JENNY TANG-CLARKE

“Go back to your country” was what this kid in my fifth grade class told me. Well, I am in my country, I thought. How can I go back to my country? Did he mean because I was Chinese that I can’t possibly be from Canada?

I refused to eat my lunch because my dad would give me leftovers or something ethnic and I didn’t want my classmates peering over their Wonderbread, bologna and French’s mustard, and questioning what I’m eating. The teacher would send me to the principal’s office. “What do you have, Jenny?” asked the vice-principal. Ashamed, I pulled my lunch out from a plastic lunchbox and set it on the desk. It consisted of soy milk and a meat-filled bun. “This looks really good, Jenny. Why aren’t you eating it?” I know it is good, I thought. It’s better than crappy granola bars and bland sandwiches. “I’m not very hungry,” I lied. The teachers would make kids bring home whatever they didn’t eat. Mom said I brought back home full meals everyday. I begged and begged my dad for “normal” lunches. From then on, I got tuna and peanut butter and jelly. 

In the third grade, we sat on the carpet in a circle and the teacher would ask us a question every day. One day, the teacher asked, “What did you have for breakfast?” “Cereal!” “Pancakes!” “Eggs!” yelled Jill, Adam and Carl. “Noodles,” I said. I got the weirdest looks from everyone sitting in the circle. “Why are you eating noodles for breakfast???” My face went beet red and I immediately wished that I had lied about what I had for breakfast. 

In the fifth grade, we had a “Culture Lunch.” Bring in a dish that represents your heritage! I wanted to fit in badly. I already stuck out like a sore thumb, so I was ashamed to bring in anything “ethnic” so I brought in Timbits. What a shame. 

I can’t count the number of times when some kid at the park would turn to me and sing (while pulling their eyes taunt until they were tiny slits) “Chinese, Japanese, look at these!” Or yell out “CHING CHONG CHING CHONG!!!” I’ve lost count. I would run home, upset, and tell my parents what had happen. “Just let them say those things. There’s nothing you can do about it. You can’t cause a scene,” my parents said. Well, I wish I had been taught differently, and that I had the confidence to say something back. But I didn’t. 

Anonymous asked: are you going to fight back somehow? throw something or picket?!!!

When I get really angry, I immediately get upset because I take a lot of things personally. I don’t stay angry for long, but I can stay upset for days. It’s difficult to get up and fight when I’m upset because my head’s too heavy.