Faking It

MCG sophomore year

MCG freshman year

Lolani Hawkins was popular, and she was Hawaiian. She wasn’t Me-wuk or Mexican, but she was popular anyway. Everybody knew Lolani Hawkins, but no one in Tuolumne knew that much about Hawaii apart from what we learned about leis and hula dancing from Lolani and her family. We certainly didn't know that most Hawaiians are a mixed-race people: Polynesian, Japanese, Puerto Rican, Chinese, Portuguese, Malaysian, Korean, and white. Lolani had dark skin, long dark hair, and dark brown eyes. From elementary school to high school, everything about Lolani set her apart from the others and in a good way. Striking but not particularly feminine in the way she moved her athletic body, walking with purpose, her broad shoulders sturdy and her head held high, she was smart, did well in school, had friends, was close with her family, and she was proud to be Hawaiian.
         PE teachers and coaches loved Lolani because she was good at sports. Growing long, powerful legs in fifth, sixth, and seventh grades, she was best at basketball, easily dominating the court and intimidating the girls from neighboring schools, with the exception of Jamestown, whose team of girls we kindly referred to as amazons.  Lolani was the kind of player who made the teachers, doubling as coaches, feel their time after school coaching the Summerville team worth it, though it was hard to ever tell if Ms. Martz, who rarely smiled, unless it was to sneer like she was smiling, was ever glad about anything. I remember her barking orders from the sidelines of the court during games, always with a look of disappointment, in her weird beige loafers, beige polyester slacks, and shiny, white windbreaker. Maybe it was the school mascot that was getting her down, coaching a team of girls whose mascot was a beaver.
         Summerville teams were never viewed as much of a threat, didn't have a reputation for winning most of their games, or having whole squads of excellent players, largely because there were girls like me on the team, girls trying to find their way, sports being one uninspired stop on the journey to finding the one thing in which they truly excelled. But Lolani's tenure in school sports changed the Summerville reputation a bit. She became well known around the county --  a real stand out. Most girls were either intimidated by her, or in awe of her power -- usually a combination of both. And the boys thought she was cool. She was in with them too. Practically one of them, she could speak their language, copy their swagger, hold her own.
         In fifth grade, I went to a couple of basketball games to see some of my friends play and got it into my head that I could do that too, not remembering that I was only about 4'9, afraid of getting hit by any kind of ball, and usually picked last for any teams during PE. I played basketball with Lolani just one season in the sixth grade, but I was never any good on the court. With all the passing, dribbling, and running about, I couldn’t remember which way I was supposed to be running, which basket I was supposed to be taking the ball to. My best move was grabbing the ball at the toss, as it was coming down, and holding onto it in a tug-of-war, waiting for the referee to blow the whistle.  Of course, Lolani was the star of the team, and she would go on and be one of the stars of the high school team too. The court was her universe, and the rest of us on the team were just in it -- she had those she relied on for rebounds, like the super tall Emily Ames, but everyone knew to keep their eyes on Lolani; she was the girl to watch, and she never got too big-headed about it either. Making baskets and scoring points for the team was just a fact of life for her -- it's what she did. Everyone called her a jock and tomboy, which seemed just fine with her. Nothing seemed to phase Lolani, either, not even my terrible plays. In fact, she didn't come down on anybody for not holding her own. Cool under pressure, she did what she needed to do to score points for the team. 
         But for me, basketball was something that I was just trying on, and watching Lolani play down court, in possession of the ball, made me realize that it didn't fit. I was at middle court, waiting around, not really playing at all when Lolani stole the ball from Jamestown. A handful of friends and parents in the stands, were whooping wildly, when she made a run for it, a pack of black and red jerseys a ways behind, unable to catch her. Just south of the net, she shot the ball, and course, she scored. Her power was impressive, and it made me think two things: I was never going to be that good, no matter how hard I tried, and I didn't care enough about basketball to try. Lolani went on to become the star of the high school basketball team, and I began to find my way in the high school pep band, marching band, jazz band, and choir where my actual talents were put to good use.                  

          However, in high school, my talents didn't get me cheers, trophies, or accolades, or popularity, which I tended to look down on. What they got me was a snowball with a rock inside upside my head. I thought I was just being myself, but to everyone else, choosing to be a punk girl and a band geek, I was just asking for it. One snowy, winter day, sophomore year, Jeremy Fong, the school counselor's son came after me more viciously than he had before. He had been taunting me for weeks, calling me a freak, and purposefully crashing into me in front of my locker. I was leaving pre-Algebra which took place in a classroom in the same building as the administration office. Passing in front of the flag pole and the school mascot statue, a giant black bear, when whap, a snowball nailed me in the temple. Breaking apart on impact, icy snow skidded across my face, and I could feel a lump forming, where something harder than a snowball had hit. Jeremy was ahead of me, laughing and carrying on -- the only Chinese guy in the whole school, not particularly tall with thick, dark hair and almond-shaped eyes, had assaulted me, to make himself look cool, and he would get away with it. Holding my head, and trying not to cry, I turned, and stomped through the snow-covered grass toward the school's office. I busted through the door and demanded to speak with Mr. Fong. I was prepared to be greeted by his snide smile; he had a way of making you feel like he never took you or anything you said seriously. He wasn't there.
         "I want to speak with Mr. Fong, right now," I shouted, startling the office assistant behind the counter.
         "Is there something that I can help you with?" her voice light and airy and without urgency.
         "I want to speak with Mr. Fong," I repeated, holding my head.
         "Michelle, I don't believe that Mr. Fong is even your counselor."
         "I need to speak with him."  By this time another office assistant had come out of the back room to see what all the commotion was about.
         "Mr. Fong is not in," the second office assistant announced. "Is there something we can help you with?"
         "Mr. Fong's son just hit me in the head with a snowball, and it had a rock in it. Look at this, look at my head," I said turning my face in their direction. They both looked at my head from their place behind the counter, not bothering to move too close.
         "We will let Mr. Fong know about this incident," said the first assistant, "as soon as he gets in." They didn't even offer me an ice pack.
         I didn't understand it. I didn’t want to be popular for things that the popular kids were known for, like sports, having an upperclassman for a boyfriend, for being a cheerleader, but how did Jeremy Fong rate? How could someone like Jeremy Fong be popular? Was it simply because his dad was the school counselor? I got it with Lolani, for the most part, and I understood why I wasn't. I was a weirdo, and she had great athletic prowess, a great personality, and she was Hawaiian, which seemed somehow cooler than being Me-Wuk or Mexican, and maybe the hula dancing helped too, but I didn't think so.
         Lolani had literally sweat a lot for her popularity, but maybe she was just doing what came natural. Maybe this is what made her a standout. I was doing what came natural to me too, the weird clothes that I could afford because I bought them from second-hand stores, the short hair because I was tired of people pointing out that I was a Mexican girl, and the heavy dark eye-liner just in case anyone didn’t get the point that I was trying to make. I just wanted to be noticed for something other than my skin color and my last name, the stuff that made me visible and invisible all at the same time.

I had seen what happened to many of the other dark-skinned kids. Many of the native kids who lived on the Me-Wuk reservation and not in town had dropped out of school already. School didn't seem to fit them at all, and it certainly didn't support them being there, not like elementary school had, or attempted to, at least. The curvy and quick-tempered Rhonda Kerzer who always wore a folded navy blue bandana on her forehead to hold down her full, thick mane, Jimbo and Louis, who I slapped once for whacking me on the head on the back of the bus, and several others, who I had shared teachers with in elementary school had long dropped out and been forgotten. The Maria sisters, the few only bilingual Mexicanas were practically invisible too until the older Maria got on the yearbook committee and made sure there were lots of pictures of her and her sisters in it that year. And during my four years at Summerville High, there were only three African American kids: Mona, Jay, and Lloyd. The best we could do for them was to pretend that we didn't notice that they were black.
         But for all I know, Lolani could have been pretending too. I remember watching her perform with her petite and beautiful mom and older sister at the high school. To see her swiveling her hips in her grass skirt and bikini top seemed wrong somehow. Each time I saw the act, I never quite bought it. Nonetheless, she, her mom, and her older sister continued performing here and there around the county, a kind of exotic novelty act. Instead of her face serious with sweat and determination, she smiled awkwardly with a gardenia behind her ear, her thick muscular legs fouling up her attempt at femininity but getting her noticed just the same.

Middle School Malaise

middle school aged MCG with friend Stephanie Ballard

        “You sure do move your arms a lot when you talk,” Mr. Roudell said, interrupting. I was telling him that Missy Baker had been tripped by a group of boys on the black top. She did not fall.

“Are you sure she didn't just fall?” he asked looking down at me, his

head blanking out the sun. “Missy falls a lot,” he continued.

         “No, I'm pretty sure she didn't,” I said, pointing at the boys who Mr. Roundell had stopped but didn't bother talking to. “She was running from the ball wall, and they were watching her, and he,” I said, waving my arms and pointing again, “Moved right in front of her and sort of put his foot out.”

“What are you Italian?” he said laughing as he said it.

         I could feel my face flush red. I forced myself to speak.

         “No, I'm not Italian; I'm Mexican,” I said.

I regretted those words as soon as they came out of my mouth.

         “Oh, yeah Mexican,” he said, smiling as he turned away to scan the yard.

         Speechless, I stood and stared at the black top, which spread out all around me in all directions, hard, and rough, and hot.

Everyone got to know Mr. Roundell right away because he was a yard duty teacher, tall, and strict, and really mean to certain students, but all the middle school grade teachers were noticeably meaner: Mr Roundell and his propaganda laden social studies lessons, Ms. Martz who never smiled even when we discussed her favorite books in English, and Mrs. Casserly who talked as much about her husband, who later dumped her, as she did multiplying and dividing fractions. Housed on the elementary school campus, the middle school classes were taught on a block schedule by teachers who seemed to believe it was their job to toughen us up for high school.

I had Mr. Roundell for homeroom in seventh grade where I noticed that he excelled at being cruel with a smile on his face.  While he managed to humiliate me a couple of more times before I graduated from Summerville Elementary, his attitude toward certain students and the movies he showed in class about evil communists hardened me to his tactics. Mrs. Casserly was strict too, and she was moody, but always a tad nicer to those who were already good in math. I wasn’t one of those students.

         Mrs. Casserly wore skirts to cover her wide hips, except on Fridays when she wore jeans and was always in a rush, always trying to fit the long math lesson into the little time she had. Bit she was never in too much of a hurry to tell us a cute story about Mr. Casserly and how their initials were AC/DC, electricity, not the rock band. AC for Anna Casserly and DC for David Casserly. She must have been a newlywed even though she didn't look like one because she talked about her husband a lot.

Early in seventh grade alone at my desk with a pencil and paper, being slow at multiplication facts was discouraging, but I at least understood the concept of multiplication. I couldn't keep up at all when we got to multiplying and dividing fractions and decimals. I could almost feel my brain shutting down. I tried paying very close attention to everything that she wrote on the board and raising my hand and asking questions though probably not enough. I tried calling Mrs. Casserly for help when the others were working problems, and she'd answer my questions in a whisper, as quickly as she could, in a rush to get back to the board to see who had come up with the right answer. She'd scrunch up her face when I asked the same question more than once or when I asked her to repeat something that she had just said. By the end of September, I was totally lost.

I had always been stronger in reading and writing, but elementary school math had been fun too. My third grade teacher Mrs. Shnauble had taught math using blocks, and puzzles, and boards with nails and rubber bands. Mrs. Shnauble had a loft in her classroom, and we were allowed to take the puzzles and boards with nails, or books, to the loft where it was comfortable.

         Mrs. Casserly tried checking in with me when she could once she noticed that I was getting behind, but eventually she stopped checking on me at all. I would sometimes find the courage to ask a question because I knew that's what I was supposed to do, and because I wondered if she noticed I was still in the room, but usually I just faced the board while she lectured and pretended that I was following along. After a while of fearing her chalked hand on her hip and furrowed brow, I stopped asking questions, and Mrs. Casserly went on no longer helping me, and I began thinking that I deserved to be ignored, and like Mr. Roundell had pointed out, that being Mexican had something to with it.

Mexican Girl

Indians and Sailors
MCG in braids
Mother Lode Parade circa 1975

        I guess it was easy to assume I was Me-wuk. I had dark skin; I wore my dark hair in long braids, and my clothes were second-hand. I even played an Indian in my first Mother Load Parade – Sammie, one of my first friends in Tuolumne, did too. Our gymnastics troupe marched in the parade, a row of little Indians and a row of sailors. The girls with shorter hair wore sailor hats and red and white striped leotards. The girls with long hair wore red leotards with a strip of white fringe around our waists and our braids wrapped at the ends and tied off with white ribbon -– my mom's idea.  All of us wore white ballet flats which we attempted not to soil as we cartwheeled around fresh piles of horse manure from the contingents in front of us, most of which, it seemed, were on horseback.

          Mostly, I understood that I was not Me-wuk, that I was Mexican even though I didn’t really know what that meant other than tacos and a language neither my mother nor I could speak, and even though I was in Indian Club at school. In second grade, the school’s janitor knew I was Mexican, and she gave me the business about it too.

         Like many other mornings in school, I raised my hand and asked permission to go to the bathroom. Small for my age with a tiny bladder, like most children, I had been holding it for a long time already. It wasn't until I was out of my seat that I realized how badly I needed to go. I made an easy decision to walk through the cafeteria rather than around on the sidewalk under the breezeway. I saw that the doors were open as I walked toward the cafeteria, behind which were the closest bathrooms. My bladder was so full that it was difficult to walk. I concentrated hard on making it to the bathroom before wetting myself, which I knew I couldn't do because I was in second grade and not kindergarten.

But as I neared the cafeteria, I noticed that the lights were off, the room only lit by the lights coming through the high windows. I could see blue sky and a couple of cumulus clouds – we had learned about those in Mrs. Plescia's class. Once I got to the middle of the now quiet and empty cafeteria, I realized that I was treading on a freshly mopped floor.  Mrs. Fulcher, the school custodian, appeared in front of me, her hands on the handle of an industrial-sized mop, a large bucket on wheels nearby. I didn't know why, but she had a hard look on her face. I stopped, my wet footprints on the damp linoleum trailing behind me.

I looked at Mrs. Fulcher. She was eying me hard, still leaning on the mop handle. I really had to go pee bad.

         “You're pretty bold for a Mexican girl,” Mrs. Fulcher said, gripping the mop handle, readying herself to wipe clean the tracks behind me.

I wanted to turn back, but I knew I wouldn't make it. So I set my eyes straight ahead, focusing only on the far door. The bathrooms were just on the other side them. I could feel Mrs. Fulcher's frozen stare and her grip on the mop handle, as I walked by. I picked up my pace, nearly releasing a hot stream down my leg.

         In the bathroom, it all came pouring out of me almost before I was able to lift my dress and wriggle out of my tights. You're pretty bold for a Mexican girl. I turned the phrase over and over in my head while pulling my tights up and walking very slowly, the long way around the cafeteria building back to my classroom. I couldn’t bring myself to rush even though I felt like had been gone for a very long time. Had I been bold? Was that so bad? Mexican girl? Was it bold to cut through the empty cafeteria, to walk on the wet floor when I hadn’t known it was wet?

         Pretty bold for a Mexican girl.

She shouldn’t have said it -- I knew that, but I didn't know why.