This bench is cold, the Highlight magazines have missing pages, and I just want to go home because the tortillas con queso aren’t gonna’ eat themselves. I obviously don’t want to be here, but my parents think that doctors know best. Apparently, I don’t know how to “communicate well.” Sorry I’m shit at English, Dr. Lleveno. At age 4, I should be fluent in English. At age 4, they said I was doing poorly at attaining the English Language. A la edad de 4 años, you would think they would cut me some slack over here.  

            My parents have their church clothes on, and they made me tuck in my white dress shirt. It itches, the collar is too tight, but does my mother care? We look like we are heading over to a banquet. Too bad we are in a Health Point clinic that feels more like a non-vacant motel that is trying to hide their rat infestation. I slouch in my seat, but my mom keeps smacking my head and tells me to behave. I give her my “I don’t care” look. She smacks me again.

Jason, Jason Morales?

            Dr. Lleveno finally calls my name. We enter through a security door, and they have us sit in an office, not an exam room. Now I start to worry. Why am I here? What did I do wrong this time? I stare at my mom, but she isn’t looking back. Either she doesn’t notice my eyes splattered with concern, or she doesn’t want to notice me. I tug on her navy blouse, I pull on the strap of her black purse, but nothing. I don’t even try to ask my dad. I just know that he would look back at me with his stern face. I never ask him for anything when he has that face. He always has that face.

            The doctor says I might be mentally challenged. She whips out a series of hefty charts for us. She points to the scattered color dots on the chart when explaining to my dad. I don’t know what they’re saying about me. All I know is that she acknowledges this sad green dot on the bottom, left corner, and then accidently makes eye contact with me. I might not know English, but I can decipher facial expressions all too well. Those eyes said nothing good about my condition. My dad just keeps nodding his head for the most part, then tells my mom and me to stand outside of the room. We awkwardly leave the dingy office and close the door behind us. The yelling commences. 

I’m a little confused in how I should feel about my dad at this moment. Should I feel happy that he believes that I’m not mentally handicapped? That he knows I’m capable of doing great things in the future? A smile sprouts on my chubby face, then he blatantly howls the word “retard.” Everyone in the lobby peers their head toward us, and my smile quickly dials back. Hmm, or maybe he hates the fact that I might just be retarded. He always had this thing against being called stupid.

For anything I did wrong, he would blame my mom’s genes for making me a dumbass. His DNA is fine, incapable of contributing to the creation of a retard child. That word, retard, that’s one of the first English words that I understood as a kid. I wish I could understand everything else they are saying about me. The other words just sound blurry to me. It’s like mishearing the lyrics to a popular song. Someone make it stop.

***

I don’t understand English yet; I just know gestures. I can wave hi, nod my head for yes, cup my hands around my crotch when I need to use the bathroom, shake my head for no, and point to my mouth when I’m hungry. I feel like those are the essentials to survive around nosy wannabees. That is how I refer to my teacher, Mrs. Koffman. The doctor suggests I be put in school a year early. You know, to help me better grasp the English language. Mrs. Koffman acts like she cares, but it’s hard to care about someone when you can’t understand each other. I remember Mrs. Koffman asking me what my favorite color was. I hear what’s your favorite cloud, and begin to transform my fingers into bunny ears to show her that I like the bunny clouds. The bunny ears hop, but she encases my fingers with her two hands and shakes her head in discontent. I don’t need a translator to understand that.

The mumbling in the background begins. I turn my head toward all the voices. I heard it. I heard that word. Someone called me a retard, but Mrs. Koffman isn’t paying attention. I point to Ben from the red table— he is always out to get me. She misreads my gesture. She thinks we are talking about colors still.

Oh, so red is your favorite color?

            I shake my head and start pulling on my hair. I lose it. He said retard, but all you care about is the color red. I open my mouth to utter out my anger. I sit there, choking. The words don’t want to come out. Mrs. Koffman stands there with her hands on my shoulders now.

            Ben keeps mouthing that word to me. Mrs. Koffman needs to stop worrying about the colors of the rainbow, and focus on Ben from the red table. I shrug her hands off my shoulders because I’m tired of her holding me down. Frustrated, I push on her thigh hoping I can turn her. Mrs. Koffman finally checks at what I’m trying to single out, but Ben just collects his blue Rose Art crayon and continues on working on his pathetic drawing of his parents.

Mrs. Koffman doesn’t catch him, she doesn’t catch him. He’s getting away with this. He mouths it one more time, and then I finally said it.

No, you a retard!

            Mrs. Koffman drags me out of the room. Ben laughs.

***

            They send me home with a letter pinned to my sweater with a Winnie the Pooh stitched on it. My mom opens it and heads out the door of our apartment. The neighbors are bilingual, so my mom has them read it to her since she can’t. I stand by the door, waiting for her to come back. I just know she’s going to hit me, but with what? I turn and look around the room. She picks up anything that might hurt, so I stuff the couch cushions with the plastic items. I have to hide everything, everything is a weapon of mass destruction. The T.V. remote, my giant bubble wand, and the spatula all end up in the couch.

To my mistake, I don’t cover the door. It’s too late. She’s already inside, so I have no time to be in my bunker under my bed. Yet, this time is different. She doesn’t strike, she doesn’t move, she just stares at me.

Vamos a la mesa, mijo.

            She picks me up, carries me to the kitchen table, and sets me down in our fold-up chair. She smiles at me and all my terrified emotions flee my body. She offers to serve me something to eat and goes to the fridge. I sit there, scratching my head. Mom usually over reacts and hits me whenever I do anything bad. I look back at the couch, wondering why those items are still unfound. I turn to check what mom is doing. She’s digging through the fridge, and finally takes out a bin of freshly washed strawberries. Mom? She removes the saran wrap off the bin. What is she up to? Mom’s steps align with the tune of a horror film. Why is she bringing that fruit to me? She knows that I don’t like strawberries. The bin slams on to the table, right in front of me. I am no longer her son— I’m her hostage.

Coma.

Ma, no queiro.

COMA!

            Like a cobra, her hand swiftly reaches for a strawberry, and she forces it into my mouth. I make an effort to have my mouth lock, but she pries my lips open. Drops the strawberry in my mouth like a grenade. Bombs away. She covers my mouth with her hand, and with her other hand, maneuvers my jaw to chew. I feel like a wind-up toy car. My eyes scrunch up, the strawberry clogs my muffled whimpers, my fingers grip the table leaving traces of my fingernails. The tears leak.

No te vas hasta que comas todas las fresas.

            She leaves. I already miss the bubble wand hammering my skin. From being hit, at least the pain goes away. But with the strawberries, the taste lingers from under my tongue. Bits of fruit stuck in my teeth, and I can’t poke it out with my fingernail. My punishment oozes down my throat where I can’t reach. I am stuck with this feeling even though it wasn’t my fault.

***

            Dad comes home around 5 or 6. He sometimes doesn’t eat all of his lunch, and saves it for me in his green lunch box. Then he does his usual routine when he finally arrives. It starts off with him untying his Craftsman boots, flinging them off his feet, taking off his paint smeared shirt, and then he tops it all off by lying down on the couch. However, I sort of get in the way of the routine with my crying. He looks over to me, and sees me crying over the last piece of strawberry that I have left to eat. He grunts. It sounds like a “Ugg, I have to be a father” kind of grunt. That man gets up and brings his lunch box over to me.

Why did your mother call me to buy this?

            He slides open his lunch box to yank out another box of strawberries. I vigorously shake my head and immediately cover my mouth. That woman has more ammunition for when I mess up later. This is just great. Not only am I almost done with this first batch, but now this second batch is going to be taunting me. I make eye contact with my dad. Man, he really hates it when I cry.

Why? Por que, mijo?

Me lo dijo primero, pa!

            He sighed. He stared off to the ceiling to figure out what to say next. My eyes can’t stray away from the strawberries he brought back.

Mijo, I’m going to teach you something.

            He brings his fingers up to his mouth, and reveals the inside of his lips. The inside of his lips are bloody. They look fresh, self-inflicted if anything. I'm confused why they are like that.  

Americanos son pendejos, mijo. There is no winning with them. They say the dumbest shit ever, but you’re the dumbass. So just bite your lip, okay?

I nod. He pats my back, gets up from his seat, and throws away the strawberries he just bought. I turn to look at him from my chair, but he just leaves the apartment. He’s probably going to get some beers. I practice my biting. I bite the left side of my lip, then the right. I gradually bite harder just so I know the feeling of how much it might hurt when I actually have to keep quiet in front of the Americans. Then I think why bother practicing tolerating the pain. The holding back is going to hurt more than the lip biting no matter how hard I bite.