quinhaus10 new document title

schoolhouse karaoke

If you want proof that this country is going to shit, look no further than Twitter, where teachers beg. I never did that. I mean, we weren’t flush, but we weren’t scrounging for crayons and paper clips. I taught in the days when overcrowding and underfunding were less extreme. I remember neat rows of desks, checkered floors, tiles haphazard as if laid in a hurry. My colleagues cynical and jaded, but they never stopped caring about the kids.

It comes back to me in snippets.

Plumes of pot smoke rolling across the room.

Red Solo cups strewn about.

Your obsession with Point Break, quoting it all the time.

You said: If you want the ultimate, you’ve got to be willing to pay the ultimate price. It’s not tragic to die doing what you love.

I looked back at you, thinking how adult you sounded, how mature you appeared, until I remembered.

I quoted the movie back to you: You know nothing. In fact, you know less than nothing. If you knew that you knew nothing, then that would be something, but you don’t.

I turned away.

I called you Encyclopedia Brown, because you were so smart.

Your mom told me to take care of you.

In broken English, she said: no other teacher has cared this much.

I looked down, afraid.

I remember your blue oxford shirt, the one with the pony. You saved up for it.

The first time you wore it, I thought, no shirt has ever looked this good.

That Christmas I bought you a plaid pajama set.

You told me you were too afraid to wear it, didn’t want to mess it up.

That time you made me a fried sandwich.

1 small ripe banana

2 slices white bread

2 scant tablespoons smooth peanut butter

2 tablespoons butter

Elvis ate this, you said.

You are my king, you said.

I swear the peanut butter still lingers in my mouth.

You had a swallow tattoo on your leg, would joke about seamen.

You held me and told me you knew, but didn't care.

You kissed me gently.

We breathed in and out together.

One day you asked: why is it so hard to find something I’m good at.

You tried the sports thing. You were okay, you thought, but not good enough to keep playing.

I bought you your first guitar, signed you up for lessons. You took to it like a fish to water.

I saw a future for you in music. Your writing got better and better, and you had incredible lyrical ability, words leaping off the page.

You channeled your anxieties and hopes and dreams into your music. I was so proud of you.

You stayed behind after the bell rang, feet shuffling like some exotic dance.

Your expression searching and uncertain.

Finally you said: don’t you think there is this tension between us?

Tension?

Yeah.

Is that a bad thing?

I guess tension has such a negative connotation.

If it matters that much to you, I said, I love your hair. It’s beautiful.

Face beaming, you turned to leave, almost skipping.

At some point I decided that things had gone too far.

I figured you would be fine without me telling you that you were talented, that you would go places so long as you kept working.

I thought, even without me egging you on, you would never give up.

This was before I learned that men are just walking sacks of insecurities.

When I told you I was leaving the district, you reacted poorly.

You started pacing listlessly, deflated.

I watched your Adam’s apple bob up and down.

I wanted to kiss it so badly.

You took your shirt off, softly, shyly, insisted I would miss you.

Your body lithe, steely like cables bound together.

I soaked up every tender molecule, thinking: I can’t take my eyes off you. I can’t take my eyes off you.

You asked: How do I make you care. How do I make you care.

The last thing you ever said to me was: what if I never see you again.

I thought you were lost, gone forever.

I pushed you out of my mind.

Then one day you reappeared.

What I saw first: the solitary guitar pick, gleaming, mother-of-pearl.

Then the words:

U changed my life

U really did

Thank u

I miss u

no true marxist would allow sentiment to interfere with business

- attributed to Trotsky

Fire alarm, 3 a.m.

Feet shuffling

Soldiers marching

Ball and chain

Innocent eyes

Central Park Five

Hey, he said, voice thick with sleep

Don’t go out, Blue Shirt warned

He obeyed, he hid

Firefighters and police came and went

Ruse to flush him out

He heard that the protests were different this time

Disparate, decentralized

The one who got wacked

Drew the short straw

His parents met him at the airport

Don’t do this, they said

Staring at them, he realized that he was looking at strangers

How had they grown so far apart

He wondered if he had always been this way, or if he had changed

He noticed bits of food all over the street

Alkaline noodles here

Errant wing there

He hoped the protesters would get it together

They needed some galvanizing force

A personality to rally around

Attractive, credible, sane-sounding

乱拳打死老师傅

(Random fists that kill the grandmaster)

Sometimes the unskilled win

Still a colony, just with a different master

Contract with America

Contract of Adhesion

Talk to the mothership

Naked exploitation

Shocking the conscience

Like when that Swedish pop sensation Nils

Turned out to be a guy from Kentucky

He longed for someone he could build a common code with

The same vernacular, vocabulary

He met Blue Shirt

Somewhere in Mid-Levels

Blue Shirt’s hands clasped in prayer

Whiteness folded together

He took Blue Shirt to the same restaurants, the same bars, as if retracing their steps

He couldn’t decide if Blue Shirt’s presence sullied those places or cleansed them, shaman-like

Ward off those evil spirits, you know

Does that make what came before mean less

The thing that bothered him most was the fact that the ex didn’t vote

He remembered

强龙不压地头蛇

(Strong dragon doesn’t challenge local snake)

He couldn’t shake the feeling of fraudulence

Most of his friends had come back

Working in the skyscrapers in Central

Clouds and fog blocking out the cries and pleas below

Air-conditioned shops, sparkling clean

$98 for salami

Spanish pig

Treated better than Spanish citizen

He pretended to like Starbursts because they were Blue Shirt’s favorite candy

Tropical, Strawberry Banana, Pina Colada, Cherry Kiwi, Mango Melon, Summer Blast, Original

What are we fighting for, Blue Shirt said, lurching forward as he spoke

Define ‘we,’ he replied, defiant

You have to leave, Blue Shirt cautioned

Straight away

As they say in England

He looked bruised, disarmed

The homosexual agenda will have to wait, Blue Shirt joked

No, he insisted

I can’t keep seeing you

My superiors . . . Blue Shirt started, voice trailing off

He remembered their trip to Big Wave Bay

The sun hitting Blue Shirt’s face just so

Hair the color of yuenyeung

I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life, he said haltingly

Trying to convince himself

He got up to leave

He fought the urge to look back

my frog alexis

Hey what are you running from?

I want to be the one you leave behind

Adjacent to greatness

Face blank and appraising

Eyes brown like autumn

Your body fused to my mouth

I take your moisture

I am radiant, glowing

In Italy, they would go to war for me

In France, they would surrender for me

Cannon fodder

Dime-a-dozen gabacho

White jeans

White Ford Bronco

Put you out to pasture

You are one of many

Sir, this is a McDonald’s

MICHAEL CHANG once played the role of spoiler in an election for Student Body President. He believes that retweets do equal endorsements. Based in the NYC metro area, he is multilingual and holds a black belt in Taekwondo.

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