We take notes in a stupor, eyes glazing 

over the too-dim projector. Day eight

of the unit. Names and dates settle

somewhere in our minds to be 

excavated a week before the exam. 

The Rape of Nanking has its own 

bullet point, tacked on

at the end of a slide. I expect

the atmospheric change of tension,

the subtle waves of anger, but

there is a scratching of pencil lead 

and nothing else. 爸爸 would scream,

I think. He would shout the statistics, ingrained 

in me, unforgettable. Up to

300,000 civilians killed and 80,000 women raped. 

A massacre with a scale that

has to be reduced to numbers because

no one can understand the pain of all the 

mothers and fathers and unwanted children. 

The slide disappears with a click. With it 

goes the Rape of Nanking, a footnote. 

I keep silent.