Clouds

1.2. Buckle my shoe. 3.4. Open the door. 5.6. Pick up sticks 7.8. Do it again! 9.10. Do it again! Do it again! DO IT AGAIN! You must be asking why I’m doing it again so often. Well, I don’t know. Stop asking such weird questions. Anyway, today’s task is to give Madison her lunchbox, tell Joey his homework, and make sure Mr. Marcus and Miss Bueno don’t get mad at me for not cleaning up after all my friends at playtime. I hope I don’t get time out like last week after I forgot to take out the trash. Now, let me introduce myself. I’m Ángel Diaz Alvarez Lopez shortly, but my homeroom friends call me Devil. I never understood why they called me that. My name in English means the opposite, but hey, less complaining and more action like my teachers say.

As hunger suddenly struck, I continued scrubbing the floor with an old rag Mr. Marcus had given me. “Mr. M, that’s his nickname, “could I quickly eat something before I clean?” I asked. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide, red even. Mamá always looked red like a volcano whenever I came home with bruises, and his face looked exactly like hers. Hoping I didn’t say anything wrong, I smiled to show suitable behaviour. He quickly slapped my face and said, “Future druggists like you don’t get to eat. Who knows what kind of ideas you’ll get with food in your head? I don’t want you hurting these poor kids.”

My two teachers also did this to Adnan, Ulan, and Femi. We’re labelled by Josuha, Clément and all the other native kids as weirdos. It’s not my fault my parents prepare different food, from ham and cheese sandwiches, or how Adnan doesn’t eat meat. Once, the teacher tried forcing Adnan to eat some. Which, thinking of it, sounded off cause Elizabeth said she didn’t like broccoli, and the teacher gave her some granola instead. Maybe she’s a favourite? Then again, the weirdos are all the top students. We get stars all the time, and whenever there are parent-teacher meetings, we get many compliments for stuff we never did. I tried telling my Abuela I had never done any of what they said, but I got too tired every time I tried. Is it normal for a school to be this tiring?

Yesterday, my class went to eat at a Salvadorian restaurant for my birthday. A boy who typically bullied me and constantly called me a toothless future gangster said the food was terrific. It’s odd how people change for their taste buds but return to normal when the flavour leaves. My parents kept the food as least spicy as possible, but that guy was teasing me about not wanting extra hot sauce. For heaven’s sake, not every Latino has a high heat resistance! Why am I insulted all the time and then complimented? Recently, I read a book about the olden days when people mistreated one another for their skin colour. The way they showed their hatred was direct and violent. I’d like to know if nowadays it’s the same thing. Mamá likes to say: “Are there slaves, or are the slaves internal?” when she’s overworked. Some questions will never be answered because I finally finished cleaning and want to forget seeing her sad.

As I raced to the asphalted grounds, Miss Laura approached me. She drew a line with chalk, and I searched for my own to use. I loved her class last year. She was my old teacher and used to let me teach my culture to the class. Today, her face looked different from usual. It’s as if she also read the book about bad people I read. Eventually, she told me, “The problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the colour line.” I looked at her perplexed but nodded. “Don’t you realize how the other teachers are threatening you is wrong?” she exclaimed in tears. Why so sad for nothing? Didn’t Abuela always say older people are supposed to be tough? Why are they suddenly acting like kids? The last time I saw an adult so unhappy was when my dad didn’t come home from work one night. Everyone was so sad. To this day, I wonder where he is. My stepfather says he’s somewhere beautiful where there’s all the candy in the world.

Anyway, I saw Mr Justin tearing up from afar, too. While I stared at him, covering his tears, suddenly, a loud BAM roared from behind me. It was Miss Bueno. She grabbed my arm and took me away. “Oi, Devil criminal,” she yelled, “tell her about our little police officer game.” Confused, I just stared at Femi getting teased by another teacher for her fish-like scent. She smelled like pretty orchard flowers, but I guess not everyone’s nose works the same. During all the chaos, I somehow felt sleepy. Very sleepy. And without a beat skipped, I fell into a deep sleep. Guess it’s finally early nap time.

***

Oof. It’s been 23 years since my last time in this building, and honestly, I wish I’d never been here. They teach you to be hardworking, witty, a good listener, and a good person? But let me confess something. After the coma, the pain of seeing myself losing too many years of my life controlled me. It’s like going into a time machine, except you weren’t willing to. Oh, and to put the cherry on top, fear crossed my mind whenever I heard something related to school. No matter what Mamà or Abuela did, I couldn’t move on. Then, reaching high school, I became an even bigger insecure idiot. Whenever someone insulted me, I’d do whatever they said. Say my friend insulted me for preferring soccer over American football; without hesitation, my dumbass would quit what I like for fear of being abandoned or hit. Or if I ate something with a particular smell, I’d hide somewhere so that no one would complain.

Do you know how fucking annoying this all is? When will I be a real Canadian? I barely speak French; nobody can understand it. People squint their eyes whenever I say something or make me repeat it several times, but if someone from France talks, they act differently. They smile and everything. So, what’s wrong with me? I do everything people want, but I’ll never be one of them. I’m never going to be a Quebecor. Subtle comments like “Oh wow, it’s so multicultural here” or “Damn, you’re one of those exotic people” remind me why I’m nothing to them. NOTHING!

After being overworked my whole life, I finally realized something. No philosophical peace treaty will save me from those years of… racism. Yes, I finally said it. Instead, I ask the monsters: “Sorry, I don’t understand. Could you repeat?” Let’s all accept that I might never be a real Bay Frog to them, but I will always be one. Sorry if I’m a fish out of water because, no matter what, I’ll still be there to piss them off. Guess the Devil finally took his role. As I picked up my kids from their first day of school, they sang my favourite nursery rhyme. Tears rolled slowly down my cheek. Something in my head was finally ready to move on. So, in my head, I yell with pride and joy: “1.2. Buckle my shoe. 3.4. Open the door. 5.6. Pick up the past. 7.8. Cry 9.10.

Remember, every cloud always has a silver lining.“