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Kayane
There's this girl in my grade named Tatiana. I've never really liked her and she's never really liked me. I can't quite remember what exactly started our feud, but it's gone back as far as I can remember. In fifth grade, she "accidentally" spilled red paint all over my presentation. The next week, I "accidentally" knocked over her clay sculpture and it shattered into pieces. A two years ago, I accidentally bumped my bike into her car (it truly was an accident, I swear. There was no damage to her car. The only person who had been hurt was me with a skinned knee). A few weeks later, she "accidentally" ran her car over that same bike. Last year, she dated Marcelo (he didn't know much of our feud, so I let him off with a warning) and then broke up with him for no reason via text. Ever since, she's been my blood enemy (we were regular enemies before).
I was standing at the top of the stairs, next to the door of my fourth period class, when I saw her. I was casually leaning against the wall chatting up Marcelo when she gave me a dirty look and then walked into the classroom. Unfortunately, we have the next class together (another reason why I was so excited to skip yesterday).
I hate my next class for many reasons. One, because she's in there, along with her annoying little minion. They both sit right in front of me. Two, because I really hate science class. It's the most boring class of the day, even after math. Third, because the teacher can't be bothered to even try to say my name correctly so she just calls me "K". At least "K" is better than incoherently mumbling my name, like one of my other teachers does. One teacher even calls me Kane.
Mrs. Kingston isn't even a real science teacher. She's an English teacher. The old science teacher retired and, because this is a small town, there wasn't another science teacher to fill the place before the school year started, so they just stuck us with this incompetent teacher who barely knows anything about science.
After barely making it through class, I waited outside of the classroom for Marcelo. We were just minding our own business when she came up to us and started running her mouth.
"Hey, Bin Laden!" Tatiana shouted at me to get my attention. See, it's funny because I'm "Middle Eastern" (look at a map, Tatiana! Armenia isn't in the "Middle East") and Osama Bin Laden is Middle Eastern too, so that must mean we're the same, right? That's some original grade A comedy right there, Tatiana. So original.
Yeah, I'm not the only "Middle Eastern" person in the hallway, but just about everybody in the town knows Tatiana and I do not get along so they all know her blatant racism was directed at me.
Usually, I just take her abuse. She can make fun of my looks, the way I wear my clothes, my ethnicity, anything. I sit there and take it. I know there isn't much I can do, except for maybe return a few of the insults, unless I want to get into some major trouble. It wasn't until she started poking at my family's financial status that I started to feel myself slowly being pushed over the edge. Then, she started making fun of my mom. Most of the people in this town know of my mom as the town drunk. It's a small community, so word spreads fast. But what on Earth possessed her to think that making fun of addiction is okay?
"We're having a party this weekend. Do you think your mom would get us some booze?" Tatiana taunted.
"I think my mom is a little bit too cool to go to a Tatiana party, don't you think?" I retorted. Okay, maybe not my best work, but it got the point across.
I hate her so much. Tatiana dug deeper and deeper at my mother's addiction. As I forced back tears, I resisted the urge to hit her. I felt like she deserved to be hit. She rambled on more and more. She even called me chyernozhopy. I can't take this. I hate her so much and I hate how she thinks she can just say this stuff and get away with it.
"Is that why your brother-" Tatiana began.
She didn't even get to finish her sentence. Closed fist, short swing, right in the jaw.
"Don't talk about my brother."
Once she made it to the ground, I had realized what I had just done. However, she was quick and took me down with her. We managed to throw a few punches and hair pulls, and I even worked in a well-placed kick, before a teacher broke us up. Marcelo just kind of stood there in awe. I hadn't even noticed that I had been crying until I looked down and saw the teardrops on my shirt.
"To the office!" Mrs. Kingston shouted. "Now!"
We both obeyed and started to walk down the hall. The longest walk of my life.
Please don't expel me.
Please don't expel me.
Please don't expel me.
"Carol," the dean, Mr. Volkov, said as we entered the room. "To whom do I owe this pleasure?" I'm sure it was obvious what had happened with Tatiana's bloody nose.
"Tatiana and K got into a bit of a fight."
Mr. Volkov gave us both a glance and then pulled out some papers from his drawer. I really hope those aren't the dreaded expulsion papers. He scanned the papers and then calmly picked up his phone and started dialing some numbers. Oh god. He's calling our parents.
Within ten minutes, Tatiana's parents were busting through the doors whining about everything they could think of. Mr. Volkov hadn't even told them what happened; all he said was that there was an altercation with another student. She had already started to give them a huge sob story. Mr. Volkov couldn't get through to Sam so he had to call in my mother. She arrived about ten minutes after Tatiana's parents. She smelled like a mixture of cigarettes and alcohol.
"Thank you for getting here so quickly, Mr. and Mrs. Novichkov," Mr. Volkov said. He gestured towards the seats in front of him. "You too, Ms. Nazaryan."
My mother sat down next to me and stared blankly at the wall.
I wonder if Tatiana's parents can smell the addiction on my mother's breath. I wonder if Mr. Volkov can smell the years of abuse that linger on her clothes. I wonder if Mrs. Kingston can smell each and every reason why I was late to class when I had her first period two years ago.
My mom shortly glanced over at me and gave me a weak smile. This is the first time I've seen my mom in weeks and the first time I've seen her outside of our house in months.
My mom used to be gorgeous. Her eyes, once bright and cheery (the same eyes I had inherited from her), are now bloodshot and watery with perpetual dark circles. Her hair, which is now greasy and unkempt, used to have beautiful ringlet curls frame her equally beautiful face. But all that changed when my dad started drinking and started to try to control how she did her make up and how she did her hair and how she dressed and everything.
"Please, Mr. Volkov," Tatiana's mom began, her Ukrainian accent not backing down, "call me Anastasiya. Now, what is this about?"
"Tatiana and Kayane got into a bit of a fight in the hallway today," Mr. Volkov said.
He said my name wrong.
"Kai-ya-neh," my mother spoke slowly as to enunciate the syllables of my name. "Her name is Kayane."
"Okay, Tatiana and Kayane got into a fight." He said my name wrong again. I could sense my mom was about to say something, but I gave her look that told her to let it go. "Tell us what happened. Tatiana, you go first."
"Well, I was walking to my locker, minding my own business, and she just blindsided me and hit me!" Tatiana said. I interjected, trying to defend the fight from my perspective, but Mr. Volkov told me to be quiet and wait my turn. Tatiana gave another sob story about how I hit her and she didn't do anything.
Before Mr. Volkov could even tell me that it was my turn, I was already telling them exactly what happened. Tatiana interrupted me multiple times to dispute my story. Mr. Volkov, however, didn't tell her to be quiet.
"She called me 'Bin Laden' and 'chyernozhopy'," I said once I was finished. I didn't have to explain what it meant to me. Everybody in this room knew that that word meant. It was a dirty word. My mother once put soap in my mouth for asking what it meant.
I know it's not the dirtiest word out there and there's even dirtier racial slurs that exist within the world, not just for Armenian people, but chyernozhopy (черножопый) is still a slur, nonetheless. It's used mainly in Russia, and is probably the most offensive slur for Caucasian people (and by Caucasian, I mean the people from the Caucasus Mountains). Literally translated, chyernozhopy means "cobra", but it's obvious she's not calling me a cobra. She's calling me "black-ass" in Russian. This word is also used against Russian people of African descent.
Tatiana and her parents started talking rapidly in Russian or maybe it's Ukrainian. I don't know. All I know is that I didn't understand what they were saying.
"Dear," my mom said to me in a compassionate tone. She spoke to me in Armenian. "You didn't need to hit her."
"She made fun of you, Mom. I couldn't just let her say that stuff about you. Calling me that word just pushed me over the edge."
"Tatiana and Kayane, I don't think I'm going to punish either of you," Mr. Volkov said. I felt my mom start to interject to correct his pronunciation of my name, but I stopped her. I could hear the Novichkovs behind me gasp in offense at this outrageous proposal. "It's the last week of school, and Tatiana's about to head off to college with her 3.0 grade point average, so I don't see the point in putting this on your permanent records when both parties were wrong here."
"Kayane," my mother, once again, interjected. She said the accents of my name so beautifully. "Her name is Kayane. It's three syllables long and yet you still can't find the time to learn to pronounce such a simple name. I am insulted that you, and every other faculty member in this school district, refuse to even try to pronounce my daughter's name. It's Kayane."
My mother's thick accent refused to soften itself for the English language. It's the same accent that I used to hate when she would hold up the line at the store as she struggled to understand the cashier and either my brother or I would have to translate for her because our English was already that much better. I'd try to distance myself from her as to pretend I wasn't hers but everyone knew the olive skinned child with long, black hair matched the woman with the same features.
"Sorry," Mr. Volkov mumbled at my mother. Once again, I stopped my mother from yelling at him again. It's not that big of a deal. I don't care anymore; I'm used to people mispronouncing my name. I don't understand why she always makes such a fuss about it.
"Also, my daughter has a 4.0 GPA. She is just as smart and talented as Tatiana is. Why are you only acknowledging her success and not my daughter's?"
No one said anything.
I hate this stupid school. One of the worst things about living in a small town (especially an isolated one, such as Vela Ensenada, where there's a desert, mountain range, and lake that cuts us off from the rest of California) is that when things get bad at one school, I don't have the option of switching to another school where things might be better.
Unless I want to be home schooled or drop out (both of which have never been an option for me), I'm stuck at this ridiculous school with a xenophobic and racist white nationalist for a dean.
"You may go home for the rest of the day, but I want you two to come back bright and early tomorrow morning. But only come back if you feel like you can control yourself and not hit people for saying something you don't like." He looked at me right as he said this. Instead of only focusing on my faults, why can't he just say "and not hit people, and not call people racial slurs and mock Kayane's mother's addiction". "Resume your regular schedules on Monday for exams and then you're done."
Tatiana's parents started an argument over Mr. Volkov's decision. They went on and on about how somebody must be held accountable for their actions. I don't understand why they're making such a fuss about this, though. If I'm punished, then Mr. Volkov has to punish Tatiana as well since she hit me too, and I don't think they want their perfect little angel to be suspended.
Thankfully, Mr. Volkov upheld his decision and told us to go home.
Tatiana gave me a dirty look as we walked out of Mr. Volkov's office. I swear I could even hear her call me chyernozhopy again as she got into her parent's car.
"Would you mind if I drove?" I asked my mom in Armenian.
I've always been scared of driving with my mom. She drinks so much and it's just not safe. I'm sure that alcohol is now just a permanent part of her blood.
My mother silently handed me the keys and slid into the passenger's seat. She even fell asleep in the five minute ride back to her house.
"We're here," I said softly. I shook my mom's shoulder until her eyes fluttered open. I walked her inside and laid her down in her bed. "I'm going to walk back to the house. I'll see you later."
"Don't be silly," my mom said, "you can wait here until Sam can pick you up."
I politely told her I should go home and study. She just mumbled a reply, rolled over, and fell back asleep. I did a quiet scope of her room before I left just to check for bottles of alcohol that might be laying around. I quietly grabbed the only full bottle I saw and rushed downstairs and poured it down the drain. After rummaging through the kitchen for more bottles, I promptly poured those down the drain as well.
After making sure she didn't have any more bottles hidden away, I started walking in the direction of Sam's house. I tried calling her again but it went straight to voice mail. I left a message and started walking home.
This is the first time in my twelve years living in Vela Ensenada that I've actually taken in the beauty of my town by myself. I'm typically with somebody when I explore the city, but now I can explore it myself with nobody holding me back.
I've always thought Vela Ensenada was typical for a small town of only five hundred people. Sure, Vela Ensenada is not a lot like other small towns in a lot of ways. I mean, we have a people of color majority, and we have three churches (a Roman Catholic church, the Armenian Apostolic Church, and an Eastern Orthodox church), a synagogue, and a mosque. Most small towns only have one church, two if they're lucky.
One of the worst things about this small town is that there is literally nothing to do. Yeah, we have a mall, but most of the shops there went out of business years ago and the only things left is a run-down movie theater (tickets are cheap though, so there's that), a Subway, a sports store, and a clothing store that nobody goes to. The coolest thing to do around here is play hide-and-seek at Wal-Mart in the next town over.
I wandered around the town for a little before I sat down in the town square and started reading the book I got when I was out with Dan yesterday (Vergeen: A Survivor of the Armenian Genocide by Mae Derdarian).
I was about a fourth of the way through the book before Ms. Casarez, the elderly woman who lives across the street from Marcelo, came up and asked me if I was okay. I hadn't even realized I had been crying.
This book hurts my soul. Knowing that Vergeen's story is so similar to what my grandparents experienced during the genocide just hits too close to home. The pain, the torture, the death that my people, the Armenian people, suffered during one of the first genocides of modern history hurts, and reading a firsthand experience of it just hurts my heart.
After I dried my eyes and put my book away, I started walking back to my house.
The house was empty when I got there, so I spent the rest of my afternoon mostly watching TV and surfing the web. I would've been doing homework or studying, but I felt I deserved a little break from school. I even cleaned up a little bit so Sam wouldn't be so mad at me when she got home.
Sam finally called me back around the time I would've been getting out of school. She was calling from an unfamiliar number (presumably the school phone) because left her phone at home. I don't think she's heard about the fight.
"Hey, where are you? School got out ten minutes ago. I'm in the main office," she said. She didn't seem angry at all.
"I'm at home."
"Why are you at home?" she said. She sounded kind of angry now.
"I got into a fight." She didn't respond. "With Tatiana."
She still wasn't responding. I looked at my phone and saw she had hung up. Within five minutes, I could hear her car pull into the driveway. She came in and asked Dan and Phil to go wait in the guest bedroom for some privacy. I braced myself for a screaming match.
"You got into a fight with Tatiana?" she said calmly, yet still with authority in her voice.
"Yes."
"Why?"
I explained to what had happened in exactly the same way I told it to Mr. Volkov. I told the truth and nothing but the truth (except when she asked what I did after my mom's, I told her I walked straight home because she doesn't like me walking around by myself).
Sam wasn't mad as I expected her to be. She was just more disappointed that I hit her, yet still relieved that I didn't get in any trouble.
The next morning, Sam asked me if I felt like I could "control myself" at school. I told her no and caught up on my sleep.