Mosquito Bite
Elizabeth Nguyễn
“Chinese, Japanese,
Dirty knees,
Look at these.”
-a chant
“Everybody’s talkin’ all this stuff about me,
why don’t they just let me live?
I don’t need permission to make my
own decisions. That’s my prerogative.”
– Bobby Brown
“My Prerogative”
“The true achievement is the favor you do for yourself.”
-Tran
The jeers of schoolkids hum by my ears like mosquitoes buzzing. Chants and mimicking facial expressions follow me through my elementary, junior high, and high school years. But miraculously, time and age see me repulsed, deaf, and delighted to the playful chants, for you see- I have achieved what I had deemed impossible: I have accepted myself.
Elementary schoolkids found me amusing- from my flat nose to my “having the last letter of the alphabet” in my first name to my being brown. Strangers would mock the color of my hair and skin and the slight slants of my eyes. Often I angrily wondered why my schoolmates could not see me as a tanned, brunette Caucasian. Always, I resented and hid from the Chinese and Japanese, blaming them as the reason for that playful rhyme. I remember walking with my lunch tray toward the cafeteria table when a boy intoned, “Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these.” He drew his eyes upward, downward, slapped his knees, and stretched his eyes shut with his fingers. I cringed and scurried away, whimpering silently. I had let the mosquito taunt my ears, do its little dance, and bite me. I fervently clawed at the bite, and I wished that my skin would turn white.
The junior high or middle school years were a long, emotional trek for me. During those adolescent years, I lived in two states and four cities. The name-calling began again and though I ignored the ridicules, I heard every word. Expectedly, my classmates found me amusing- from my flat chest to my last name to my color. But my mature mind made up for my immature body: I stopped scratching my mosquito bite.
A boy in my eighth-grade class strolled to a seat behind me and sat with his friends. My unconsoled conscious knew that my being new was not the sole reason for the seats beside me and in front of me being empty.
The boy’s inevitable voice greeted my ears in a friendly tone, “Hey Chinese [expletive].”
His friends chanted, “Chinese…Chinese…yellow-“
“You’re wrong,” I angrily snarled. “I’m not Chinese!”
Shocked, the boys stared at me for several seconds. Finally, a chubby boy asked sarcastically, “What are you then? Japanese?”
“No, I’m Vietnamese,” I said simply.
Even more bewildered, the boys stared at me in incredulity and then in admiration. All four boys surrounded me and urged me to speak Vietnamese, tell them my name, and talk about the War. This time, my consoled conscious knew that my being new is not the sole reason for the seats beside me and in front of me being full.
High school carries me to my post-adolescent, but still teenaged years. I am not only proud of my Vietnamese roots, but I embrace my Chinese, Japanese, and other “yellow” friends. I do not hesitate to add that I love my color, I love “Nguyen” as my last name, and I love being an American Vietnamese.
Mosquitoes still buzz by my ears, but this time…they tickle.
Elizabeth Nguyễn
