Sona Kaur Katial

It had happened again today. When would it stop? When would life be normal again?

Satbir had moved to the United States two months back from Amritsar, India. It had been five weeks since the twelve-year old had started junior high and nothing had been the same since then.

Back in Amritsar, he had been the envy of his classmates. Going to America, you are going to live the life of Hardy Boys. Maybe your school will be like Archie’s Riverdale High School, the kids had said. Little did they know how different reality is from fiction?

Going to school in a small town, with no cultural or ethnic diversity was something no one had taken into consideration.

"Say ‘schedule’ again, towel-head," sneered the big white boy, Bob, whom Satbir had grown to dread when he teased him on his pronunciation.

"Rapunzel let down your hair," shouted some other children at lunchtime.

Satbir often stayed back in the classroom during recess to avoid the children and their cruel remarks. No one at home knew what was going on at school.

"Munda, is getting very moody," said his father "I think it’s the teenage years."

"I think he misses his old life, his old friends, we all do," replied his mother.

No one understands, said Satbir to himself. It’s not fair. Why do I have to go through this everyday? Why do I have to keep my hair? My parents don’t have to go through what I’m going through.

The next morning after the English class got over.

"Sat-Beer, I would like to talk to you after school," said Mrs. Rose, the English teacher.

What have I done, thought Satbir. He was scared it seemed like nothing was going right for him lately.

The rest of the day passed on as usual, with the merciless teasing.

"Let me see what's under that napkin," said Bob as he tried to snatch off Satbir's Patka.

"Oh no, I will never let you touch my hair, screamed Satbir as he pushed Bob away.

After the struggle was over they both had telltale bruises on their faces.

After school Satbir knocked at Mrs. Rose’s door.

"Come in," said Mrs. Rose, as she looked up from the papers she was checking. "What happened to you! That's a nasty bruise you have on your eye."

Satbir stood quietly with his eyes lowered. He still hadn’t gotten used to the informality that existed between the teacher and students in this country.

"Sat-Beer, sit down," ordered Mrs. Rose softly. "I'm a bit concerned about your work. When you started school your work was good, in fact excellent. But lately it's been very shoddy," continued Mrs. Rose, "I know you are capable of much better. So tell me what’s going on?"

Satbir stared in shock. His eyes welled up. He had not expected concern from such an unlikely source. Suddenly he could not carry the heavy burden anymore. He broke down and sobbed as if his heart would break. He told his teacher how he was being treated, how he'd grown to dread school, how he just wanted to go back to his old school in Amritsar.

Mrs. Rose could not help but cry as she held the shaking boy and thought of the cruelty children inflict upon each other without realizing it.

The next day Mrs. Rose had an interesting assignment for her class.

"I want you all to write a paper on how your family is different from others," Said Mrs. Rose.

Oh brother, sighed the class, what are we supposed to write about!

Satbir realized that Mrs. Rose had given him a valuable opportunity. A few days later it was time for everyone to read his or her papers in class.

Finally it was Satbir's turn.

"I come from a family of Sikhs," said Satbir. "A Sikh is a protector. We are warriors and we will fight any oppressor to protect the oppressed. We don't cut our hair, our kesh as we call it, is a symbol of our humility," he continued, "it's a symbol by which we are distinguished from others. When a person sees a Sikh, he knows that, that is the person who will always help him out in time of need."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Rose, as Satbir finished his paper. "Well children I think that helps us understand Sat-Beer's culture a little better. Doesn't it?" she said.

The class nodded silently in agreement, digesting the new knowledge they’d just gained.

"School's not so bad anymore, and Mrs. Rose is my favorite teacher," wrote Satbir to his friend Vir in Amritsar, a few weeks later. "In fact Mom says I've started to speak with an accent. Gotta go. You remember that boy Bob, well he is coming over to play Nintendo."

Copyright ©2002 Sona Kaur Katial. About The Author