The Wizard of Menlo Park and His Dog, Snickers

Peter Wu

“An Outside Education”

I never let my school interfere with my education.

-Mark Twain

FIRST GRADE

I entered Peirce elementary as a new kid with a shaved head from lice, Harry Potter glasses,
and sneakers with shoelaces. The kids in school were pretty used to new kids, because there were
always so many families moving in because of the good schools. The grade ahead of us had the
highest MCAS scores in the state.

I spent the night before school practicing tying my shoes with my dad, who taught me to
make the rabbit loop, circle it with the other lace, through the hole, and pull the other loop
through. I practiced this technique over and over well past my bedtime until I mastered it. I tied
them neatly and tightly, so that the big, rabbit-ears loops would hang over my sneakers and touch
the ground.

Ms. Madden on the first day of school was our lunch monitor. She had a short temper, and
when she got mad, her horn-rimmed glasses seemed to fog up from the heat emitted from her
ruddy face.

“Peter, hurry up!” She barked as our class was heading back into the building. I started to run
to catch up with the rest of the class, but a lace was untied on my left shoe. I knelt.

Tying shoes under pressure is difficult, especially for a person who just learned how to do it.
My fingers fumbled on the long laces as I tied, then re-tied, then re-tied. I could feel Ms.
Madden’s eyes through her horn-rimmed glasses bore into the top of my head.

“Peter, I told you! Hurry up and tie your shoe!”

This made me panic more even more, and I looked helplessly at the messy knot and tried to
untangle it in a frenzy.

“All right, enough! Just get inside!”

I struggled up to my feet, and trudged inside with a long, knotted lace trailing my left shoe.
Defeat was hard to swallow.

Ms. Rosengard spent the rest of the day talking about how “Pierce” is an acronym. The “P”
stood for patience.

SECOND GRADE

I started game three for the Cubs of the Little League playoffs on a rainy, cold Sunday
morning. It was the battle for the pennant.

I pitched four shutout innings, but my teammates weren’t scoring. Jack Macalester
was complaining that his hands were too cold to hold a bat. But I wasn’t thinking about that, just
concerned with keeping my arm warm, kicking high, and firing. It’s all I had been doing, and what
I could do.

The game was scoreless going into the fifth inning. I was invincible, a real major-
league pitcher who was cool as a cucumber. I was carrying the team. I liked the tension. I lived for
it, breathed for it.

“Peter, it’s all on you, bud. Just rocket-fire.”

But in the fifth it unraveled. My arm gave out and I started throwing sidearm, my
pitches coming in nice and easy. I gave up two singles and a big, juicy fastball to classmate Adam
Stewart, which he clocked to left field. Cardinals runners rounded the bases and celebrated on
their bench. The game was over before it actually was. My teammates hung their heads after I
gave up hit after hit. Coach left me in to wither on the muddy mound.

My cleats and blue stirrups were splattered with mud as we shook each other’s cold
hands. The Cardinals players stifled grins and their giddiness. “Good game,” we were supposed to
say.

No, not good game, I thought, hot tears rolling down my face. Bad game. You choke.

THIRD GRADE

September 11th occurred on a Tuesday. I remember this because on Tuesdays, I always

brought a baseball glove with me to school because after school Michael Barbone and I would
play catch at his house, and I would have a piano lesson after that.

But on the Tuesday of September 11th, I got out of school early. Ms. Thompson over
the loudspeakers told us that something terrible just happened to our country and that we were
welcome to go home right away.
 Mom picked me up at around 10:00 after getting my sister at pre-school. I didn’t really
understand what was going on, but sensed that if the school day was messed up, maybe the entire
day was and I wouldn’t have my piano lesson.

Everybody was glued to the TV. It was on CNN or something, and I saw these huge
balls of smoke and fire coming out of this grey building somewhere in New York. It all was so far
away and unreal. I was used to watching this kind of stuff on TV, and New York was just as far
away as Saudi Arabia.

“Cool! Look at those explosions!”

“Peter Samuel!” How could you say such a thing?”

Mom got really serious after that, saying that there are people in those building who are
dying, and we’re so lucky that this didn’t happen in Boston, because for all you know your father
could’ve been in one of those buildings.

But that’s stupid, I thought. Dad’s right here.

The next day in school we made cards for 9/11 victims. One of the lunch lady’s
husband missed his flight to New York so he survived. I wanted to make a card for him to
congratulate him, but Ms. Welch said no. We were supposed to draw pictures, but I had no idea on
what to draw. I ended up drawing the fireballs I saw on CNN and an American flag. Ms. Welch
made me erase the fireball part, so I drew planes. She made me that erase that too.

* * *

On New Year’s Eve, my family went to a Chinese restaurant. As we were walking out,
I sneezed full-force into a man’s dinner without really noticing. My dad apologized to him and
offered to buy him a new meal.

My sister once jokingly called me hopelessly tactless since birth. They say that the
ones who know you the best are your family members.

FOURTH GRADE

I was the only one in the class who understood long division after Ms. Lyons taught it.
I did so well on the first math test that Ms. Lyons called me up to the board to teach the rest of the
class how to do it.

“Of course he knows how to do it,” I heard Connor Evans say. “He’s Chinese!”

The class laughed, and I laughed with them, feeling proud.

 The whiteboard was huge up close. My palm gripped the marker as I wrote out my
steps for the class to see, neatly and clearly. I finished and strode back to my seat.

Only they couldn’t see it. My writing was too small, because I was used to writing on a piece
of paper.

Connor spoke loudly in a voice that sounded like Yeh-yeh, my grandfather from Hong Kong.
“Peter, we don’t all have slanted eyes like how you do. Could you please do us a favor and write
larger so us Americans can see it?”

The class laughed harder, and I did too, because it was true, Asians did have smaller and more
slanted eyes. But I was confused, because I was just as American as Connor and the majority of
the class because I looked the same and was born in America. The only difference was my last
name. I was less Chinese than Andrew Wong, Cecilia Xu, and Landon Zheng just because I
looked less Chinese.

At recess we played football on the hard top and I was quarterback. I cocked my knee back
like how Peyton Manning does it and said “hike!” but my gloves were wet with perspiration and
the rubber football slipped out of my hands onto the pavement before I could bring it out of the
pocket.

“Fummmble!”

The fourth-grade boys shouted and yelled to their teammates as the ball bounced around
unpredictably. The other team recovered it and went on to score a touchdown.

“Stick to ping-pong and math, Wu,” Harrison Hoover said to me, pushing me over onto the
hard pavement. “Asians don’t play football.”

He and the rest of the class laughed, but I didn’t, because the pavement hurt my butt and I
liked football.

Actions are louder than words.

FIFTH GRADE

Our first Fun-tastic Friday at the Hyde Community Center, a social dance for all fifth-
graders in Newton, happened the day after the mean girls club in our class bullied Julia Wolfe in
the girls lavatory. The leader of the club, Rachel Bernberg, was suspended from going.

Julia Wolfe was too scared to go, which was too bad because I secretly wanted to dance with
her, but I probably would have been too nervous to ask her anyways.
 I went with my close friend Jacob Rubin. I put on neatly pressed, white polo shirt and
some jeans. We felt like teenagers before we left, buckling up in the back seats of Mr. Rubin’s
Lexus—sitting up front if you were 100 pounds was a passenger violation—and having just ate
unhealthy food while watching Top Gun, which had a sex scene in it.

The dance didn’t really amount to much, except there were a lot of kids with whom I
had either played baseball or had gone to camp. A girl I had never seen before came up to me and
asked if I wanted to dance. I froze up and told her no, thanks. She looked hurt, but I was too scared
to do anything but walk away from the dance floor as fast as I could.

Jacob didn’t really want to dance with any girls, and neither did I since I didn’t see
Julia Wolfe there. I didn’t want to be seen by that girl, so we hung out in the lobby where there
were free refreshments. Most of the stuff they were giving out was fruit punch and some candy
bars.

Then I had the idea of getting a bunch of candy bars for free, then selling them for
money at the entrance door when people walked in so we would make a profit.

“Dude, you’re a genius! We’re gonna get soo rich!”

We grabbed a bunch of Snickers bars and headed for the door. We decided to sell
them for 50 cents each. The beginning was slow, but business picked up as the night went on. As
our pockets filled up with dollar bills and quarters, I ran back to the stand to get a bunch of Ziploc
bags.

As people realized that the candy was for free at the stand, they started to get mad and
say that they got ripped off. Jacob called his dad using a payphone to get us out of here as quick as
he could. As consolidated our funds and zipped up our jackets, I suddenly thought of the girl who
I blew off on the dance floor.

I took a Snickers and ran back to the dance floor before Jacob could call me back. I
found her by the DJ speakers, but she wasn’t alone. She and Alex Courtenay, the shortstop for the
Newton East Dodgers, were making out in broad daylight. I slipped the Snickers into my pocket.

Jacob and his dad we’re waiting outside in the Lexus when I went outside, the quarters
jangling in my pocket.

“So how was it? And why do you guys want to go early? And where on earth did you get all
those quarters?”

We explained what happened.

Mr. Rubin laughed. “Little entrepreneurial kids,” he chuckled, shifting the Lexus into gear.

Kids, I thought. Yeah, we’re still just kids.

SIXTH GRADE

My best friend, Eli Davidson, and I were in the same science class. Our teacher, Mr.
Puleo, was an elderly, ex-soccer referee who had over fifty tanks of fish in his classroom and had
naked women on the screensaver of his laptop computer.

For our first science project, our class had a choice of either constructing a solar-
powered car or making a project of our choice.

Eli and I decided the solar-powered car for our project after gym class and discussed
the logistics for getting materials in the boys locker room. We decided that I was to go to AC
Moore in Framingham to get materials, and Eli was to write out the paper that came with the topic.
We took apart kits of old solar-powered cars that Mr. Puleo supplied us with and made a blueprint
of our model.

Mom drove me out to AC Moore to get the stuff, which turned out to be crazy
expensive. But the parts were perfect, and I thanked her profusely.

We made the car over the course of the week at my house and tested it multiple times.
The project was due Friday, when the groups that made solar cars would race their creations on the
tennis courts.

On Thursday night, as I was bringing the car down into the kitchen for the following
day, I tripped and fell on the top steps. Flinging out my arm to stabilize myself against the
banister, I let go of the car, which fell with a crash on the wood floor. Parts flew everywhere,
rolling across the floor. I froze, thunder clouding my head. All our hard work was literally
shattered, completely worthless.

Eli and I pledged to each other that we would meet at 6 ‘o clock AM in the middle
school library to throw together a last-minute “research” project. We randomly chose a topic
around coral reefs, and wrote up papers on different aquatic animals within a matter of minutes.

The smudged glue and ink from our messily drawn pictures looked horrible. I drew
some pictures of soccer balls and glued them over the faulty mess in an attempt to win over Mr.
Puleo’s blessing of our disastrous project.

Proofreading and meticulousness are obsolete in a situation of panic.

Three days later, our class received our grades on our projects. Mr. Puleo graded on a
point system. The project was worth 1,000 points.

Eli and I earned 986 points, the highest grade in the class.
 The art of bullshitting successfully comes with hard work.

SEVENTH GRADE

My parents wanted me to go to a private school for the rest of middle school because
they were afraid that I wouldn’t be given enough educational attention at Day, the public middle
school because I was really quiet and reserved compared to my peers.

When asked about me by my parents, teachers would reply nonchalantly, “Oh, he’s
great. I don’t even notice he’s there.” My parents didn’t like that.

The Fessenden Day school had five gyms, a swimming pool, and a new science wing.
Going to school there was like going to camp, except for the fact that it was an all-boys school and
we had to wear jackets and ties every day for uniforms and had to stand up until the teacher said
we could sit down.

After English, I asked Gavin Greelish, a curly-haired boy in my class who was about
my size, if I could borrow his grammar book. He said yes, but I had to put it back in his cubby
after I used it. I said ok.

The next day I forgot to, and after Mom dropped me off, Gavin pulled me into the
bathroom by my tie and slapped me in the head. He didn’t even seem mad about it, like he wanted
to do it for fun. I held my ground, and he left me in the bathroom.

I regained my composure and went about the rest of the day like nothing happened.
But back at home after school, I melted down in front of Dad and Mom. I was angry, mostly, but
also embarrassed that I hadn’t done anything but just stood there and took it like a doormat.

After I told Dad and Mom, Dad told me to get up and try to punch him as hard as I
could. I said no, I didn’t want to. Katie and Elizabeth, my two younger sisters stopped
eavesdropping from upstairs and hustled down to watch the action.

“C’mon, Peter. If you want to stand up to this asshole, you have to learn how to punch
him. He’s initiated the offensive to you, and now you assume the offensive on him. You’re going
to go in there to him tomorrow, get right in his face, and tell him not to push you around. If he
gives you shit, then you give him one in the solar plexus. Here, pretend he’s me.”

“Charlie….” My mom warned, her voice turning apprehensive.

“Yeah, Peter! Punch Dad!” Katie yelled, rooting me on, thinking this scenario was a
boxing match or something.

I got up slowly, and punched Dad in his stomach halfheartedly. He’s about 5’11, and I was
about 5’5, but he was weighing in at 190 and I an easy one hundred pounds less. All through
elementary and middle school, I was the skinniest kid in the grade.
 “C’mon, you can punch harder than that.”

I felt so weak compared to Dad when I confronted him. Maybe this was part of the plan,
because Gavin compared to Dad was a shrimp. Any seventh-grader compared to Dad was a
shrimp.

The next day I had it all planned out: I was to go to his cubby and wait for him there to show
up, then work my magic—well, maybe not. I would strike first in the stomach, and then maybe go
for the nose, depending on how he takes the first hit. I waited, fists clenched, not wanting to think
about it but realizing that I had to.

When he got there, I got up in his face and yelled, “you better not push me around or I’ll kick
your ass!” He backed off right away, hands in the air and eyebrows raised. I was relieved on how
easily he took it. No flying fists.

“Hey, listen, sorry! I won’t do it again, okay? Sorry.”

And that’s all it was.

EIGHTH GRADE

I was assigned to sing a solo for the church Christmas midnight service. Reverend
Kidd always referred to it as the “big-deal service,” because more people came to the midnight
service than the pageant, and the hard-core church-goers would only go to the midnight one. The
services were creepy, candlelit and all, and all the hymns weren’t Christmas carols but serious
songs in German. There were no kids there, because they were all sleeping and waiting for Santa
to come. I was the only kid. But now I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was an adolescent, performing a
holy, important duty for the church. A lot was at stake.

My solo was “Once in Royal David’s City.” The hymn itself was made for a male
youth to sing it, because the notes were high—too high even for a woman soprano. I was to stand
alone in the chapel, all robed up, and sing out into the darkly lit sanctuary, until the church choir
and organ joined me in the chorus, and we would all walk down the aisle.

My dad kept saying that I would look back on this and say, wow, I am lucky that I did
this because its one of those things that I could only do at my age, and never again in my life.

Things were all set to go. I combed my hair one final time and then climbed the
marble steps. The lights went down, and the service went underway. I took in a breath to combat
my shaking legs and hands that held the hymnal. I sang slowly, enunciating, my high voice
reaching the cavernous heights of the church canopy. It was beautiful.

Once in royal David's city

stood a lowly cattle shed,
where a mother laid her baby
 in a manger for his bed:
Mary was that mother mild,
Jesus Christ her little child.

Jesus came to earth from heaven…

The choir and organ joined in to sing the next verse with me, harmonizing and
strengthening the hymn. But it was like my voice started to fade. I lost heart in singing and started
to mouth the words, because it didn’t matter anymore if people could hear me, my solo was over.
As I followed the choir, head bowed and lip synching, I felt my eyes starting to burn and well up
with tears. I thought about Dad and how in a couple months I would never be able to sing like this
ever again. It was beautifully nostalgic.

Within three months, people over the phone started mistaking me for my father. Even though
I tried to repulse the idea, I tried to sing “Once in Royal David’s City” once again to prove to
myself a lie. My voice cracked on every other note.

It’s sad how an eighth-grader can realize what adults mean when they say that youth is so
precious.

NINTH GRADE

Ms. Price at the opening freshman assembly told us that we all had the capability of
making a difference in high school.

Mr. Barry, my History teacher, said that we all had the potential to be great students
throughout our four years.

Casey, the Jazz Ensemble teacher, said that those who make ripples in high school will
go on to lead great lives.

Danny Walsh from my homeroom was caught with two ounces of marijuana and
cocaine in October and taken out of school. I never saw him again until 12th grade. Marla
Fernandez, our class president, got caught with drugs in May.

When someone asked me if I wanted to smoke a joint with him I said no thanks,
because to whom much is given, much is expected.

TENTH GRADE

My math teacher thought my view of politics was “absurd.” My friends called me

“fascist.” It was like the whole world had suddenly turned against me and the only people I could
agree with were either people who didn’t talk politics or my dad.
 For the next three years in high school I would spend my time debunking myth after
myth about the Republican Party.

“Peter, if you really, truly are one of those Republicans, why the hell are you in
Newton? Go live in Texas where your redneck kind are and where you can shoot people on your
own property. You know members of the right wing recently brought handguns into Congress?”

“Josh, that’s not what the Republican Party is about. I’m fiscally conservative. I
support gay marriage and abortion, but just not excessive taxing and spending. While I support
what a lot of Liberals believe in, I just believe that what they try to accomplish frankly is
unrealistic and not well-thought out financially.”

“George Bush is a fucking retard. Reagan can suck my nuts. And Republicans are so
partisan, it’s ridiculous.”

When the surge was on in Iraq, Reverend Kidd talked from the pulpit about how the
war was wrong and that we as citizens should be more careful in how we vote.

Separation of Church and State, I yelled inside my head.

Chris Rostler from church enlisted in the Army in February. Ms. Williston, the head of
the Board for Mission and Advocacy, asked him how he could do such a thing and banned the
youth group’s trip to play laser tag because it had to do with war.

When I was walking home from school, a woman in an SUV with “Peace” and “Save-
the-Whales” stickers plastered on her bumper ran a red light and almost hit a kid. She didn’t even
notice because she was on her cell phone.

I started wearing hats to school because the hypocrisy is blinding.

ELEVENTH GRADE

On the last day of school, I said goodbye to the tables, murals, and desks, and walked down
Main Street with my sister for the very last time.

It was like high school was ending prematurely. We were leaving the old building and moving
to the new one in September. I wasn’t ready for it. I wanted to hold onto what I had, and continue
to hold onto it until I graduated.

My friends told me that I would get over it once school started up again in September. I kept
occupied with music and my homework in the last months of school to resist my dread.

After the math final, the last scheduled final in finals week, Linda Smith came out of the
classroom crying. We all thought she was worried about her grade.
 It turns out that she was crying because it was the last test she would take in the old North. I
wanted to join in with her.
It’s funny how you can be nerdy and sentimental at the same time.

TWELFTH GRADE

On the first day of school, the social scene was in chaos. Because Main Street was
gone, nobody knew where everybody else was. Cliques were in disarray. People panicked
because, like in the old school, there was no phone service. Some things never change.

It’s always funny to count how many people on the first day of school start off walking one
day, stop, and then turn around to go in a different direction, but this time it wasn’t really funny,
because even the Seniors had no idea on where to go. We had to conquer a foreign place that was
supposed to belong to us.

It’s not fair, I kept muttering as I tried to find my classes. It’s our last year, and you’re really
doing this to us? As our class president noted, we’ve been through a lot of shit.

Tell me to suck it up, but it’s hard to do anything if you can’t even find the bathroom.