For Pieces of You: Write a letter, poem, or how about a story, to or about your best friend. Let him/her know why they are so special.
I thought I would write about my Chum, and then we had lunch today with E, and I thought, no, I'll write about E. Then as I was leaving work today, I was thinking how lucky I am to work with Colleague and have her for a friend, and I thought I would write about her. For a long time I saw myself as someone without friends; there were all these excellent people in my life and I couldn't even see it because I didn't think I deserved them. I wondered if any day they would wake up and realize that there wasn't a thing about me that merited their time or attention. But I don't feel that anymore; I guess that therapy thing works, by golly. Now I just feel happy to have these people I really admire as friends who enjoy being with me and being my friend.
I saw a documentary on PBS over the weekend, actually I saw different parts of it at different times for a few days. It was about the experience of being an American of Chinese descent.
And then I remembered Jessica.
I was eight when I moved here. I'd always been the smartest little girl in class, and I had the confidence to go with it. On my first day in this new second grade, though, I faced a teacher who hadn't smiled since 1912 and who scared the hell out of me, and the dumbest kid in class -- you can always tell -- taunted me because I couldn't write in script like they all could, even though they hadn't even taught that where I came from. It took just minutes for me to turn into a shy kid with little self-esteem and no self-confidence at all. The teacher had me sit in the only empty seat in class -- a kid had just moved out of town -- and there I went.
I was sitting next to Jessica. I could see that she was Chinese, but only the way I saw that some of the other kids were girls, or boys, or blond, or brown-eyed. I did notice that she had beautiful black shiny hair.
It was not very long before I knew that I wanted Jessica to be my best friend forever. She was the smartest kid in class, and the funniest, and the most athletic of all the girls. She made me feel from the beginning that I really did belong there, sitting next to her in class, and in this new town. She wanted me to be her best friend, too. Imagine: this wonderful person wanted me for her friend!
We were inseperable best friends for years, adding another girl, C, to the partnership as we hit fifth or sixth grade. Jessica was beautiful and wonderful and quirky. Everyone wanted to be her friend but not everybody could, I guess. The three of us were little proto-hippies, back in the mid-sixties, and she was ahead of everyone. I remember that she read "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" in seventh grade. She didn't get it, but she read it.
Jessica's mother, and mine, were both assistant leaders in our Girl Scout troop. I loved her mother, too, everybody did. I think she was the only mother I knew of back then who worked even when her kids were little, and who had gone to college. I thought these things were very cool, and she was so nice, too.
There were three very long scrolls hanging in their split-level living room, covered with Chinese characters. Mrs. J. had smuggled them out of her home when the Communists took over. Her family had been well-to-do, in China. Sometimes when she made us lunch, she stirred the pot with a chopstick. Probably the most exotic thing about Jessica and her family, both to me and C, was that they were Christian and had a Christmas tree, since we were both Jewish and didn't. Every year we would go and help decorate the tree and exchange Christmas presents there.
Chinese was just something that you could say about Jessica, if you were listing her qualities, just like you could list Jewish for me, or short. It didn't make any difference, it didn't matter at all.
Until I saw the TV show, and watched several Americans of Chinese descent describe their childhoods. And now, I have to wonder:
What was it like for her? Did she feel different? She was different, of course, she was unique and wonderful. To me, those were the things that made her different. But what made her different to her?
She was my best friend, and I knew her well. I thought I did. Maybe I didn't know her at all. Maybe the childhood we shared was entirely different for her than it was for me.
Can we ever -- in any way -- understand something we can never experience? Lately I have come to ask myself if we can, for so many reasons. It's been on my mind.
And then I remembered Jessica.
Sunny, crisp
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I'm watching Oprah
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