purpose and even madder that it’s working. Why does he get to be mean AND win? And worst of all, he’s making me feel more than bad — he’s making me feel ashamed. Like I don’t want anyone else to look at me. It’s so unfair and it doesn’t even make any sense. I’m adopted. When my parents come to pick me up he’ll see that they look just like his parents. So why can’t he see that we’re the same too? Tears of anger and frustration run down my cheeks because I both do and don’t understand why that will never happen.

My tormentor makes an ugly boo-hoo face at me. Since we are in Sunday School, I know the very first thing I should ask myself is “what would Jesus do?” because there’s probably a big learning lesson in all of this. But when I look into his eyes and see nothing but hate staring back at me, I can’t help it–I give in to the Devil. I don’t even care that I am in Sunday School. I haul off and throw my masking tape-covered baby food jar at him with all of my might. Of course, because I’m only five (and-a-half) and crying and furious, the instant it leaves my hand I know there’s no way my jar is going anywhere near my intended target. Except that somehow, a mysterious force that I can only think to be the guiding hand of Jesus, keeps my jar from straying and steers it onto what I believe is a righteous path straight into the temple of that boy’s head, and pretty hard too.

The jar falls to the floor and rolls under the table. Lucky for me, nobody hears it because he immediately starts wailing so loud nobody can hear anything but him. The teacher comes over and you can tell by the way she talks to him that she doesn’t like him very much. Instead of things like “Are you OK?” or “My goodness what happened?” she says “Alright James, just calm down” and “Let’s not be hysterical James, use your words.”

By this time pretty much all of the kids in the class have gathered around me in a clump, to figure out what’s wrong with James. Since I know exactly what’s wrong, I squeeze my way through to the back row so I can’t be seen. Then I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder.

“Ready to go home?” My Mom asks. I nod and take her hand.

“Are you crying?” I nod again.

“What happened?” she asks as we walk out of the classroom. My Dad is standing just outside the door. He takes my other hand.

“A boy made fun of me. He called me Chinese and Japanese.”

“Did you tell him you were Korean?” my Dad asks.

I don’t want to tell the rest of the story so I just lie and say no.

“Did you like this church? Are we coming back next week?” I ask them.

“No,” my Mom says. “We’re going to keep looking.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Yup.” My Dad says. We walk to the church entrance. There’s a painting of Jesus next to the doors that looks like purple and red lasers are shooting out of his hands. When we get outside I’m still holding both my parents’ hands so I ask if we can do 1, 2, 3 jump. They say sure. Then together they count to three and lift me high in the air.