LET'S ASK MR. LEE

                                       New Release from Chris Bowen, The Bell Maker

     He walks in.  He has a perfected strut already.  He’s thirteen and he looks around the room with his brash smile poised high in the air, expecting girls to blush and boys to cower.  He also has about eight new facial hairs in a few small clumps.  It looks like smudges, as if he’s been doing a little light chimney sweeping, but to him it bellows out, “I have arrived!  I am a man!”  These first flushes of puberty sometimes come with arrogance and a mean streak.  It’s usually temporary.  Sometimes it is not.  Sometimes it’s a more permanent way to approach the world.  Either way, it must be squashed.  Laid to rest.  Mix this mean arrogance with thirteen-year-old impulsive behavior and some rather offensive phrases can come popping out of their mouths.

     He takes a seat in the front row.  Dead center.  He does not sit here in order to better see the board or to improve the quality of his education.  He sits here to ensure he has the fullest possible audience.  Arrogance thrives on an audience.

     A few minutes later, the serenity of silent reading is broken.  I look to see that our new “man” has turned to the crowd and in an attempt to grow his fan base, is making faces for all to see.  Actually, not faces.  It’s just one face.  He is pulling back his eyes to make the well-known racist Asian eyes.  I stare at him.  Usually a kid stops at this point, but he has facial hair, so clearly he does not need to step down.  He elects to ramp things up a bit.

     “How do Asian people see?” He asks me.  The chuckles behind him build.

     “I don’t know,” I answer.  “Why do racist people talk?”  I ask back.  The chuckles subside. 

     “What?”  He asks rhetorically, mocking confused over-the-top hand gestures.  “It’s just a question.”

     “You’re right,” I say, sounding apologetic.  “That was rude.  I’m sorry for what I said.”  I’ve seen boxers and possums feign injury in order to allow that false feel of victory to creep in.

     “It’s okay,” he says almost triumphantly.  “I accept your apology.”  His tone gains a few more chuckles.  It’s almost as if he feels sorry for me, and is capable of empathy.  But he’s a few troubled times away from developing any sense of empathy for anyone.  Right now, it’s his world and we just live in it.  He turns back to the audience and does the face again.  “Seriously, does anyone know?  It’s just a question.”  His audacity alone is a big hit with the crowd.

     I sit down and start to write a note.  It’s caught his attention.  He rolls his eyes.

     “What?  Am I in trouble?”

     “No.  Not at all.  I just want you to get an answer to your question.  I’m writing a note for you to go next door and ask Mr. Lee.  He’s Asian.  Originally from Korea.  From the corner of my eye, I can see the color start to leave his face.

     “No, I don’t want to ask Mr. Lee,” he says.  His voice is vaguely pleading.

     “It’s no problem,” I assure him.  “He’s a nice guy.  I’m sure he’ll give you an answer.”  I go back to my note.

     “No, no.  I don’t want to ask.”

     “Why not?”  I ask.

     “Because,” is all he can say.

     “Because why?”  I ask.  No answer.  “Why don’t you want to ask Mr. Lee how Asian people are able to see? “  I pause.  “It’s just a question.”

     “I don’t know,” he answers after a while.

     “Yes.  You absolutely know.”   There’s another pause.  I may not be getting the chuckles, but you can easily hear a pin drop and I have my audience leaning out over the edges of their desks.  “Say it,” I urge, changing my tone.

     “You absolutely know why you don’t want to ask Mr. Lee how Asian people are able to see.  Say it.”  I hover close to the desk and don’t move.  And I won’t move until I get my answer. I am fully prepared to wait him out.

     “Because it’s racist,” he mumbles.

     “Speak clearly, please.”

     “Because it’s racist,” he says.  This time it’s loud enough for the room to hear.

     “Thank you,” I say.  I drop the empty slip of paper that was my alleged note unto his desk just to let him know I was bluffing.  “It’s not your audience, sir.  It’s mine,” I say for future reference. I pretend to study his face with mother-like concern.  “Looks like you’ve got some dirt on your face,” I say pointing to his small cluster of frail facial hairs.  He looks up.  Though it needed to be done, I do feel sorry for him for a moment.  Luckily, enough people along the way have taught me how to have a little empathy for others.

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