I had been water-coloring when my mom poked her head through the classroom door. She made eye contact with my teacher Diane, who nodded and told me to get my things even though it wasn’t even lunchtime yet and I’d never been able to eat my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, which was a shame because I liked peanut butter a lot. I was leaving school early. “Why, Mommy?” “Because you are going to receive a very special phone call.” Special. The word echoed. I didn’t know what receive meant, but whatever it had to do with a phone call it was going to be special. “Is the phone call for me?” My mom looked at me sideways through the rearview mirror. “Yes, of course it’s for you; you are the one receiving it.” A special phone call, for me! “Who’s calling, Mommy? Who’s calling! Who am I to receive from?” I said the word carefully. My mom smiled a little. “Her name is Kiria Eleni” (KEEREE e-LAY-nee—the “r” is rolled). “Kiria Eleni . . .” I liked the way her name rolled around in my mouth; it was quickness, light, a feather. I liked it. Delicious!—I was getting picked up early so that I could receive a special phone call that was all for me from Kiria Eleni. “Who is she?” I had seen plenty of wrinkled faces, but I’d never heard a wrinkled voice before “She was Daddy’s old nurse; When your grandmother, Yiayia (YI-ya) Theresa, got sick, she and your grandfather, Papou (pa-P00), wrote a letter to her village in Greece. The letter asked for a woman to come and take care of your daddy, who was only a baby then. And Kiria Eleni came.” “Why does she want to talk to me.” “Because you are the second Teresa.” I beamed. The Second Teresa. Many people I know now hate being second in things because it makes them feel subordinate, but for me, being The Second Teresa was a heavenly privilege. She had died, and then years later when I was born they put a pinch of her memory into me. It was an honor. My dad had come home early and was waiting for me. As soon as I walked in the door, he pulled a chair out from under my little table, seated it in the middle of the room, and then seated me on top of that. “Now Teresa,” he said, squatting down in order to look me in the face. “I want to tell you some things about Kiria Eleni. She doesn’t live in this country and doesn’t speak English; she will be talking to you from Greece, and she’ll be speaking Greek to you. She is also very old.” I frowned. “How can I talk with her if I don’t know any Greek?” It was going to be a problem. The only words of Greek I knew were pisino and pisinake, which both roughly translated to butt. It was the slang that I had picked up from my dad, and I was a bit embarrassed about using it with people outside of my family. “Your papou will be on the line, too. He will translate for you.” He turned to my mom and took a deep breath. “All right,” he said, “let’s call.” He picked up the phone and dialed, then started talking in words that I couldn’t understand. Then he talked in English a little, and then in gibberish again. I sat very still in my chair; the hard wood of the chair was beginning to hurt my pisino, but I was very good and sat still anyway. I watched my dad talk and talk as he was transferred from one place to the next, switching languages every so often as my mom paced back and forth. Then, my dad turned toward me and took the one, two, three long steps to where I had been waiting patiently. “Here you are,” he said, handing me the phone. I took it gingerly and held it away from my ear a little, afraid of getting bombarded with a torrent of Greek that would make me feel stupid. “Er . . . hello?” It was only Papou. “Hi, dahlin’,” he said. His loud Chicago voice was dampened by the stuffy connection. “How’s my favorite granddaughter?” I was his only granddaughter, at the time. “I’m good.” “How’s school?” “Good. I did some water-coloring today.” “That’s great. And what grade are you in again? First?” I giggled. “Second, Papou, second!” “Second grade! Wow, dahlin’! You’re becoming a young lady! So do you want to talk to Kiria Eleni now?” “Yeah. You in Greece?” “Yeah. It’s beautiful, dahlin’—I’ll take you when you’re thirteen, I promise. I’ll take you to Greek school so that you can learn Greek and then I’ll take you here. Boy, it’s beautiful . . . all right, dahlin’, I’m putting her on.” He said something in what I assumed was Greek, and then someone else got on. The voice was cracked and shriveled in an eerie way. I had seen plenty of wrinkled faces, but I’d never heard a wrinkled voice before because most of the old people I knew then were in surprisingly good shape. It was a stomach-jerking first. “0 ya, mumble jumble-o . . .” the words were like quick fingers on a piano key. She sprinted to the finish line of her sentence. A rustling, and the phone was transferred to Papou. “She said hello.” “Well. I say hello back.” Greek. She got the phone again. “Bla bla bla . . .” I listened intently, but she didn’t say anything about pisinos so I didn’t catch a word. “She asked if your father has been teaching you any Greek.” “No. The only words I know are pisino and pisinake.” Papou gave out his laugh, a wry-dry guffaw that rumbles down from deep inside. He told this to Kiria Eleni, and she in turn cackled hysterically. “Yada yada yada . . .”
Diversity
Finding an American Voice
Dong-suk followed his uncle, carefully keeping his pace slow enough for his haal-mu-hee, his grandma. His mother was close behind. The group moved along with hurried steps, adding to the bustle of the sidewalks of Seoul. His hand was gripped tightly around his grandmother’s and he shouldered a backpack. Although his feet were quick to stay in line behind his uncle, his thoughts were slow. He was going to America to be with his father, who had left a year before. He could not wait to see his father, but he was afraid his father would not be proud of him. As he thought, his free hand closed around the black stone in his pocket. He hugged her, begging her not to cry, using all his courage to reassure her The stone had been given to him the night before. There had been a specially cooked meal and his grandmother had told her stories and sang songs. She had driven away all his doubts about America. After dinner, while he was in bed, Grandmother had come in and given him a tiny pebble, her lucky dol, or stone. Dong-suk remembered the way she had smiled, showing her famous dimple on her cheek. Then she had spread out her small, delicate hands, wrapping him in a hug. * * * Abbie banged the front door open and stepped inside without taking off her rollerblades. “Abbie May Kessler, what have I told you about roller-blades in the house?” said her mother as she passed by. Abbie smiled, ducking her head so her mom wouldn’t see. She threw off the rollerblades and then hopped on up to her bedroom as her mom yelled, “And you’d better get started on those book reports of yours. If you haven’t gotten them finished by July, you won’t be going to Gram’s house with us.” Abbie sighed; why had her mom chosen to give her three extra book reports when the school had already given her one! She liked reading and writing, but not when it was four four-page book reports on four different people. * * * They were on the subway for a pretty long time; the airport was a good distance away from where they lived. Dong-suk went over his limited vocabulary of the new language in his mind, trying to pronounce the unfamiliar words exactly right. He hoped that his English would be good enough for America. He glanced up and felt his heart skip a beat. There it was. The bee-hang-gi. Dong-suk pressed his nose against the window and let his eyes dance from one of the huge aircrafts to another. He watched one of the huge birds take off right before his eyes. Airplane, he thought, cleverly using an English word instead of Korean. He smiled at the thought of using an English word; it made him feel important; it made him feel American. Dong-suk’s flight number boomed over the intercom system and he bravely stood up, hoping that his legs would not collapse. He walked with his uncle, grandmother, and mother over to the gate. His grandmother set the little suitcase she had been carrying down and kissed him on the forehead. His mother’s eyes were glossy and red. He hugged her, begging her not to cry, using all his courage to reassure her. Then he faced his uncle. He looked up, staring at his uncle’s face. The soldier, he thought; his uncle had always reminded him of a soldier. He sniffled, but did not cry under his uncle’s stern eye. * * * When the plane had landed, Dong-suk was greeted by his father and a strange man with brown, wavy hair who was tall and skinny. Dong-suk was surprised, even baffled a little. He was expecting to only be met by his father, but he was curious about this man, so it didn’t bother him much. He was so glad to see his father, glad that that long waiting was over. His father looked happy as they hugged and Dong-suk couldn’t stop smiling. He tried to stay awake for the car ride; he wanted to see every little bit of America he could. The signs fascinated him. They were so colorful and he could make out most of the letters. He was content. Slowly, though, his seat felt more and more comfortable and his eyes more and more heavy. * * * Abbie rushed downstairs when she heard the car door slam. She opened the door and flung herself outside. “Hi, Daddy,” she called into the darkness. “Hey, Abbie, honey. Could you come over here and help me?” he answered back from the driveway. When Abbie got there, she was surprised to see two other figures next to the car, one she recognized a little, and one around her own size. She grabbed some bags from the trunk of the car and headed in, toward the steps. She put the luggage down near the door. Her mom was standing there. “Who are those for?” she asked. Abbie shrugged. A few moments later, her father stood there in the doorway, with two people at his side. “I would like you to meet Dong-suk,” he said, looking at the younger person. The other one was Mr. Lee; Abby recognized him. He had started working for her dad when he had arrived in America, last fall. “They will be staying for dinner, since Dong-suk hasn’t eaten anything in a long time and it’s much too late to go out to a restaurant.” Abbie looked at the boy, studying his tan skin and almond-shaped eyes; the boy stared back at her, his expression unreadable. There was a moment’s silence and then his father explained that Dong-suk had come to America to be with him, and that he did not know very much English. Abbie felt a little squeamish as the boy watched her. It wasn’t that she was prejudiced, she hated people like that, but well, this was a different feeling.
Wives of the Desert
In the blue goat-hair tent, Shaimaa heard the music and laughter of the wedding, the shrill ululation of women’s voices and heavy swirl of woolen skirts. She pulled the scratchy blanket that smelled of camels up over her nose to avoid inhaling the mouth-watering flavors of prickly pear cactus, sweet and juicy, of plump golden raisins and date wine, of lentil bread soaked in sticky wild honey. Night had fallen over the desert, but there was no peace. Mother stirred faintly in the corner. Through the musty dimness Shaimaa could see her, pale and thin as a wraith, the circle of scarlet paint on her forehead like a bleeding sun. Nestled against her in a mound of wool, baby Selwa whimpered, and Mother moaned in her sleep and pulled the browned bundle of skin and bones closer. Shaimaa knew how much the child had taken out of her: a sickeningly hard labor, then draining her of milk, which was in short supply as there had been sparse food for some weeks. They fed Selwa on camel’s milk while Mother slept, slept so deeply that her breath was only a whisper. Marriage, thought Shaimaa disdainfully. Her father, seeing that Selwa was Mother’s last child, had taken a second wife now. It was their wedding bells that chimed; the food was brought by his new wife’s family. Tears sprang into Shaimaa’s eyes, stinging them with salt. Softly, she murmured a passionate prayer to Allah: “Please, Allah, don’t let Father stop loving Mother. Ever.” * * * “Shaimaa, this is Zainab.” Father smiled as he placed his hand affectionately on the plump arm of the young woman, shrouded in gauzy violet and deep-blue woven cloth and dripping with gold jewelry, who smiled shyly at them. She was short and her face was a satin oval, moderately pretty, Shaimaa thought, but nothing special. Shaimaa clamped her lips together and glared darkly from the shadows of her veil, which revealed only her snapping eyes, gleaming wildly like black opals. Zainab’s lips curved into a lilting smile. “I was very sorry to hear your mother is ill. I hope she’s feeling better?” Biting her tongue, Shaimaa scowled beneath the folds of black cloth and smoothed her knotted blackbird hair haughtily. She left the question unanswered and strode away across the swirling hot sands, the dust stinging and blistering her bare heels, feeling the alarmed eyes of Zainab and father burning her back like glowing coals. She sank to her knees beside a creaking wooden loom. Mother’s latest blanket, unfinished, was still a web of dyed woolen threads, twisted and interlaced with the strings of the loom. Shaimaa delicately slipped the shuttle through the strings, imagining her mother’s soft gentle hands caressing the smooth yarn with the love she put into everything. Footsteps pounded the dry gritty sand and Zainab knelt gracefully beside her in a whirlwind of lushly-colored cotton. “Beautiful loom.” “It’s my mother’s,” muttered Shaimaa dryly. A choking sob rose in her throat, threatening to burst forth, but she swallowed it hard and touched the weaving. Zainab picked up a coarse donkey-hair brush that lay nearby. Before Shaimaa could stop her, she felt her hair tugged and twisted, the coarse bristles drawn through the thicket of tangled silk tresses. “I love your hair,” Zainab murmured, lifting a lock that dangled in Shaimaa’s eye and slipping it into her hand. “Stubborn hair, the prettiest kind. Has its own flame. I would never hurt that sort of hair, or any hair, for that matter. Aren’t I brushing gently?” Her hands, on which were painted intricate swirled designs in the reddish henna dye, were light but firm, cool as date palms. “I love your hair,” Zainab murmured Shaimaa jerked away, clasping her hair protectively. “Too gently. A mother should brush her daughter’s hair. And my mother is asleep.” Zainab was still a moment, stunned. Then she flipped her veil over her own face so that her mouth was hidden, but Shaimaa saw her eyes, deep and watery, misted with a loneliness that filled her like a gaping black maw. * * * Selwa was crying. Her shrieks echoed though the camp, drowning out the fitful bleating of goats and squawking of chickens. Amira, who was nursing her own chubby infant, darted a venomous glance at the tent where Selwa lay with Mother. “Allah above, will that child never cease to wail?” Her throat contracted as her baby, too, stopped suckling and began to cry. Silence struck more forcefully than a sandstorm. No one moved. Sheik Mansour, mending a camel’s swollen leg, dropped a green ointment-jar in surprise and it rolled into the cooking fire and splintered into broken glass. Shaimaa tiptoed to the tent and lifted the soft flap of matted fur curiously. Mother was coughing. Beside her squatted Zainab, tenderly drizzling fresh goat milk into Selwa’s tiny, feeble mouth. Selwa’s lips puckered as she swallowed. Her flailing hand caught Zainab’s necklace of lacy golden hand-motifs, curling around the strand of precious stones with a soft, cooing giggle. Shivering angrily, Shaimaa whirled and stormed up the slope to where Father was watering the sheep. Their woolly noses sent ripples over the opaque glassy surface as they drank. “Father, how can you? How dare you replace Mother with another woman?” The sob she had been dreading broke from her lips like a dry thunderclap, and it burned her like raw chilies rubbed against the skin. Father’s mustache drooped. His snowy turban was unraveled and the melting sun struck his shining coffee-dark scalp, while light dancing blindingly on the blade of his naked scimitar made it almost impossible to look at him. “Shaimaa, listen . . .” “No, I will not!” She stared hard at the sheep’s woolly back, allowed the angry words to flow forth in a flood she had, until now, held back. “Just because Mother is ill, you find another woman to try and make yourself happy. But it gives happiness to no one, not me,
