John had a tribal tattoo wrapped around his arm. The guy had a deep tan like he was from an island, and he wore a red T-shirt that read, “Be the Change.” He’d begun the day by gathering the staff in a huddle. The more we shared about ourselves, he’d said, the more the students will open up. “When I introduce a new activity,” John had said in a gruff voice, “I want you to jump and holler ‘Yeah!’”
The first statements John had read were pointless. Statements about race, gender, and age. We didn’t need John to tell us our demographics. I figured these were warm-ups. He hadn’t asked about family, which didn’t bother me. I thought I’d come to terms with all the shit in my family. No more lies. My parents had divorced, and now we were forming an honest relationship with Bah Ba. He’d come back into our lives when my brother had a son. Being a grandfather—my dad’s second chance. He’d invited us to spend last Christmas in Toronto with his side of the family for the first time. They welcomed us, relatives whose names we had to learn, the aunts, Bah Ba’s younger sisters, fighting each other to show us around. Two aunts drove me and Ga Jeh to Niagara Falls. They treated us to dinner at a revolving restaurant atop a tower. Below us, the Falls was lit up with colors, like something out of Vegas or a theme park. Our father was like yours, the aunts said. Not a great dad or husband. Never around. He cheated on your grandmother. That’s why she left him. For many years, we were angry at your Yeh Yeh. But life is too short for grudges. We brought Yeh Yeh here from Hong Kong—we couldn’t let our dad die alone. The past is the past.
I’m sure John read a long list of statements, but there’s only three that stick out.
“Cross the line if you have ever been awakened by gunshots.”
A flock of students crossed the checkered floor. Sunlight entered through the windows lined with wire mesh, and the light landed across the floor in the shape of small diamonds.
When I was still living in the projects, one night, I heard bullets rattling off from a submachine gun. The sparks flashed through the blinds in my room. A neighbor was enjoying his new toy.
I shuffled across the line. I could feel the eyes of other teachers on me. None of them had crossed.
“Take a look,” John said, “at who’s standing next to you.”
“Everybody’s on this side,” JB said, revealing his gold fronts. I’d thought JB was his nickname, or that it stood for something, but according to the school attendance sheet, his name really was just those two letters. His white do-rag contrasted with his dark skin. He held a baseball hat, which I had to remind him to take off every day in class. I thought we’d gotten closer when he showed me a picture of his four-month-old daughter, but our skirmishes in class continued.
I had a tough time getting respect when I began working at Dewey. Most were juniors and seniors, and they initially thought I was a student. I had no facial hair. I’d cut off my moustache for my then-girlfriend. She didn’t like the way it’d prick her.
The school year was nearing its end, and by now I’d won over most of the students, JB being the exception. Even Rodney had warmed to me. At the start of the year, I’d caught him drawing a picture of me as a monkey. His grandpa lectured him at the parent conference, saying the drawing was racist, that he’d grown up in the South hearing whites refer to Blacks as monkeys. He told me that Rodney subconsciously saw himself in me. “Your facial features are similar,” he said, “and we always thought Rodney had Asian eyes.”
The conference changed nothing. Rodney continued to torment me, heckling “Rookie” long past when others had stopped. I had to keep kicking him out of class. Finally, I tried an unconventional tactic—basketball. I wasn’t confident I’d beat him. He was taller by a couple of inches, and my shot was erratic, my dribbling clumsy, but I prided myself on defense. I knew if I could block Rodney’s shot, he’d respect me.
A small crowd formed on the basketball court outside. We’d barely begun, and I already blocked his shot three times. Students on the sidelines laughed and pointed at Rodney. I could tell he was humiliated, even though he smiled.
We slapped hands at the end, but soon Rodney acted up in class again.
A student named Antonio spoke up. “You better listen to Lam, before he takes you out to the court and swats your shit again.”
Rodney sunk in his seat.
The whole class laughed at him, and I knew I’d never have to kick him out of class again. He began doing his work and became the star debater. I taped a picture of us by my desk, to remind me that people can change.
“Cross the line if you have lost a friend due to gun violence.”
Students dragged their feet across the line, silent except for the smacking of gum. They turned to face us. They reflected the diversity of the school: mostly Black and Latino, a scattering of Southeast Asians, and the lone white student at our school—Carmelina. She pulled a girl in for a hug and gave her a tissue. Some students accused Carmelina of “acting Black.” That’d set her off. She’d snap her head and launch into a spiel about her Italian heritage.
The boys who crossed stood arm’s length from the nearest person. Some of them stared through the window at cars passing by. Some stared at the ceiling tiles. A couple of boys chuckled
