Friday, March 18, 2011

Personal Pixie Dust

You’re not going to believe this, I mean they actually brought a complaint against the American for standing on chairs in class. Standing on chairs while he mimed out some vocabulary word. The other Chinese teacher said he broke chalk into little pieces. "What is he doing in there?" They all want to know. Now they demand to see the curriculum. They demand it be printed out. They demand to have meetings with the parents because we show movies and take the kids out for basketball and order pizzas we pay from our own pocket and use baseball games to teach reading review and make kites out of homework and fly them out classroom windows. "Stop! You are having too much fun."
China is madness. China has sunk into the sea of madness. Let it drown.
I sit on the bed with Xian and we read The Borrowers by Mary Norton, chapter five where Arrietty has not fallen asleep but instead lays in the cigar box looking at the painted ladies dressed in swirls of chiffon blowing long trumpets. Yesterday Xian stopped me on the stairs and said, “You know, I can walk myself to school. You don’t have to take me to the door anymore.” I shake her off, who does this kid think she's talking to? Really?
The South African wants to be fired. He insulted the pregnant woman and put a cockroach in the Mrs. Lee’s pudding and told Anne they should get an apartment in Texas together. I heard it in the cafeteria over long slimy wet noodles. I thought, Texas? Who screws in Texas? I chat with him outside by the smoker tree. He's got these pills, supposed to stop him from taking drinks. He starts begging me to fill in answer sheets for a second grade unit on bumble bees. I think, he should probably trade in those pills for a magic cow.
Rebekah is curled in my lap in the back seat of a taxi as we sit in traffic. There are lights and rain puddles and the smell of ginseng chewing gum. I haven’t the heart to tell her about the world. About how they come at you in droves. The liars, the beggars, the users, the cheaters, the fiends, the pretenders. They descend upon you like thieves with manicured nails. Rebekah purrs mid-dream. The light changes green. I storke her hair as all my thoughts disappear.
Kinu is a loaf of bread. She’s a pair of pajamas in a laundry basket. She’s my blue sweatshirt all rolled up Sandy uses as a pillow on the couch. She’s less than an American Heritage Dictionary. Less than a box of glazed doughnuts. The old coffee can full of half eaten crayons. She’s light as pixie dust. Twice as magic. Sometimes, she and the other two fairies are the only things keeping me from sinking to the bottom of the sea.

No comments:

Post a Comment