“Hey new girl,” a boy’s voice boomed large out of nowhere. “Are you Asian? Are you from China?” Emily’s face felt scorched. She knew it was turning the deepest shade of sunburn right now because she was dying of embarrassment. She slid further down in her seat, halfway under her desk. In her first week at her new school, this was the last thing Emily Chang wanted—to call attention to herself in this way. But she couldn’t help it. It wasn’t her fault. “I’m American, just like you,” she found her courage. Talking over the din of whispers in the room, she added in a small, barely audible voice, “Chinese-American,” stressing the American part. Emily quickly jumped up from her seat as the bell rang, signaling the end of her math class which had been her favorite class, that is—up until now. Oh why did we have to move from San Francisco to Boston? she asked herself, but she already knew the answer to that tired and futile question. Dad had lost his job as a sous-chef at one of San Francisco’s leading hotel restaurants and Yeh-Yeh (which means father’s father in Cantonese), had offered him a job back home in his restaurant, the Golden Dragon, in the heart of Boston’s Chinatown. Dad said they were “lucky that they had somewhere to go.” Yeah, right, she thought. She could feel her anger and disappointment surging again inside her, as she pictured liquid mercury rising in a thermometer stuck in a bubbling bath of boiling water. She couldn’t squelch it this time. This time, the mercury was sure to win out and the thermometer would snap. She was at her breaking point. San Francisco was the only home she had ever known. She was born at San Francisco General. Although she had only been in her new home barely a month, she already missed the sprawling picnics her family celebrated in Golden Gate Park, their sauntering walks through the Palace of Fine Arts on sunlit spring days, dim sum each Sunday morning with Gung-Gung and Paw-Paw, her grandparents on her mother’s side, but most of all she would miss her charter school and all it meant to her. At her old school, which was ninety-five percent Chinese-American, she didn’t have to explain herself. Everyone there used chopsticks at lunch, knew how to write their name in both English and Chinese and didn’t question why Chinese New Year was the biggest holiday of the year. Now in this new school she was assigned to, she was the only Asian-American student in most of her classes. She felt like a guest at her own birthday party. When Mom said it would take some getting used to, she wasn’t kidding. “I could learn something from you,” Emily whispered to the wise-looking mythical creature Emily hopped on the long mac-and-cheese-colored school bus and stole a seat in the back. She felt her head throbbing from the day’s latest disaster and was happy when she started seeing telltale signs her stop was coming up. She eagerly awaited passing under the cherry-colored arch, the gateway to the city’s Chinatown, to signal she was home. To her, it resembled an oversized Chinese character scrolled in the finest calligraphy. She smiled at the curbside phone booths fashioned in the shape of tiny pagodas, now relics with the advent of cell phones but quaint nonetheless. From her bus window, she could see a carefully arranged string of golden roast ducks hanging in the window of her favorite bakery. Some lucky family tonight would have a scrumptious meal of crunchy roast duck with soft plump bread pillows, the kind that melted in your mouth. Her stomach grumbled. She jumped off at her stop in front of Yee’s enticing silk shop and rounded the corner, heading for her grandfather’s restaurant. Her family of four, which included her mom, dad and little sister, Sabrina, had moved into the cramped apartment in Chinatown above the restaurant while Yin-Yin and Yeh-Yeh, her dad’s parents, had moved to a roomier home in the nearby suburbs. She didn’t mind their cramped quarters, so Dad could be close to his work. She loved being in the middle of all the excitement downtown. From her bedroom window she marveled at all the fascinating sights and delighted in the familiar sounds. Neon dragons and great walls turned on at dusk, illuminating the community’s pride in their culture. She loved the glittering storefronts with all their shiny silks and hand-painted porcelains, and all the signs in Chinese characters she had no difficulty reading made her feel right at home. Emily stood for a minute outside the jewelry shop and peered in. She admired the sparkling collection of jade pendants and rings. There were so many different shades and hues of the translucent gemstone. She knew that the deep emerald color was valued the most and she couldn’t wait till her thirteenth birthday when Mom told her she could pick out her own jade pendant. She knew exactly which one she would pick. “Every girl needs lucky jade,” she was overjoyed to hear her mother say. Her excitement bubbled over, looking at the gold picture frames which hung in the window. These were the kind shopkeepers bought to congratulate one another when they had gained enough capital and courage to open their own shops. Thick gold characters, carefully framed, hung on a ruby velvet background, spelling out congratulatory wishes, such as, “Wishing you good luck and prosperity in this new venture,” and other things. Someday, she hoped she might even follow in her dad’s and granddad’s footsteps and open her own restaurant or gift shop. Then she might have her own lucky sayings. Looking down at her watch, she knew she had a date to keep. She had promised to rendezvous with her family in the restaurant for an early supper before going upstairs to complete her homework, and before the customers would start coming into the restaurant, in droves! One
Diversity
Zitza
Zambia sat in a rare patch of green grass, surrounded by the tall yellow straw-like plants that made up the African savanna, her homeland. This was her place. She came here to be alone with her thoughts and escape life’s anxieties. A feeling of peacefulness washed over her every time she lay down there. She’d lose herself in the warm breeze rustling the golden stalks around, welcoming the feel of the soft grass on her callused feet. But nothing could cure her sorrow now. A tear slid down Zambia’s dark cheek and landed in the dirt, disappearing almost immediately as the thirsty ground drank it. She was reminded of how much she wanted water, and how long she’d been waiting for some. Zambia thought she’d lived about fourteen Dry Seasons, though she didn’t know for sure. Dry Season seemed to be getting longer and longer lately. This season had been especially arid, and water and food were scarce. The water had sunk into the ground and the plants had shriveled up, killing or driving off all the animals. All but one that is. Zitza had stayed. Zambia had befriended the zebra when they were both young, long before the drought and the sorrow it’d brought. Zitza was the only one who accompanied Zambia to the soft grass. The zebra dropped her striped head down to Zambia’s, nuzzling her cheek. Zambia reached up and entwined her fingers in Zitza’s mane, closing her eyes and wishing for rain. Sometimes it seemed like Zitza had the spirit of a girl, not a zebra. Sometimes it seemed like Zitza had the spirit of a girl, not a zebra Zambia and her tribe were starving, and many had died from lack of food and water. Many were dying now, including her mother. There was nothing she could do about it. Just wish for rain, rain, rain. She stood and hoisted herself up onto Zitza’s back, wrapping her arms around her friend’s neck. A gentle nudge with her foot signaled Zitza to start walking. She knew where to go. They started off at a trot, breaking into a canter towards home. Running her hands over Zitza’s back, Zambia recalled what her father would say about them. “Zambia’s as close to Zitza as Zitza’s black stripes are to the white ones,” he’d say. A smile played briefly across her face but vanished as quickly as it’d come. Her father wasn’t like that anymore—not since the drought. They reached the small village they lived in. It was mostly mud and thatch huts with a little altar and figurine at the center. Zambia’s family hut was the farthest away from the others—and the closest to the Bush. When they arrived, she slid off Zitza’s back and led her to her arena, which she’d made years ago for the zebra. “Good night, dear Zitza,” she whispered, and went inside. Her father greeted her solemnly and said good night. Zambia knelt by her mother, who was lying down already, her eyes closed. It hurt Zambia to see her so thin and her stomach bloated with deprivation of water. After kissing her hot forehead, Zambia retreated to the opposite side of the hut and prepared herself for sleep. She closed her eyes and dreamed of cool, clear water raining down out of the heavens. * * * Zambia awoke to her father gently shaking her by the shoulders. “Wake up, Zambia!” he said, his voice hushed so as to not wake her mother. “I need you to go look for insects to eat.” “But father,” she answered dazedly, “no one’s been able to find any.” “Please, Zambia.” He looked into her eyes, his own filled with sorrow. She knew he needed her to leave. Was it something to do with her mother? “Please.” She nodded and got up reluctantly. Her father hugged her, to her surprise, and Zambia could see tears in his eyes. What was going on? “Go,” he said, not unkindly, and gave her a push towards the door. Confused, Zambia walked out, past the arena, and into the rough golden sea of tall grass. She thought about bringing Zitza, but when she looked back at her, she decided to let her rest. The zebra had been sleeping against the fence, reminding Zambia of her starving mother who was still asleep. Looking for insects was a very hard task, seeing as there weren’t any to find. But the thought of locust cooked over an open fire, its scent traveling on the breeze, its crunchy outside giving way to her teeth, kept her going. It had been so long since she’d eaten. Zambia finally decided to give up, for it was already midday, and she couldn’t find anything. She didn’t want to disappoint her father, but the task he’d given her was impossible. She walked into the village at the opposite side of where her hut was. She passed many homes, a few with owners no longer living. Zambia had almost reached her home when she saw it. A zebra skin was stretched across the ground. Zambia’s stomach lurched. She stopped and gasped for breath. No! she thought. No! Her father came out of their hut and saw her. He rushed towards her and held her to his chest. “I’m sorry, Zambia!” he cried. “Zambia, child, I’m so sorry! But your mother…” Zambia broke away from him and staggered over to the arena. Empty. She stumbled into the tall grass screaming, “Zitza! Zitza!” frantically scanning the field for black-and-white stripes. “Zitza!” Zambia shot off at a run, still screaming, until she fell onto soft grass. She pressed her face into the ground and tore at the plants with feverish hands. When I look up she’ll be there, grazing in our special place, she thought. Slowly she lifted her head. Nothing. She was alone. Her head dropped back onto the ground, her body shaking with sobs. No, no, no! Not gone! Not my Zitza! Zambia stayed there until it got dark.
An Indian Monsoon
“In a few minutes, we will be landing at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport in Mumbai. Please fasten your seat belts. Thank you for flying Air India and hope you have a wonderful stay in Mumbai,” the pilot’s voice echoed. As the plane descended under the clouds, I looked out of the window and got my first glimpse of Mumbai. My family had decided to return to India after living in the U.S. for twelve years. As I thought of white and fuzzy snow falling into my hands, a few scattered lights twinkled in an island of darkness. This was so different from Chicago. There the city had glowed like a Christmas tree! Coming out of the airplane, the first thing I noticed was the large number of people. Hundreds of baggage handlers, policemen, officials and many hangers-on were running back and forth like a swarm of bees. The air was also very hot and humid. My father had told me this happened because of the monsoon. He explained to me about these rising winds from the Arabian Sea that brought much relief from intense heat and were essential for Indian farmers. But this year, the monsoon was different. The city was facing its worst flooding in a century and as we drove to Pune (100 miles from Mumbai), our destination, I saw the havoc that the rains had caused. There was water everywhere, dogs and cows lying on the streets, destroyed shantytowns and millions of people living in squalor. It seemed, on that day, the most wanted thing in Mumbai was a dry place to sleep! In Pune, my aunt came over to meet us and brought tea and samosas After that horrible view of Mumbai, we were now on an expressway to Pune that seemed to pop out of a U.S. travel book. My father was beaming. “Wow! We never had roads like these when I was growing up in India. This is better than Chicago!” he exclaimed. The driver was talking on his cell phone—I had not expected that in India. As the early morning sun came (we had landed at two am), I saw the most beautiful scenery that I could imagine. It was green everywhere, rolling hills of the Sahyadri range surrounded us on both sides and there were hundreds of seasonal rivulets that were flowing down. I felt that I was in Hawaii! In Pune, my aunt came over to meet us and brought tea and samosas. Although I had never met her before, she seemed to know everything about me. In a week, I started at an International School in Pune. Its name was (believe me, this is going to be funny) the Mercedes-Benz International School. There were children and teachers from over twenty countries, and during our breaks we played baseball, cricket, soccer and “dog and the bone.” I was happy that my class teacher was an American—Mr. Winch, from Cambridge, Massachusetts. At least I wasn’t the only new one. He was a superb teacher and I learned well in his class. I also taught him a few words of Hindi! After fourth grade, my parents moved me to an Indian school. It was a world apart from my school in Chicago or the International School. There were many kids in my class and the classrooms were not air-conditioned. The teachers were very strict and we had tests very frequently. The class had a broken ceiling—the facilities in the school were a little run-down. The best part was that, within a week, I had made new friends But the best part was that, within a week, I had made new friends—Sheerja, Disha, Laxmi, Akansha, Meghna, Simran and Parinaz. They would break out in loud laughter when I would read “z” as “zee” instead of saying “zed” or spell “color” instead of using the Indian English spelling of “colour.” But that was just a little fun part. They also had many questions about America. “Is everybody rich there?” “Is it very cold in Chicago?” “How is baseball different from cricket?” or “Do you miss your friends from Chicago?” I answered that America was a big country—pretty, rich and a lot of fun. Time was flying by and I started to adjust to all the things that make India special—family, friends, festivals, food and my friend Sheerja. But my father was having second thoughts. He would often say, “India is still very poor,” “America has the best universities,” and “Can I make an honest living here?” I did not fully understand all the discussions that he had with my mother, but soon I found out that he had found a job in California and that we were moving to Menlo Park. The only thing I knew about California was that it was called the Golden State and it was not as cold as Chicago. I was sad that I would be leaving my new friends in India—we exchanged e-mail addresses and promised to keep in touch. A long flight and a stopover in Chicago and soon I was at a school in Menlo Park. It was a beautiful day when I started at my new school in Menlo Park. The teacher asked me to introduce myself to the class. After I said a few lines, the teacher thanked me and said, “Oh, what a beautiful day, Jana has brought an Indian summer to California.” I touched my lips; I did not want to tell her about the Indian monsoon! Sanjana Saxena, 11Menlo Park, California Aditi Laddha, 12Indore, Madhya Pradesh, India
