Currently listening to: Enchanted– Taylor Swift
‘Cross the room your silhouette
Starts to make its way to me
The playful conversation starts
Counter all your quick remarks
Like passing notes in secrecy
All I can say is, I was enchanted to meet you
Two boys in grade school had at one time asked me to be their “girlfriend.”
Wade and Matt.
Wade was Caucasian and had an adopted Korean sister, which maybe explained why he was always kind to me in a sea of classmates who weren’t. He would bring me little gifts—pens and pencils, sometimes with cartoon characters or sparkles, as a token of affection. He wasn’t what you’d call traditionally cute—skinny, with dirty blond hair, thick glasses that magnified his eyes, and always a perpetually runny nose. I remember the boogers dangling from his nostrils at all times, actually. How could I not?
Whenever we’d sit on the classroom floor for story time or a group activity, he’d shuffle over and try to sit right next to me, gently nudging his knee against mine like it was some big romantic gesture. I didn’t feel much for Wade, but I wasn’t unkind either. In fact, I felt oddly safe with him. At the very least, he wasn’t trying to pull my hair, spit on my face, or call me a “Gook,” “Chink,” or “Jap.” He wasn’t one of the kids who told me to “go back to my country.” That was the bare minimum, but at the time, it felt like a small mercy.
Then there was Matt. Also white, but different. He was tall for a grade schooler, with blonde hair and dimples that seemed to appear magically whenever he smiled. I had never seen anyone with dimples on both cheeks, and I remember how they would always catch me off guard and make me smile back, shyly. Matt had that effortless cool, even as a kid. And somehow, he picked me.
Like Wade, Matt also gave me writing tools—erasers, mechanical pencils, even a fountain pen once. A fountain pen… at the time, I thought it was the fanciest thing anyone had ever owned. Part of me is still convinced he stole it from his dad’s office drawer cause what elementary student has a fountain pen?
Every morning, he would slide little notes in front of me while I sat at my desk. “Do you like me? I like you.” The handwriting was jagged, boyish. Sweet. And yet—I never responded. Not because I didn’t like him, but because I didn’t know how to. I wasn’t sure what it meant to like someone. What was “liking” supposed to feel like? Butterflies? Blushing? Confusion? Maybe I felt all three. Maybe I felt nothing. Either way, by the time we reached fifth grade, Matt stopped writing me notes and turned his attention to the popular girls.
We ended up going to the same high school, and he grew into exactly the kind of boy you expected him to become—handsome, confident, a star on the wrestling team. Every now and then I’d pass him in the halls and catch one of those dimpled smiles. It would still make me smile back.
Side note—and this always stayed with me—I remember being so confused the first time someone called me a “Gook.” Because in Korean, 미국 (Mi Gook) literally means “America.”
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