She opened her mouth and I knew her immediately, tiger-stripe highlights, grown-out gel nails, Casetify phone strap, four Target bags. She came up to me at the bus stop, said, “Hi! Excuse me, I’m so sorry, but is this stop for the bus that’s going to UMass?” and I knew, immediately. Another freshman dropped in the middle of Massachusetts. I nodded yes, she walked away, typed on her phone. She almost got on the bus to Northampton. I called her back, “Don’t worry, I did that my first year too.”
The daughters of the rich used to be dressed in neat fineries. Now, their hair is inexpertly dyed by friends in foreign college dorm rooms.
But it was more than her look. I knew it from the way she said “excuse me,” from the awkwardness of her phrasing. It was in how she leaned forward, her body holding the trace of a bow. It was in the tilt of her head and her smile, the self-deprecating laugh that threatened to push through every word, just to let you know, I don’t take myself seriously at all!
She sounded and looked like home—is what I would say on a more sentimental day. But what I really mean is, I clocked her.
“By the way, this is so weird, like I’m so sorry, but are you an international– or, where are you from? I’m from Hong Kong,” I rushed to say, either consciously modifying or becoming conscious of my modified pronunciation.
“Ohmygosh me too!” and from the whiteness of her giggle I knew we would not be changing channels. We stayed in English. Her eyes shone awkwardly to counterbalance the overexcitement of her words. We smiled and nodded in ways Americans might find mechanical. I nodded as if in approval—of how everything she said continued to verify my perfect understanding of who she is. I guessed her address, her school, her most-frequented malls. She smiled to signal distance, that we’re strangers, still, even if we have found each other on a sidewalk in Hampshire Mall, even if we’re waiting for the same B43. We chatted until we clarified: we are of the same breed, but of just-so disjointed social stocks that we could never be friends.
“I knew, from your accent,” I said.
We did not sit together on the bus.
It was a busy semester, but I kept thinking about her, now and then. I wondered if I should have asked for her number. But I couldn’t imagine what we’d talk about.
Then, it was the Amherst Block Party, where I was nibbling local crème brûlée when I noticed someone waving at me. It was her, with red highlights, bangs. I blinked, smiled, watched her walk away from her friends. They were shy, giddy, new. I suddenly felt I should act the big sister. “How are you finding uni, really?” She runs through the standard list, the food, the dorms, which professors are chill. I hope she’s found good friends.
To signal that she wants to leave, she looks behind me, says, “Wow, that’s a long line. Is it good?”
I poke the spatula around my tin of crème brûlée. “It’s pretty good,” I say, “but a bit too sweet for me.”
She laughs, “My cousin always makes this joke, that the biggest compliment a Hongkonger gives to dessert is if they take a bite and then go, ‘Mmm, not too sweet.’”
And that, more than anything, shot me in the center of my chest, turned my knowledge into recognition. We looked at each other, for the first time, in the eye, and our smiles broke over our face. So you do know, exactly, who I am.
Writer| Priscilla Lee ’25 | prlee25@amherst.edu
Editor | Clara Chiu ’27 | cchiu27@amherst.edu