Ching Chong

My mom looked puzzled, “why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I dunno”

“but the story is still making you cry ... ”

I’m standing on the corner, waiting forever for the school bus to come on my first day of eighth grade. Crisp clean cool sunny fall morning in my fresh outfit with my new supplies, anxious and excited.

Finally the bus arrives. I’m relieved. I’m in the right place.

Classic yellow school bus with black words. Up the steps, bus-world looks at me as I hop on and I smile. I find a seat and look out the window.

Then laughter. Weird laughter. “Yee ching haw ching chong.” I turn and there’s a curly haired guy with glasses, pulling at the corner of his eyes in a squint, leaning out in the aisle at me, staring, laughing out loud and pointing at me. Looking forward even the driver is laughing out loud as if I don’t understand. I do. I’m 1/2 Japanese and 1/2 Chinese and I’m in middle school in Omaha, NE, and there is nothing to do but sit and not cry and look out the window until we arrive.

In the hallways at school “ching chong ching chong.”

The next few days I waited, but the bus didn't stop to pick me up. It just didn’t ever come.

I was OK. Just sucked it up. School wasn't really that far, and walking in the cold air felt good. It really wasn't a big deal. Way worse things happened- words vs punches vs gunshots- yet as I was telling my mom this story for the first time a few weeks ago, it reminded me that little stories can stick around for a long time, little bitter pills, even after they really don’t matter at all. So letting go of this one here in medium.