The Eighth Letter

 
Monday, August 13, 2001                                                                           
8:28 PM
Dear Ducky,
            Do you remember when we had head lice, Ducky?  Remember when they “shaved” your head, and only cropped mine?
            Where do lice come from, I wonder?  How do they begin?  And who had lice first—you or me?  Whose school had the epidemic?  Who is to blame?  My memory wants to say that your parents blame me, that you could never be dirty enough to cause such…contamination.  Did we have to stay home from school?  I remember the word “quarantine,” and not quite understanding, and then a strange association with the word “turpentine.”  Where did that come from?  Perhaps I recall stories of children with lice having to dip their heads in turpentine.  Yuck.  The thought of that makes my stomach try to crawl up my throat for fresh air.
            I remember coming home from the barber (yes!  I actually went to my dad’s barber!) and all of our furniture was coated in plastic.  Our whole house felt ghost-like.  My father had rented “Dumbo” for my brother and I—I don’t know whether it was out of pity or for a distraction.
            I don’t remember much else at all—weird shampoo that made huge bugs fall out of my hair that I hadn’t even known were there.  They made a gruesome sound as they hit the porcelain tub.  How long were we out of school?  Your hair had been long and thick, and with the “epidemic,” your hair had to be cut like everyone else’s.  It was cut without rhyme or reason (because the hairdresser hadn’t known how to cut your “kind” of hair?).  Or maybe it was your father who cut it.  It stood straight out from your head as if you’d been shocked—and your eyes, no longer able to hide underneath your bangs, echoed that perception.
            With your hair gone, you looked different, and you acted different.  It was as if the loss of your hair killed a part of you in some way.  I only remember you with long or incredibly short hair—nothing in between.  And I realize that Toni had always had really short hair, and so she probably had no idea how to style your hair or make it pretty like the other girls in your school (or even how it would have been done in Korea).
            Was that hard, being different, being strange, and not looking like the other students?  I realize that we never talked about that—or it never came up.  I was never aware if anyone teased you or made fun of you.  I have no idea what school was really like for you.  Maybe part of the reason you ran away was because you were treated badly by your schoolmates?
            I guess growing up, I never realized that it could be hard for you, that you would experience different things than me and ultimately be hurt by these things: it never crossed my mind.
            Maybe I really wasn’t a good friend to you.  Maybe you were right in choosing not to confide in me.  Maybe there was no way for me to help you, or to even understand.  I couldn’t possibly have had any answers for you.