Journal.

I walked into class. It was the first day back from winter break; I enjoyed my time away from the stressful life of school. I sat down in my seat amongst a few friends of mine who were discussing their winter vacation. They talked about how much they had fun sledding, playing games, getting trapped in their homes. One of my other friends, an Asian, said that he went to a piano recital. HIS piano recital. They all laughed at how “Asian” he was, and one of the people in the group, one whom I did not know very well, said to me, “Hey! You’re Asian, do you play piano too? And violin? And you must be super smart! Right?”

I really dislike this stereotype. It’s about as accurate as the stereotype that all Americans eat Big Macs everyday and are obese, or that black people have big…cars…. It’s about as accurate as the stereotype that all Indians work customer service for Microsoft, or that blondes are dumb. It’s about as accurate as the stereotype that all Mexicans can jump high and run fast, or that all Asians can play the piano. Like most stereotypes, this stereotype is WRONG. It only applies to a certain num ber of Asians; I would say about 45%. That’s nowhere near all.

But of course, I am one of the many in that 45%. I play the piano, I play the violin, and I could do well in school if I tried. But just because I can do these things doesn’t mean that all other Asians can.

Do you know who I’d really like to meet again? My old pet rock Jimmy. Jimmy was the greatest friend a boy could have.

First: the birth of Jimmy. One day on a typical family trip to the beach, I was walking along the edge of the water and saw a perfectly round, gray and spotted rock. I picked it up and studied it, turning it over in my hands. I brought it back to where my parents were lounging and asked them if I could keep it. They acquiesced without looking up from their books. I played with the rock until we had to leave, and all the way home. As soon as I stepped inside, I ran upstairs into the office to look for a red magic marker. When I found it, I drew a smiling face on the rock. I couldn’t think of a proper name for the rock, so I set out to do my chores and homework. When I finished, I started watching late-night comedy shows. Then Jimmy Kimmel started. I came to an epiphany as I looked over at my rock. Jimmy. It was perfect.

Jimmy was absolutely the greatest friend because he was such a good listener. Countless times I would come home from a horrible day at school and just talk to Jimmy. I would talk and talk and talk and he would never interrupt. Plus, Jimmy would never make fun of me, unlike those despicable kids at school.

Other than Jimmy’s incredible ability to listen, I also loved him for his indestructible nature. I remember once when I asked Jimmy to say something if he didn’t want to fly through a window. He didn’t say anything so I threw him through the window. A teacher found me holding Jimmy and dragged me to the principal’s office. The principal was told what had happened by the teacher and called my parents, who showed up within minutes. As soon as my parents found out what I had done, the principal suspended me. My parents gave me the “death glare” and I reluctantly followed them to the car. My parents reprimanded me on the car ride home and beat me before grounding me after arriving home. As I sat in my room, I yelled at Jimmy for not doing anything and I got so angry I threw him through another window. When my parents found the broken window and asked me about it, I told them a squirrel ran up and broke it by punching it. Of course, my parents didn’t believe me, and they beat me again and doubled my grounding.
With death there is life, and with the death of Jimmy came the life of the sane part of my brain. I carried Jimmy everywhere I went. To school, from school, to swim practice (my trunks had pockets), to bed each night, I would carry him.

One day, going home from school, I was walking across a bridge while tossing Jimmy up and down. As I threw him higher and higher, the wind grew stronger and stronger. Eventually, I threw him and with wind pushed him off-course, over the railing and into the water. I screamed in horror as I crossed the bridge as quickly as I could, went to the riverbank and started kicking the water in the belief that I could hurt it.
“You took Jimmy! Give him back, you meaniehead!” I screamed, sobbing. I looked down and noticed my pant legs were also crying. Later I realized pant legs couldn’t cry, and they were wet from me kicking the water. I kept kicking the water until I became tired, so I sat down underneath a tree nearby and cried. I cried and cried, sadness filling the pit of my stomach. Eventually I got tired of crying so I walked home.

Soon afterward, my parents bought me a puppy. Once I was trying to bring back old memories by throwing random objects at a window. I saw my puppy nearby and picked it up, preparing my launch. My parents caught me and told me to put it down, saying that the dog was for dinner. I didn’t know what they meant, but we had delicious soup that night.

I miss Jimmy. Writing this really worked up some emotions. I really wish I could have another friend as memorable as Jimmy. When I think about the past, nostalgia simply overwhelms me.