Passing Notes

There is no question that I am labeled as “the American” in my immersion classes. This distinction makes it hard to reach out to people; it doesn't help that I sit in the back of the room. My view consists of a sea of white and blue uniforms with indistinguishable ponytails and crew cuts. At the end of the first week, I had just started to associate faces with seating arrangements. When I got to school the next morning, the transferring of papers and water bottles confirmed my fear: they were changing seats. Now the smart girl next to the window, and the basketball star sitting in front of me disappeared back into the ocean of uniforms. Yet again, I was the sailor who had lost her bearings at sea.

In the US, I am usually first to initiate social interactions. However in China, I am clueless as to finding common interests with my classmates. Thus, I was planning on using my deskmate, Samuel, as a harbor. 

Everyday I heard stories from my American classmates about the various Chinese kids passing notes to them, and asking for their contact information. My friends would leave class bearing gifts that ranged from keychains, to globe-sized pillows. But still, everyday, my only social pride came from my interactions with Samuel. I started to question the reasons why my American friends were socially progressing so much faster than I was. Were the kids in my class particularly shy, or was I giving off an intimidating vibe? I could be content without presents, as long as I achieved my secret goal: to get a note passed to me in class.

Then slowly, my classmates started approaching me. It started one day, when an eager boy came up to me, asking if I watched some American wrestling TV show. Desperate for interaction, I started fabricating an incredible fascination with watching sweaty bodies get pummeled to the ground. Just as I was getting into it, the bell rung for class to start. Then physics class brought an hour's worth of incomprehensible Chinese lecture, that served as background noise for me to reflect upon my insincerity.

The next day, I had my second interaction with a student. A girl came up to me, and asked if I liked Jesse McCartney. This was the only time that I have ever been relieved to be versed in girly, American music. After class, the students started leaking into the corridors, and with her by my side, I navigated the stream of bodies with ease; we belted out “Beautiful Soul” all the way to morning exercises.

Then today, the Jesse McCartney girl passed me my first note. I was contemplating keeping it for my sentimental box, when I decided that would be too creepy, and I regretfully sent my reply on the reverse-side. However, I was able to mentally check off my secret goal, and in doing so, have set another one for myself: to hang out with my classmates.