From
In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson,
By Bette Bao Lord

Nine o'clock the very next morning, Shirley sat in the principal's office at P.S. 8. Her mother and the schoolmistress were talking. Shirley didn't understand a word. It was embarrassing. Why hadn't she, too, studied the English course on the records that Father had sent? But it was too late now. She stopped trying to understand. Suddenly, Mother hissed, in Chinese, "Stop that or else!"
Shirley snapped her head down. She had been staring at the stranger. But she could not keep her eyes from rolling up again. There was something more foreign about the principal than about any other foreigner she had seen so far. What was it? It was not the blue eyes. Many others had them too. It was not the high nose. All foreign noses were higher than Chinese ones. It was not the blue hair. Hair came in all colors in America.
Yes, of course, naturally. The woman had no eyelashes. Other foreigners grew hair all over them, more than six Chinese together. This woman had none. Her skin was as bare as the Happy Buddha's belly, except fro the neat rows of stiff curls that hugged her head.
She had no eyebrows, even. They were penciled on, and looked just ive the character for man. And every time she tilted her head, her hair moved all in one piece like a hat.
"Shirley."
Mother was trying to get her attention. "Tell the principal how old you are."
Shirley held up ten fingers.
While the principal filled out a form, mother argued excitedly. But why? Shirley had given the correct answer. She counted just to make sure. On the day she was born, she was one year old. And two months later, upon the new year, she was two. That was the Year of the Rabbit. Then came the Dragon, Snake, Horse, Sheep, Monkey, Rooster, Dog and now it was the year of the Boar, making ten. Proof she was ten.
Mother shook her head. Apparently, she had lost her argument. She announced in Chinese, "Shirley, you will enter fifth grade."
"Fifth? But, Mother, I don't speak English. And besides, I only completed three grades in Chungking."
"I know. But the principal has explained that in America everyone is assigned according to age. Ten years old means fifth grade. And we must observe the American rules, mustn't we?"
Shirley nodded obediently. But she could not help thinking that only Shirley had to go to school, and only Shirley would be in trouble if she failed.
Mother stood up to leave. She took Shirley by the hand. "Remember, my daughter, you may be the only Chinese these Americans will ever meet. Do your best. Be extra good. Upon your shoulders rests the reputation of all Chinese."
All five hundred million? Shirley wondered.
"You are China's little ambassador."
"Yes, Mother." Shirley Squared her shoulders and tried to feel worthy of this great honor. At the same time she wished she could leave with mother.
Alone, the schoolmistress and Shirley looked at each other. Suddenly the principal shut one eye, the right one , then opened it again.
Was this another foreign custom, like shaking hands? It must be proper if a principal does it, Shirley thought. She ought to return the gesture, but she didn't know how. So she shut and opened both eyes. Twice.
This brought a warm laugh.
The principal then led her to class. The room was large, with windows up to the ceiling. Row after row of students, each one unlike the next. Some faces were white, like clean plates; others black like ebony. Some were in-between shades. A few were spotted all over. One boy was as big around as a water jar. Several others were as thin as chopsticks. No one wore a uniform of blue, like hers. There were sweaters with animals on them, shirts with stripes and shirts with squares, dresses in colors as varied as Grand-grand uncle's paints. Three girls even wore earrings.
While Shirley looked about, the principal had been making a speech. Suddenly it ended with "Shirley Temple Wong." The class stood up and waved.
Amitabha! They were all so tall. Even Water Jar was a head taller than she. For a fleeting moment she wondered if Mother would consider buying an ambassador a pair of high-heeled shoes.
"Hi, Shirley!" The class shouted.
Shirley bowed deeply. Then taking a guess, she replied, "Hi!"
The teacher introduced herself and showed the new pupil to a front-row seat. Shirley liked her right away, although she had a most difficult name, Mrs. Rappaport. She was a tiny woman with dainty bones and fiery red hair brushed skyward. Shirley thought that in her previous life she must have been a bird, a cardinal perhaps. Yet she commanded respect, for no student talked out of turn. Or was it the long mean pole that hung on the wall behind the desk that commanded respect? It dwarfed the bamboo cane the teacher in Chungking had used to punish four hands whenever he stole a trifle from another.
Throughout the lessons, Shirley leaned forward, barely touching her seat, to catch the meaning, but the words sounded like gurgling water. Now and then, when Mrs. Rappaport looked her way, she opened and shut her eyes as the principal had done, to show friendship.
At lunchtime, Shirley went with the class to the school cafeteria, but before she could pick up a tray, several boys and girls waved for her to follow them. They were smiling, so she went along. They snuck back to the classroom to pick up coats, then hurried out the door and across the school yard to a nearby store. Shirley was certain they should not be there, but what choice did she have? These were now her friends.
One by one they gave their lunch money to the store owner, whom they called "Mr. P." In return he gave each a bottle of orange-colored water, bread twice the size of an ear of corn oozing with meat balls, peppers, onions, and hot red gravy, and a large piece of brown paper to lay on the icy sidewalk and sit upon. While they ate, everyone except Shirley played marbles or cards and traded bottle caps and pictures of men swinging a stick or wearing one huge glove. It was the best lunch Shirley had ever had.
And there was more. After lunch, each of them was allowed to select one item from those displayed under the glass counter. There were paper strips dotted with red and yellow sugar tacks, chocolate soldiers in blue tin foil, boxes of raisins and nuts, envelopes of chips, cookies as big as pancakes, candy elephants, lollipops in every color, a wax collection of red lips, white teeth, pink ears and curly black mustaches. Shirley was the last to make up her mind. She chose a hand, filled with juice. It looked better than it tasted, but she did not mind. Tomorrow she could choose again.
But when she was back in her seat, waiting for Mrs. Rappaport to enter the classroom, Shirley's knees shook. What if the teacher found out about her escapade? There would go her ambassadorship. She would be shamed. Her parents would lose face. All five hundred million Chinese would suffer. Round and round in her stomach the meatballs tumbled like pebbles.
Then Mrs. Rappaport came in. She did not look pleased. Shirley flinched when the teacher went straight to the long mean pole. For the first time her heart went out to Four Hands. She shut her eyes and prayed to the Goddess of Mercy. Oh Kwan Yin, please don't let me cry! She waited, listening fro Mrs. Rappaport's footsteps to become louder and louder. They did not. Finally curiosity overcame fear and she looked up. Mrs. Rappaport was using the pole to open a window!
The lessons continued. During arithmetic, Shirley raised her hand. She went to the blackboard and wrote the correct answer. Mrs. Rappaport rewarded her with a big smile. Shirley opened and shut her eyes to show her pleasure.
Soon, she was dreaming about candy elephants and cookies the size of pancakes.
Then school was over. As Shirley was putting on her coat, Mrs. Rappaport handed her a letter, obviously to be given to her parents. Fear returned. Round and round, this time like rocks.
She barely greeted her mother at the door.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"You look sick."
"I'm all right."
"Perhaps it was something you ate at lunch?"
"No," she said much too quickly. "Nothing to do with lunch."
"What then?"
"The job of ambassador is harder than I thought."
At bedtime, Shirley could no longer put off giving up the letter. Trembling, she handed it to Father. She imagined herself on a boat back to China.
He read it aloud to Mother. Then they both turned to her, a most quizzical look on their faces.
"Your teacher suggests that we take you to a doctor. She thinks there is something wrong with your eyes."

About The Author

Bette Bao Lord was born in Shanghai, China, in 1938. Her book "In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson" tells of her experience moving from Shanghai to Brooklyn, New York, when she was eight years old. Her mother's dream was that she would grow up to be an "ist" -chemist, physicist, or other scientist. She failed at chemistry, but did, at last, become an "ist" -a novelist. Her first book was "Eighth Moon", the true story of her sister who grew up in China and was separated from her family for sixteen years.