a memory: we are in second year, fall quarter and the air is getting crisp. sitting at our discussion table which also happens to be our eating table, our sleeping table, our modelling table, and on happy occasions, our dancing table.
“does your family speak Mexican at home?”
and we stare at our professor, the silver fox en vogue that everyone wants to take, mouths wide open.
the question is shrugged off and no one bothers to correct him.
and another: we are still in fall quarter, the beginning course of architectural history driving us mad.
a girl who excelled at art history in high school walks in.
“that test was so confusing - I kept mixing up China, India, and Japan.”
we sit there without a reaction as we try to forget the fact that we probably all failed the test -
and glancing around and seeing me and two other asian girls, she takes this to mean that it was not as challenging for us
“i don’t think i did that well - i don’t speak Buddhist”
right in front of two girls whose families are devout Buddhists.
the silence is so loud.
later, I ask one of the two girls if she is like that because her father passed away.
“that’s no excuse” she says.