Lie
Children’s hands either bobbed rapidly, pointing toward the ceiling, accompanied with screams of excitement or dropped limp along with their jaws in silence. Only two words could cause such opposing reactions- new seats. I belonged to the latter group of kids who dreaded changing spots. The thought of letting my clean and perfectly crisp folders enter a so-called “new” desk slot, soiled with both hardened and fresh, sticky gum frightened me. Standing in line with my peers, I waited to hear my name. As a fifth grader who was aware of the griminess of others her age, I made a mental list of the usual crevices that needed inspection for dark graphite build up and disintegrating crayon wrappers. My tense shoulders began to loosen once I could visualize a neat, effective organization of notebooks and writing utensils. Good spots- those that had perfect views of the blackboard, windows, and of course, the clock- slowly began to disappear. I noticed that my name had not yet been called, but I remained hopeful, distracting myself with new possible combinations.
I suddenly found myself standing next to only one other girl, Chelsea. Mrs. Kopp finally pulled my name from the hat and asked me which of the vacant chairs I preferred. Arrangements of pencils and notebooks no longer mattered- the only thing worse about new seats was the unpredictability of the students next to whom I would sit. Desk A was surrounded by friendly, talkative girls while Desk B hardly was in the most dreadful corner of the room. My teacher had already decided for the most mischievous and obnoxious boys to sit in that front cluster of desks. I feared sitting next to Chandler, the smart-aleck and Chase the pencil stealer. I especially did not want to be near Shane, the boy whose favorite phrase was “say something in Chinese.” No matter how many times I told him I was Korean, he did not or did not want to see Korea and China as separate countries that spoke very different languages.
Mrs. Kopp waited for my decision, looking at me with one eyebrow raised, lips slightly pursed. I had to make a choice, so I walked toward Desk A, pulled out the chair, and nearly sat down. I already knew the answer, but I asked quietly, “Would you like to sit here?” Chelsea jumped up with glee and asked if I was sure about my offer. I told her yes; then she took the chair. Mrs. Kopp pointed out my act of kindness to the class, giving me the smile of approval. In response, I said I was happy to give up my seat and that it felt good being kind. I lied. The true reason for giving up my seat was for Mrs. Kopp’s approval. Even though Chelsea hardly acknowledged me as a classmate, I could not bear to wreck my image. I did not want to be seen as a selfish, inconsiderate girl, especially since I had built up my reputation as being the little Korean who was always nice, and polite… quiet and obedient. Mrs. Kopp had high expectations for me, and I worried about what she would think. The fear of disappointing people drove me to please them.
I basked in my teacher’s praise for as long as her lips curved upwards- less than two seconds. I became quickly saddened to see her turn and announce our next assignment. I had just exchanged several weeks of bitter suffering for seconds of approval. I never imagined what little attention and credit she would give me. It was not fair; I did the right thing. Questions filled my head. Why doesn’t this feel better? How right was my good deed if it was for the wrong reason?
For most of my life now, I have repeated this mistake. Eight years later, I find myself in the same, new seat situation with every decision I make towards my future. I lie to my father, aunt, grandmother, brother and even my friends to fulfill their dream of me having a lucrative and so-called “respectable” career. I told them and myself that I want to be a doctor, just like they wanted me to be. Not once during my childhood do I recall having said my dream job was to be a physician. I cannot even remember when I chose that path of life. Consistently agreeing to things I did not want for the sake of momentary approval and satisfaction convinced my family and me of this illusion. I have denied my own wants for so long, I am not even sure what I want. I find myself as the biggest hypocrite when indulging in things I truly love like uplifting and provoking art, literature, and music.
I am tired of lying, but I am afraid to tell the truth. The betrayal would be too much for them to handle, though I am aware that I am contributing to my own heartache by keeping this secret. The longer I wait, the deeper the betrayal and suffering I will cause for everyone.
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