Asher ✓

14 | ryanel

SEPTEMBER 2, 2009 / SYMONT MIDDLE SCHOOL

It was forgetting what his old mattress smelled like. 

It was forgetting the names of the streets he passed from the local cemetery to his house. It was forgetting how many steps were on the stone staircase outside his school. It was losing the distinct sound of his landline telephone ringing. 

It was Ryanel Gonzales that made Asher realise every step he took towards New York was a step away from his homeland.

Asher couldn't have it both ways. 

Logically, it would be blissfully easy to let go of the reminders of Russia and allow the noise of New York to sweep Asher away. Would it be so bad to follow the crowd, even if they were walking away from everything he had grown up knowing?

The scrawny boy who diverged from his homogeneous semi-clique of Filipinos on the second day of school, saying, "Hello, my name is Ryanel Gonzales, I am from the Philippines, what is your name?" made Asher think that being an American wouldn't be so horrible. Asher understood all the words, rough as they were — everyone had an accent in his class — and guessed the two nice-sounding melodies were supposed to be his name.

The Russian word for Philippines was not too different from the English word — and isn't all that life is? Two things that are separate, but not too different, could be understood with time and luck and effort. Maybe Asher could understand life a bit better with the enthusiastic, loquacious boy by his side.

Mr. Snider had a hell of a time trying to pronounce the exotic names of his students.

With the German 'R's' and Chinese 'Ü's' (and the tones, heck) tripping Mr. Snider up on his way through the attendance, a thirty second ritual lengthened into five minutes. His determination to cater and respect all the ethnic names was valiant, if not successful.

 Asher decided to spare Mr. Snider the bother of being corrected when he called, "Aa-sher," instead of "Ah-sha." Supposedly, that was the common way to say his name — in America. By the end of the week, his classmates all called him a compressed, American-ised version of Asher. Add his name to the list of things America was taking from him and distorting.

Something unsettled Asher about his school. 

Not specifically a bad thing, but more of an acquired taste that Asher had to swirl around his tongue until it tasted normal. Complaints were way denser in between classes, like they had built up in the previous class, spilling their negativity to students before accumulating in the next class, ready for more. 

Asher Delrov didn't see school as a punishment. School was an incredible opportunity, where knowledge flew past in humbling amounts; all a student had to do was reach up and grab it.

But Asher grew used to the pain of bitten tongues, as he incessantly stifled the objection that rose when he listened to his new friend say, "Ugh. When I die, can you put on my death certificate: cause of death — math?" 

Maybe all American schools were like this: full of students unwilling to learn and teachers unwilling to teach.

Ryanel folded Asher into his group of friends with open arms and a cheeky grin. It was a month into school when Asher's form class broke their shells, and burst into their own skins. Everyone saw everyone for who they wanted to be, and the boundaries that language or colour had created on the first day of school were washing away with every new English word learnt, or every day they played in teams for gym.

As predicted — it was almost a given — the contact with his Russian friends stopped after a two months. The last time he saw his friend's face was in a Skype session that began with a, "How's school?" and ended with a contrived, "See you later," though Asher never did. The last time he spoke to any one of his friends was through Facebook Messenger; an awkward goodbye ending a stunted conversation full of too many seens and typing icons. To Asher's cautious mind, the farewell sounded final — even through the emotionless screen of cyberspace.

No-one could be blamed, the way no-one could blame the losing team in a game of tug-o-war. They tried the hardest they could, but they lost contact. It was this final fork in the road that took Asher into the bustle of New York, and away from his old life. Wherever his old friends went in life, it was unlikely they'd ever meet again — but their stories would always be written on the pages of Asher's memories, a happy paragraph in a story of too much heartbreak.

Of course, in past tense.