Ameena looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her worried face stared back at her. “Come on!” Adam, who was Ameena’s twin, yelled impatiently. “Adam’s fitting in well,” Ameena remarked. She remembered how, when they had first moved, Adam, who was regularly noisy and active, had been so subdued and unusually silent. Lately though, Adam was a pest as usual. Somehow, a pest seemed better to Ameena. Of course a pest wasn’t ideally what you’d want for a brother. If you got to choose your sibling you would probably pick an obedient, well-behaved brother who did all your work for you. But Ameena was relieved when Adam returned to normal. Adam had befriended a boy named Sammy who lived across the hall from them in their apartment on 5th Street in Brooklyn. Sammy was a basketball player. Sometimes at night Ameena could hear the sound of the basketball hitting the floor. Every day Adam went over to Sammy’s house to trade Pokemon and basketball cards, while Ameena stayed in her room chatting with her Californian friends on the phone. There were three of them: Sarah, Amnah, and Maryam. Ameena had pictures of them on her bulletin board above her desk. Ameena’s mom tried to encourage her to make friends, but Ameena refused. “Move on,” her mom suggested. Every religion has its not-so-good people and its good people Since Ameena was incredibly shy, she couldn’t even say hi to a girl who had been friendly to her and who was taking residence next door to them at apartment 1b. She had no hope at all. Now Ameena had another problem: school. Ameena was a practicing Muslim and wore a scarf. Many ignorant people, especially in New York, had a bad image of Muslims. They associated them with 9/11 because those people had claimed to be Muslim. Deep down inside Ameena knew that she was just a normal twelve-year- old girl. She was exactly like everyone else except that she believed different things. Every religion has its not-so-good people and its good people, Ameena noted. She wished everyone else realized that as well. The fact was, they did not. Ameena reflected on all of this as she headed to the door. She slung her backpack on her back and waved goodbye to her mom, who was sorting the laundry into darks and whites. The city outside was chilly, and Ameena zipped up her sweatshirt. The autumn morning felt crisp. Adam and Ameena soon arrived at Brooklyn Junior High. The two pushed their way through the crowd of people to their classroom and took seats toward the back. Ameena took in her surroundings. There were about five rows of desks, each containing places for ten students. At the head of the room, there was a large desk with a bouquet of tulips which matched the pale yellow paint of the room remarkably well. On the wall opposite the door, there was a pencil sharpener and below it, a cheap plastic garbage can. In each pupil’s desk drawer were five new pencils and a stack of clean white paper. Some rubbery-smelling erasers were also included. The red-paneled glass door cast a glorious light into the classroom when it was sunny outside. On the front of the door was a nameplate that read Room 12. All in all the classroom was pretty comfortable. Ameena recognized the girl from apartment 1b. She was sitting next to her. All of a sudden a hush fell over the class. Everyone’s heads were turned toward the door. A woman six-and-a-half feet tall marched into the room. She was brandishing her book as though it was a sword. She searched the room daringly for anything out of place. Satisfied, she stomped to the front of the room and announced, “Girls and Boys!” Everyone jumped. “I am Mrs. Franconi, and I am your seventh-grade teacher!” No one objected, so she continued, “Open your books and get to work. School isn’t just to play around.” Everyone opened their books without a word. Math and Language Arts turned out pretty uneventful, and no one misbehaved even once. Mrs. Franconi barked and boomed all class long, which hurt Ameena’s ears. Once, when a girl named Britta forgot how to spell “expedition,” Mrs. Franconi looked like a firecracker ready to explode. All of a sudden a hush fell over the class When it was time for history, everything went from pretty good to horrible. Ms. Lillian was a beginner teacher. First, she was five minutes late for class because she was conversing with the other teachers in the lounge. Next, a little brainy girl knew the answer to one of Ms. Lillian’s questions and was so excited about it that she stood up on her desk, fell off, and twisted her ankle. Then Ms. Lillian started fretting all over her and gave her a watermelon sucker from a plastic baggie in her purse. A jealous kid called Ike climbed onto his desk, jumped down, and started fake bawling. Pretty soon almost everybody was doing the same. Everyone was just trying to get a lollipop. Finally, class was over. Ameena felt sorry for Ms. Lillian, who had to endure all these disrespectful kids. After school Ameena and Adam were absentmindedly strolling toward their lockers when, all of a sudden, “Hey, Muslims!” someone teased. Without even looking, Ameena could tell this guy was not going to be friendly to her by his tone of voice. Ameena whirled around. A boy with flaming red hair and a black T-shirt with red writing on it yanked at Ameena’s scarf. Ameena stood there, desperate and totally helpless. She hoped someone would arrive and help them, but no one did. Another boy who had spiky black hair and a plain, bright red T-shirt threw an overstuffed yellow water balloon at Adam and hit him smack in the face. A third boy with pale blond hair, wearing all black, shouted after the two now-retreating figures, “We’ll get you Muslims; we’ll get
Diversity
The Ship in a Bottle
Sarah stared at the detail in the rigging of the tiny ship inside the glass bottle the window of the Chandlery had to offer. She hoped someday it could be her personal vessel. If it were hers, oh, the marvelous adventures she would send it on! But the time for daydreaming was over. The day was becoming eclipsed. She surveyed the horizon where the pale blue cloudless sky sank swiftly into inky surf. Down by the docks, she knew her father, an earnest fisherman in the short summer months, was probably whiling away the cold, hard afternoon whittling a small piece of ash. She could picture him in his work, humming sea-faring ditties to keep himself company. Newfoundland could be a desolate place in the stark winter months. She would finish her daily stroll along the deserted rocky shoreline hunting for rare treasure or a treasure map, as was her daily custom, and meet up with her father before heading home for supper. She knew her mother would have a thick meaty stew simmering on the woodstove, while Jordy, still only a toddler, would be amusing himself in his high chair with a tarnished silver spoon dangling from his mouth. But today was not like any other. At once Sarah spied the translucent bottle holding pieces of sea and sky, bobbing up and down on the near cresting waves. It was the most curious thing she had ever seen. Standing on the shoreline and being careful not to get her only pair of shoes wet, she picked up the indigo bottle and emptied its foamy contents back into the sea. Upon doing so, the bottle’s smooth glassy surface caught her fancy. It appeared to be a very ancient bottle, not at all like the kind found in the local Pierce’s Mercantile and General. Inside its neck sat a bloated, saturated piece of cloth-like paper that had markings on it resembling tightly curled letters. Sarah knew from her home-schooling that the first bottles were invented by the Egyptians millennia ago, and likely the scrawl it held could not be hieroglyphics. Still, it looked like cuneiform. Could the bottle be one that originally held spirits, perhaps tossed overboard by a sailor from a Spanish galleon? Or could it have been discarded by an English vessel, possibly by a ship’s doctor, having already outlived its medicinal purpose? And what story lay buried in the mysterious code being held captive in its hull? She was enthralled with the bottle’s curved, frosted appearance, and its wide, long neck. Along its shaft, it appeared pitted. Yes, this was a stalwart mariner of sorts which had sailed nobly and durably upon the high seas, possibly for centuries. It was the most curious thing she had ever seen Upon eyeing the curious bottle, her father had an idea. Although Sarah was reluctant at first to relinquish the treasure back into its briny home, she also recognized an opportunity to own a twin to the tiny ship making its home in the Chandlery. So, after much deliberation over a supper of moose-and-carrot stew and buttermilk biscuits, the plan was decided upon. After the evening meal, Sarah chose one of her father’s best hand-carved miniature orca whales, the more acclaimed inhabitants of Newfoundland, to slip into the fluted neck of the bottle. She and her father carefully corked the bottle and sealed it with hot wax from the cabin’s only light source. With the next changing of the tides, the vessel again was launched. * * * On a sun-drenched afternoon, with the reflecting rays so strong as to be blinding, Michel was intrigued by what he saw just meters in front of him, swirling in an eddy. It could be a small grayish-blue sandpiper or it could be a fluid bottle, the color of sea. From a distance, he was not certain which. Michel’s feet burned from the sand as hot as embers leading down to the shoreline of Cote d’Ivoire. He painstakingly made his way to the lapping waves to retrieve the ancient relic, which had appeared as if by magic. At once, he brought the glistening bottle back to his father to study. There was no doubt; this bottle had been put into the vast sea with purpose. It had a message to deliver. The twelve-year-old boy twisted the cork out of the bottle with keen interest. The contents were surprisingly dry. Looking inside the walls of the bottle, he spotted the hand-carved whale and smiled. Carefully constructed, it seemed it had been fashioned just for his amusement. His father, who knew some other languages in addition to his native French, was able to decipher that the carefully penned alphabet on the accompanying note was in fact Arabic. The name inscribed at the bottom in English was “Sarah” and the date recorded as eight months previously. The writing above it was primitive and resembled pictograms. Sarah’s penmanship in comparison was well developed next to the small picture of the cetacean with its signature spout. Michel and his father thought long and hard of an appropriate response and after three whole days of devoted consternation chose two small items that would represent their proud country and tossed it back into the sea. Carefully constructed, it seemed it had been fashioned just for his amusement * * * When Keiko discovered the bottle on the rocks overlooking Yokohama Bay, she was enchanted. Without hesitation, she uncorked the aqua frosted vessel. Immediately a scent of cacao and coffee wafted from its portal. She closed her eyes and pictured coffee beans picked and roasted from a plantation set back under a canopy of lush leafy trees. The scent was pungent. This was very different from the smell of fish escaping from the local cannery and the scent of green tea which filled her nostrils, rising from her mother’s teapot at each morning and evening meal. Keiko pondered over which item to put next into the experienced seafaring vessel. Her grandfather
Simon, Dik-Diks, and No Worries
Whenever my parents plan a vacation for my younger sister and me, they never include Disney World or a Caribbean cruise on our itinerary. Instead, they define a vacation as a learning experience that expands the classroom to include the real world. That is how I ended up spending last summer sleeping in a tent in the grasslands of Tanzania. From Simon, our guide, I not only learned about the local culture, but I also met the dik-dik of Tanzania. When I first met Simon, a broad-shouldered modern Maasai who stands over six feet tall, I thought he looked mean. Then he smiled, and his white teeth, even the two front ones that stuck out like sticks, sparkled like the snow on top of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Simon’s brown skin reminded me of the dirt covering the back roads upon which we traveled in a 1986 Land Rover; his hair, the black of a zebra’s dark stripes, created tight curls around his head. Simon loved wearing his Lewis & Clark T-shirt, a gift from some college students. He insisted the school was in New York City, while I argued it was in Oregon. Simon, who only knew about New York and California, refused to admit that I was right. Simon also boasted that his tire shoes bound with leather were better than my American-made hiking boots. I wished I had his shoes after my mother made me trade my boots for my sister’s tennis shoes with their mesh tops. My sister complained that the neck-high grass slipped through the mesh and created a pinching feeling in her feet. Her complaints led to my suffering. Everything about Africa was different from what I knew But, according to Simon, my suffering was nothing compared to what twelve-year-old Maasai boys endure. If I were a Maasai, I would have to undergo a circumcision next year to celebrate my coming-of-age ceremony. I would then spend the next three to four months recovering in a black hut. Unlike the BaMbuti of the Congo, a Maasai boy cannot scream to show his pain. The BaMbuti boys also get to go away with their fathers to learn the ways of their tribe. The thought of becoming a Maasai boy sounded as unappetizing as the funny stew that another African made for us. The stew contained red, green, and brown vegetables buried under a thick brown sauce. I spent the entire meal separating the vegetables from the meat. As someone who spends a lot of time reading about and studying wars and weapons, I could not understand why the Maasai would fight over cows. Simon explained that the Maasai, a semi-nomadic tribe, believe that they own all cows; therefore, they steal cows from other tribes. This led to a war in 1987 between the Maasai and Barbacks. Fifty Barback warriors tried to rob the Maasai farmers of their cows. After hearing cries from the farmers, fifteen Maasai warriors rushed to their rescue and killed two Barbacks. The Maasai army numbered 1,500, while the Barback forces totaled 1,700. Neither side won because the spears of the Maasai and Barbacks could not defeat the guns of the 300 government policemen. While in Africa, I expected to see ostriches, giraffes, lions, and elephants. I did not expect to see the dik-diks; in fact, I had never ever heard of a dik-dik before I walked past some tiny pellets lying in a pile on the ground. When I stepped on a few pellets, I heard a crunching sound as if I had crushed the bones of a small animal. “What’s this?” I asked Simon as I pointed to the pellets. “Dik-dik poop,” he answered. A dik-dik, I learned, is one of the smallest members of the antelope family. When I later met one, it reminded me of Winston, my Yorkie, in size but not in features. Under its eyes, the dik-dik has a blue gland that secretes a jelly-like substance. The dik-dik rubs the gland against a tall piece of grass to mark its territory; it also uses dung to mark its spot. When I walked near a dik-dik, it ran away as if I were a scary monster about to kill it. Everything about Africa was different from what I knew. The sounds, unlike the city noises of talking people and roaring engines, were more a symphony of animals, each playing its own instrument. Without the fumes emanating from cars and the stench coming from garbage, Africa had a clean aroma as if the air had just been created. The plants and animals boasted colors as radiant as fall leaves. Even the stars that shine over Africa like nature’s night-lights differ from the ones that illuminate the sky above my house. During our two-week stay in Tanzania, my sister missed her mirror, my mother missed her washer and dryer, and my father missed his cell phone connection. I missed pizza, my computer, and my collection of toy guns. To all my complaints and concerns, fears and frustrations, Simon responded as he did to everything: “No worries.” Jacob E. Gerszten, 11Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Keysun Mokhtarzadeh, 13Tehran, Iran
