Sunlight streamed through the stormy clouds and a rainbow seemed to end over the field beside me. For a moment I remembered the childhood saying that treasure could be found at the end of the rainbow. I laughed, but glanced over the field anyway. There I saw tender green leaves in tidy rows, yet untouched by the weeds. Suddenly I saw millions of red gems sparkling with dewdrops, at the verge of bursting, and sitting proudly on a bed of straw. The first fruits of the season, the sign of summer and the beginning of the fresh fruit feasts were before my eyes. It was strawberry season. I pedaled my bicycle further and came to a hand-drawn sign “Pickers Wanted.” I looked at the sign in awe—could I be paid to travel the sweet-smelling rows and to eat all the sun-warmed berries I wanted? That weekend, at the tender age of thirteen, I started my first summer job. I pulled myself from bed before the sun rose and was pedaling along long deserted country roads by six AM. I arrived just before seven and was given crates and tags. I followed the field boss to a flooded row and I set to work. I was happy and the days began to fly by. I pedaled my bicycle further and came to a hand-drawn sign “Pickers Wanted” Each morning the cold, wet leaves would soak me and I would take off my shoes, to work barefoot in thick mud. I shivered for the first couple of hours, before the harsh sun began to shine relentlessly overhead. Soon I would long for the cool morning to return. I learned to fear the field bosses, who were employed to pick on the pickers. The berries I picked were either too green or I was leaving too many green berries on the plants. My crates were either too skimpy or too full. I couldn’t argue, though, or I would lose my job and, unless my crates pleased them, my card would not be punched. Every worker longed for lunch break. We would all stand, stretch and head hungrily to our coolers in a shady orchard. There was always a long line for a repugnant outhouse from which gasping people would flee. You had to bring your own toilet paper and your own wash water. Lunch finished much too soon and, like prisoners, we returned to the endless rows. The afternoons were scorching hot and a cloud over the sun was something to savor. I had never realized the diversity of field workers. As I worked I heard the chatter of the Portuguese, Chinese, Jamaicans and Mexicans. There was a man there who had impoverished Vietnamese workers working for him. All their picking money went to him and he gave each one a fraction back. The most amazing group of all, however, were the German Mennonites. Entire families came out each day, dressed in dresses and clothes that hid all of their bodies. They didn’t seem to mind that these clothes would be filthy within minutes. The children, as young as three, would pick for about an hour before tiring, and they would go and play on sandy roads. They were oblivious to cars and, forgotten by their parents, they were soon covered head to toe in dust. The Mennonites were a group to marvel at. They could pick double the speed of everyone else, taking frequent breaks. I tried never to share my row with them, because they always passed me and took the best berries. On Sundays the fields became strangely quiet, because no Mennonite would work on the Sabbath. The days became weeks. Each day I bent my aching back over those abundant berries and picked with red-stained, dirt-caked hands. I earned a quarter for every quart I filled and I could fill close to two hundred quarts in a ten-hour day. Having no other experience, I thought it was great money. I felt so proud to stand in the long line of tired workers who all slaved together and receive crisp bills for my work. Every night I would ride the long, lonely farm roads home, often having to scrape the mud from my bike tires with a stick so they could turn. My summer job ended with the harvest. I was upset and relieved at the same time. I would earn no more money and eat no more berries. On the other hand, I could sleep in and live in the comforts of home. The experience taught me to appreciate farmers, to value many novelties I took for granted and to see strawberries in an entirely new light. I had been working on a strawberry farm for several weeks. The farm was heavily irrigated, resulting in ankle-deep mud along the rows. During the day, I would always walk past a young Mennonite girl, who played in the orchard while her parents picked. She was always in a dress, with two braids and enough clothes for the coldest winter day. She eyed me each time I passed, marveling that I could be immodest enough to wear a T-shirt, shorts and no shoes. Over time her staring grew more intense and it seemed like she wanted to speak with me. One day I ambled by in exhaustion, my back painfully hunched over, my hands stained red with black nails, my body covered in stains, sweat and dust, and my bare feet heavy with caked mud. The child looked up timidly and stated sincerely in broken English: “You look pretty.” Siobhan Ringrose, 13Waterford, Ontario, Canada Rivers Woodward, 12Stehekin, Washington
Diversity
Guts and a Few Strokes
Stroke. Stroke. Breathe left. Straight legs, follow through with the arms. These are usually my thoughts while swimming the hundred-meter freestyle. For those of you who don’t know, that’s two laps. I can do it in about a minute and twenty seconds, sometimes more, sometimes less. Oh, and my name is Sophia, been swimming for five years in that very pool, been on the team for three years. Had I been going more slowly and looking ahead, I would have noticed that the seemingly endless deep blue of the chlorinated water was lightening into white. I would have noticed that I could no longer see the stems of sunlight poking through the water like sprouts poking through the air. This time, all I noticed was the green line on the bottom of the pool which would mean I would do a flip turn and start on another length if I wasn’t on my last one. I knew what to expect. I felt the warm sunlit wall under my hand. Done! You know, when I’m underwater, I can’t hear or see the rest of the world. I’ve escaped to what I call Blueland. In Blueland, I don’t have a meet in two days, I’m not stressing over fraction homework, I’m not watching whatever I eat because I’m allergic to peanuts, I’m just floating in blue and relaxing. Everything fades away into the blue. But, unfortunately, I’m not in Blueland now and I wasn’t then. Coach Morris called us together. “Did you notice how Sophia’s arms came out of the water straight? That’s following through. Keep that in mind. Remember, not only do swimmers with correct strokes go faster, they also don’t get disqualified. That’s practice for today, so dry off and go home.” Every practice ended with “dry off and go home.” It signaled us to disperse, which we did. Always. “That’s practice for today, so dry off and go home” Later, while gossiping in the locker room, Maggie, whom we trusted to know the most about the pool (no one knew why), gave us startling news. “The pool’s getting a new manager and they might fire Coach Morris,” she said, amazingly calm. Out came a scream from all of us of, “What!” We were all in pure shock. The more I thought about it, the more I wished I didn’t know. Lo and behold, the next day at practice there was a young man with smooth blond hair and eerily blank green eyes. He, as we later found out, I don’t remember how, was the new coach, Coach Brown. I could barely hold back tears. Coach Morris had been the coach as long as I could remember, and now he was leaving, and some blondie was taking his place. This blondie better be good, I thought. If he’s not, he’s going down! “Now,” he smiled, revealing teeth that were so white and perfect they scared me. “It’s tryouts all over again. Now, Coach Morris would choose you if you had the potential to get good. I will choose you if you are good and have the potential to get better. A length of each, freestyle, backstroke, butterfly, breaststroke, no rest, go!” he shouted. It was a snap, except for backstroke, of course. Toward the middle, I pulled a muscle, and it hurt. Butterfly hurt more, but I could rest it after. I just endured, like I do far too often. Just before Coach Brown announced who made the team, something struck me as odd. He had decided right then. You’d think he’d need some time to think, but not Brown. Brown knew in an instant who the “better swimmers” were. My best friend Amy and I crossed our fingers. Here goes nothing! “Peter!” he read. What was going on? Peter couldn’t even manage to practice five days a week. “Harold!” he read. Coach Brown must be crazy. Harold bent his legs when he did the backstroke, every single time. Sheesh! “David!” he read. That I could understand. David had the best butterfly on the team. “Ian!” he read. By now I’d noticed the lack of girls. It went on like that, too. “Alfred!” “Craig!” “Joseph!” All boys! Even Shawna hadn’t made the team, and her backstroke was nearly perfect. Finally, Maggie called out, “What about the girls? It’s a boys and girls team in the Boys and Girls 8 through 12 Division, Coach Brown!” The last words sounded almost mocking. Hey, you guys, we oughta show Brown what we’re made of!” Coach Brown motioned for her to follow him, and, in turn, Maggie motioned us girls to follow her. We huddled in a corner like a football team. I glanced at the boys, who had moved to our spots on the bleachers, where we had been a minute ago. It was hot that day, really hot, and so humid I could barely breathe. The sun went behind one of those rare perfect cotton-candy-marshmallow-fluff white clouds, leaving us a lot cooler. Coach Brown began. “The boys and girls division includes girls. No one much likes to watch girls do things meant for boys, like swim in races. That’s because no matter how hard you girls try, you’ll just never have the same natural athletic ability boys have. If you must swim, try synchronized water-ballet. That is for girls. Boys are just better at real sports; as much as we try to cover it up, deep in our hearts, we know it’s true. Now scat! The pool’s for team practice only right now. Toodle-oo!” And he waved us off like mice. Everything boiled inside me. I could have punched him; no, I could have killed him right then. Normally, I’m a rather quiet kid, but something just popped. It was almost like I’d filled a balloon with screams, adding some whenever I got mad, and then this was the final one. I felt like my balloon had popped, and now all those screams fell out of my mouth. “YOU JERK! YOU
Hungry
It was summer and our family was eating dinner. We were eating food I didn’t like. For dinner we had liver, broccoli and beans. I was hungry but I didn’t feel like eating liver or broccoli. My mom noticed I wasn’t eating and asked, “Dear, why aren’t you eating?” “Mom, I don’t like liver or broccoli,” I answered quietly. My mom had a disappointed look on her face. I was staring at a piece of broccoli when all of a sudden I was back in the past in Berlin. It was a sad, cloudy and cold day in Berlin. The houses there were old and falling down; there were hardly any trees, but when you saw one it would have no branches on it or it would be decaying. Most restaurants and stores were out of business. There was trash littered everywhere and there were people lying on the ground. Their faces were pale and one man I saw was shivering. I felt sorry for these people because I had a home when some didn’t. In one corner I saw a crowd of children by a garbage can. They were arguing over a piece of apple core that had been eaten already. I heard a boy say, “I get to have it because I’m older!” I started walking around the city. Everything looked so sad and so poor. I went into a dark alley when I saw a girl who was about eight years old. She was a small skinny girl; she had blond curls, her clothes were torn and she wasn’t wearing any shoes. She was eating an old fishbone that had a littie chunk of meat left on it. When she saw me she quickly put the fishbone behind her. Then I started going down slowly to the ground and I stopped at Vietnam “Please don’t take it from me. I’m really hungry,” she answered quietly. “Don’t worry,” I quickly replied, “I’m not hungry. How long have you been hungry?” “I’m not sure,” she said timidly, “but I know I’ve been hungry for a long time.” I asked, “Where are your parents?” Her face all of a sudden saddened, then she started to cry. “They died two months ago because of starvation,” she said between sobs. “Please don’t cry. I’m sorry,” I replied. “Where do you sleep at night?” “Oh, I sleep at my house. Do you want to come and see?” she said in a shy voice. But before I could say anything she grabbed my hand and started leading me to her house. I followed her through two alleys and then we were there. It was old and the paint was peeling off, a window was broken, the front steps creaked under my weight when I stepped on it. When we were in the house I saw there was one bedroom, and a small kitchen and living room. The kitchen had a few pots and pans and the stove was wrecked. In the living room there was a small dinner table and three chairs. She took me to her room. She had slept there before with her parents on the same bed. There was a drawer where they kept their clothes, a night table, a chair, a picture of her parents. Then she said, “Sometimes I’m afraid to go to sleep at night but I hug the picture of my parents to comfort me. Once I dreamed of my mom as an angel and she came to take me to heaven, then I woke up. I wasn’t in heaven, I was in my room, and my mom would be gone.” My heart reached out to her. “I think I better be going,” I answered sadly. “Bye,” she replied. “Hope I meet you again soon.” I went to the door and when I got out I was lifted up and started flying at a great speed. I flew past cities and towns. I saw millions of people that looked like tiny little dolls. I just kept on flying and flying. When I was flying past China, I saw so many interesting scenes. Then I started going down slowly to the ground and I stopped at Vietnam. It was a hot day. Vietnam didn’t look as bad as Berlin in the past. There were a lot of straw houses and some brick houses that only the rich could afford. Palm trees were everywhere and there were boats that were loaded with food to sell, and there were stands that sold things like clothes and more food! I started to walk along the dirt roads. I passed an old bridge and saw three boys and two girls. One girl was sleeping on the bare floor. Then a boy quickly ran and grabbed a piece of bread off the ground and ran back under the bridge. “Hey, I got some food!” he excitedly told the others. He started to split the bread and he got the biggest piece. “Why do you get a bigger piece than us?” one of the other boys said. “Cause I got the bread!” he shouted. They started arguing, then fighting. Here sometimes, they would fight for their food, but I could eat as much as I wanted. I had learned my lesson. I started running. I ran up a hill and then I closed my eyes. I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but did I smell broccoli? When I opened my eyes I was back at home! “You fell asleep in the middle of dinner!” my dad said disapprovingly. Whew, I thought, it was only a dream! I started gulping down my food. My parents looked happy now. A little bird flaps its wings, Looking for its nest. The streets look so sad, Flying through the rain. This little bird has no nest, Young orphans have no home. Both are suffering, Both keep wandering. Tran Nguyen, 13Victoria, British Columbia,CanadaTran wrote this story when she was 10 Martin Taylor, 12Portola Valley, California
