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El eś Josué Hutcherson. Eś chico. Soy de Kentucky, pero vivo en California. El eś diecinueve anos, le feliz cumpleanos octubre doce. Le no me gusta nada, leer. El eś bueno en bailar. Le encanta comer. El eś súper cómico. 

I hated this place. A nearby fan flooded my pages with dusty air, and the hard shelf I sat upon awoke me to a back ache every morning. I sat amidst a sea of thousands, just another copy. All I wanted was to be ideolized, at least paid attention to, but my cover read to be overlooked. To be met with the same passion with which I was bound was simply all I desired. Instead, trapped between those exceeding me, I slowly perished. I was starved; none knew hunger like I, desperate for hands and eyes. 

The Exchange of Goods and Services in Pre-Sargonic Lagash. I hated the name. It left the tongue with a stale after taste, but I knew I had so much more to offer a reader! If only they would take me off this shelf. I was trapped here, left to die in a row of historical literature the world had long since forgotten. All but one, The Rise and Fall of Rome. I hate to admit to jealousy, but my pompous next-door neighbor was the reason behind all of my disappointment. Those visiting my shelf were so infrequent, that when one teenager looking for a passing book report stepped down the isle, my spine began to quiver. Time and time again, the child’s hand would creep down the row, snowballing my anticipation, only to plummet as Rome was lifted off the shelf. 

I envied that book. I just wanted to be read, held, carried! To travel, and see the world, supposedly so astonishing. I often conveyed these desires to another neighbor, Abraham Lincoln, a Man of Faith and Courage: Stories of Our Most Admired President, but it goes nowhere. I wanted companionship above all, which is something another book just couldn’t fulfill. Created by humans, I felt an intense connection to the species, craving their affection. I was quickly losing hope, and began a transition to despondency, until I noticed a pattern in my library’s attendance.

A man returned to my isle for the fourth time that month! Once a week, to choose a new tale of historical literature. Now I had grown curious. I was quick to assume that he was here for me, and simply didn’t know it yet. As the weeks went by he drew closer, seeming to be going down the isle, one book at a time. I observed, and yearned for his touch. I couldn’t help fantasizing about what it would be like to be read by him. He was a young man, maybe early twenties. He wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses on his nose that accented his black widow’s peak. Imagining him as a young scholar, older than his age, seemed fitting to me. I watched as he turned the pages of my neighbors, with grace and care, almost a religious touch. The months drew on, his approaching hand still all that was holding my pages together. I became more conscious than I’d ever been, alert to every footstep, anticipating his weekly arrival. 

At last that time came, the day I would be read once more. I had counted his progression, one book a week. For once, this was the time a hand would not pass my spine. I heard the squeak of leather on tile, saw the glint of lenses turn the corner. My pages fluttered in anticipation as he proceeded down the isle, his hand lifting to my shelf. His fingers flitted over the pages towards me, sliding over my spine, lifting Rome out of the spot next to me. Once again, I was left waiting. 

Frank, how’s it going? Are you happy in China now? Actually, there is something making me nervous.

You know, my mother was invited by a university as a visiting scholar. I follow my mother and have been in the United States for three months, and I entered a fantastic high school. But I still feel nervous, because I’m a foreigner for others, and it is hard to be understood. I am living in an environment which is foreign to me and my culture. 

We are having a science class, and our group did an experiment just now. I had a good idea for the experiment, but others in our group didn’t know what I was talking about. So they just did the experiment in their own way, and I couldn’t join the process of the experiment at all. I’m an outsider! Then, there were two members of our group asking me whether the teacher in China hit me if I did something wrong. Of course not, the teachers in China respect and love their students, just like the teachers in the United States. They don’t know much about China. They might just know a little bit about ancient China, but not modern China. It is my duty to introduce these to my classmates.

I want to talk about the present situation of China with my classmates, because China is not what they believe it to be. For example, China has become the second largest economy in the world, China has become the biggest developing country, and China has the third strongest military in the world. Most of Chinese are satisfied with their lives.

I want to talk about the Chinese culture with my classmates, because Chinese history is as long as five thousand years. Ancient Chinese people made great contribution to world civilization. For example,  Confucius, the greatest ideologist in ancient China proposed the idea of peace and harmony which are still meaningful nowadays. Chinese culture is colorful. For example, The Spring Festival is a time  Chinese spend time with families and eat dumplings. And as a language, Chinese is beautiful in form and pleasing in sound. I’d like to teach my classmates some easy greetings in Chinese.

I want to join the discussion of the experiment and the team work, and I want to be an active member in the discussion of the group or the whole class instead of being an outsider. I have a lot of good ideas for the experiments or discussion, and I hope I can make others understand what I mean. I wish I can make others stop saying something like “I don’t know what you are talking about”.

But as you know, I just come to the United States and my English is not good. So, it is hard for me to tell these to my classmates. Nobody wants to chat with a person who speaks slowly, so I can’t introduce the present situation and the culture of China. My English is not good, so I don’t know how to express my idea. I feel nervous. I need to improve my English as soon as possible. I need to read more articles in English and listen to VOA Special English every day. I need to memorize the new words that I meet and try my best to pronounce them so that I can communicate with others more quickly. I feel tired about these, but I can’t give up improving English in order to communicate with my classmates adroitly.

Oh, I’m under heavy pressure now, and I have to continue to have science class. Those are all the things that I want to talk to you. Frank, can you understand me? Hope you can!

            Today is it. Today is the day that I leave this house forever, and never have to be near my mother, or annoying siblings again. Given this may not have been the best way to go, but it’s still better than being in that terrible house right? Why is that even a question? After today I know for a fact that it’s for the best that I am no longer in this house at all. No longer will the person that is supposed to love me most blatantly disrespect me. She deserves to be without me; she deserves to have to struggle to make sure that everything goes fine in the house. Fuck it; honestly she doesn’t even deserve to live! But that will come in time. Until that glorious day, I am happy to just be removed from the situation; whether I am in a cop car or not. Why am I in a cop car you ask? The kid who everyone expects to be perfect? The kid that everyone looks up to, and expects to have the best of the best grades, and the best of the best attitudes? Your cousin? What is he doing in the back of a cop car? He’s never even been to the principles office without leaving with the sound of metal bouncing on his neck from the newest award, so why is he leaving his house with the only sound of medal clanging coming from the handcuffs on his wrists? This makes no sense to you I know. But once you think about it, believe me it will. Sure I was happy, during school, and whenever I was around you. Sure I got all my work done, and made sure that all of my class work was completed. Sure I was able to get the valedictorian award 2 years ago in 8^th grade without even having to really try, but what about the things everyone doesn’t see? What about the things that cannot be seen with the naked eye? The things that can only be seen if you get to know this person. Most often these things that cannot be seen are the things that are hurting us the most, and these things sometimes push you to do things you wouldn’t normally do. Especially when they build up inside you, and get released all at once like an irrupting volcano. I should be used to it. It should not bother me that much at this point right? I mean I have been dealing with it all my life. The constant verbal abuse stemming from a sick and bitter mother with nothing better to do than bring you down along with her.

 “Nigga shut the fuck up!” The first 2 strikes came fast and unexpected. As what seemed like half my brain tried to register the pain that I had in my face, the other half was already reacting with a sense of overwhelming anger, and pure hatred. In an instant my brain had chosen whether or not it would go into fight or flight mode, and unluckily for my mother, it had chosen fight. As the pain continued to engulf my face, before I could realize, another strike hit my face. The third strike. Strike three took me to a place I had never been before. The anger that burned inside me; the adrenaline that rushed through my veins; these two things brought me to do something that I never believed I would do; hit her back. My one solid strike to her face had more force behind it than the 3 strikes she had landed on me combined. This resulted in more surprise on the faces of my older sister, and little brother who had been sitting on the bunk bed next to us watching the entire thing. From the moment it happened I knew what would come next, but deep down inside I knew I didn’t care, because I would finally leave the abuse that I had struggled living through for the past 16 years. Not another year, not another month, not another week, day, hour, minute, or second, would I deal with it all. So as I sit here in the back of this cop car and you wonder why I am here? You should be wondering, why am I not here earlier? And the answer would be, because of the three strikes.