paradoxical

i should've run that stupid pigeon off the road

"Today's mystery parent reader, who is here to read a short story to the class, one, has a daughter, who two, likes gymnastics, and who three, likes to read books."

All the criteria applied to me. However, both my parents worked, and I knew that they didn't have time to come read a book I liked to my second-grade class. So, imagine my surprise when they both walked into the class, holding my favorite book, "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus!"

They sat in front of the class and began to read:

"Hi! I'm the bus driver. Listen..."

I wasn't listening.

I was too busy focusing on the faint accent that my dad possessed, the inadvertent rolling of the letter "R" that revealed to the class that I was not like them—a hard truth I hoped they had forgotten.

"Don't let the pigeon drive the bus!"

I couldn't care less about what the pigeon was doing.

I was too busy sneaking glances at my peers, reading their minds that all screamed loudly about how weird it was that my parents had brown skin and how it made me belong less.

"Hey, can I drive the bus?"

I didn't hear the pigeon's question.

I was too busy plastering a weak smile on my face to mask the humiliation that seeped off me every time my mom and dad smiled softly at me, a reassuring parental gesture that did nothing but reassure the class that I would never be one of them.

"My cousin Herb drives a bus every day."

I had no clue who Herb was.

I was too busy conjuring up elaborate excuses and explanations in case they decided to bring up my heritage, the culture I had intricately worked to alienate myself from when surrounded by fair-skinned friends I desperately idolized.

"Hey, I've got an idea! Let's play drive the bus!"

I had an idea too.

I plotted a handful of schemes to get my parents out of the classroom the second the last words of the book were uttered, in hopes that it would make my classmates forget that their Indian, not "purely American" selves, had ever existed in the first place.

"I have dreams you know!"

So did I.

I dreamt every night to wake up one morning and look in the mirror to see crystal blue eyes staring back at me with naturally straight, dirty blonde locks of hair cascading down my back, with skin the color of a tan barbie doll, not the type of tan I was born with. I dreamt I'd go downstairs to a white mom and a white dad who would let me eat sugary cereals for breakfast and let me wear makeup and let me have a boyfriend at the ripe age of nine.

"Bye!"

I perked up at those glorious words.

I was quickly disappointed when I realized they were still reading, and not leaving.

Kids returned to their seats as I approached my parents, ready to execute my master plan that would allow no suspicion on their end. I thought I had executed it to perfection.

"We will go. We are sorry for embarrassing you."

My mom said solemnly as she handed me the book.

As I watched the two of them, heads hanging low, leave the classroom,

I wondered why the 36-page book felt so heavy in my hand,

attempting to ignore the vindictive voice in the back of my head that whispered

The Pigeon should've driventhe bus over you.