My father was the first in his rural hometown to ever go to college. In China the colleges are scarce. College entrance exams were created to wipe out the majority of the people who wanted to advance from high school. In my father’s time, not all the high-school graduates took the exams, and out of those who did, only three percent made it to college. It was the accomplishment of this feat that led him to meet my mother and eventually move to the United States. Ten years later, our family took our first plane trip back to China. I was twelve the summer we rode on a silver bird over mountains and seas to fly to my father’s homeland. We transferred to a seven-hour bus which bobbed over miles and miles of blue and green expanse with fishermen laying sheets of plastic on the sides of the road to dry their newly harvested crayfish. Bus changed to pickup truck when an uncle that I had never seen enthusiastically picked us up in the only automobile in the village, a large clumsy machine with a roar that mixed with that of the wind until I could not tell which was which. Stretch upon stretch of green dotted with red and purple and white caught my eye. Beautiful flowers lay upon artistically stretched leaves that were waist-high. “They grow flowers here?” I shrieked. I caught the hint of the word “cotton” screamed back at me. My mom used to be obsessed with the movie Gone with the Wind when I was little, and the only cotton fields I had ever seen were the black-and-white ones in the movie. Seeing the fields of bright color, I had not realized that it was cotton. Stretch upon stretch of green dotted with red and purple and white caught my eye When the engine of the pickup finally stopped roaring, there was a shabby courtyard to the right of us. In contrast to the bright shades of green in the fields, everything in the village living areas was a brown, as if all color had been washed out and worn away. A group of no less than thirty people of all ages stood outside the wooden double doors that were chipped at the edges from fifty years of use. From the youngest at age eight to my grandma with sixty-some years behind her, they all seemed to be staring at me, eyes squinting from the sun. My family. Something about the scene intimidated me into getting off on the other side of the pickup truck. The arrival of visitors from outside the country that no one had seen for ten years was a rare event; at night a crowd of farmers carrying stools flooded into my grandparents’ courtyard and seated themselves there, all looking as if waiting for me to do something. They did not revert to normal conversation until I told a few jokes in English and sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” for them, and it was not until after I had fallen asleep on my bed—a clay block covered with a layer of woven bamboo—that they picked up their stools and left. I begged my dad to take me to the cotton fields the next day. I wanted to get a closer look at the tiny flowers and lush greenery so I could come to a conjecture about whether picking cotton was anything like Gone with the Wind had portrayed it. I studied the farmer closest to us. He was bent over, a large straw hat covering a sun-browned face. His shabby clothes were wet, droplets of water and sweat collecting on his shirt and his pants. A large tank of battered metal weighed upon his back. In one hand was a hose connected to the tank that he used to spray pesticide onto the plants below. As I watched, he squirted the pesticide. A wave of pungent scent nearly choked me and my dad when the toxic fumes hit us. Clouds of sickly yellow misted the air. The farmer treaded into the cloud to reach the next stretch of cotton plants, and was hit by the spray. It clung to his clothes, sticky little droplets that covered all parts of his body. I realized with a jolt that what I had thought was water on his clothes was really pesticide. My dad waved to the worker, and greeted him loudly. The farmer turned around, eyes squinted in thought. It was apparent that he did not recognize my father. “Qing!” My dad called out the farmer’s name. To my shock, I recognized it as a popular name that parents in villages named their little girls, “hard-worker.” The farmer’s face lighted in sudden recognition, and I realized that it indeed was a woman. She had apparently grown up with my dad and had all but forgotten him. My dad explained that he had moved to America after college and flew back with my mother and me for a visit. She had not known my dad at first sight, but she did seem to know what America was. Her eyes lit up, and she pointed to an empty can of pesticide on the ground. “That’s from America,” she said. I went over and inspected the can. The Monsanto Company, St. Louis, had produced it. “Say,” Qing asked me, watching me read the words on the can, “do they grow cotton in America too?” I shook my head, expecting her to start denouncing American farmers for not growing something as precious as cotton that she had grown all her life. Instead, she got a misty look in her eyes. “America must be such a wonderful place. Don’t have to grow cotton.” She made a dramatic sweep with one hand, indicating the field. “The bugs have gotten worse and worse. Why, just a coupla years ago, Chinese pesticides work. Now only imported ones do. And sometimes even imported ones ain’t strong enough. You gotta spray ’em
Diversity
Forgotten Words
It was a sultry day in August. Sofia lay on her bed, her eyes closed. She heard Isabela, her sister, playing with her cousins downstairs. Cousin Diego’s radio drowned out baby Ana’s wailing. Quietly, Sofia tiptoed out of the room. She darted down the stairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, unnoticed. Out on the lawn, Sofia ran as fast as she could. The wind rippled through her black curtain of hair as she ran. Sofia ran down the noisy street, past the clear brook, and into the woods. As Sofia threw herself onto the pine-needle-covered ground, she felt the quietness of the woods settle around her. This was Sofia’s quiet place, her thinking spot. It was her secret place to escape the noise and chaos of her home. This was where Sofia came when she felt angry or confused. Sofia thought in the quiet shade of the tall trees. She felt protected. Tilting her head back, Sofia gazed up at the bright sky through the pines. Why had she done this, why? Why had she forgotten her Spanish? Sofia longed for the days when the melodic language flowed freely off her tongue. The days when she communicated in Spanish with ease with her grandma, easily switching languages back and forth with her parents. Sofia still remembered her classmates’ harsh words . . . “Spanish is the poor people’s talk.” Her face burning, Sofia vowed to herself never to speak a word of Spanish again. That was back in Iowa, where her parents had worked in a factory from dawn to dusk. Why had she done this, why? Why had she forgotten her Spanish? Then one night, the phone rang. It was Sofia’s Uncle Manuel, who lived in Minnesota. Tio Manuel had urged Sofia’s Papi to move north, where there were better jobs with better pay. So the family had moved. Now Sofia’s family lived in a small house in a suburb of Minneapolis with Tio Manuel’s family, Sofia’s aunts, and her grandma. Papi and Mama both had full-time jobs. Sofia would be entering the seventh grade in the fall, Enrique kindergarten, and little Isabela pre-school. Sofia’s life was so different in the United States than it had been in Mexico City, where her family had lived until she was four. Although Sofia hadn’t been back to Mexico since, she was determined to return. She missed her friends and family in Mexico. Sofia stood up. Shaking off the dirt, she began making her way home, slowly but steadily Sofia knew she would never change her ways to be popular again. She knew that her mistake would make her stronger than before, more ready to face new challenges. Sofia would never be the same. Easing the back door open, Sofia knew she would relearn her Spanish. Whatever it would take, she could do it. Natalia M. Thompson, 11Madison, Wisconsin Natalie Chin, 11Bellevue, Washington
The Color of Honor
CHAPTER ONE Byron Jones parked his beat-up, old, black Chevy in the driveway and stared at the house in front of him. All of his hopes and dreams lay before him in this green house with the pale yellow shutters. “This is what I have been working for,” he said to himself, “my own office, my own home.” It was the summer of 1960. Byron was a family doctor. He had been working at a big Philadelphia hospital, when word came that a new doctor was needed in rural Ambler, about twenty-five miles outside the city Old Dr. Carter was tired and sick. He decided to retire and go live with his daughter. The hospital recommended Byron as his replacement and he jumped at the chance. Now, he was finally here, ready to start his own practice. He got out of the car and stretched. He let his eyes wander around the pretty front yard. Neat rows of purple pansies sprouted in a flowerbed near the big, wooden porch. Bright red geraniums bloomed in a pot at the wide front door. There was another pot of geraniums at the bottom of the porch steps and one at the side yard. “Doc Carter must have dabbled in gardening,” again Byron talked to himself. It all looked so homey. His mama would love it. He thought about her and about his sixteen-year-old brother, Keats. Mama loved poetry and had named her boys after her favorite poets, Lord Byron and John Keats. Byron leaned back against the car and let his thoughts wander back to the family he loved so much. Byron hung the sign where Doc Carter’s sign used to be. It fit perfectly Byron had grown up dirt poor. Most of his clothes were hand-me-downs and a couple of sizes too big. They came from the oldest boy of the rich white folks his mama kept house for. Byron never had his own bike, or even a wagon. But his mama made sure that their tiny apartment was always filled with books. He read the classics, like Moby-Dick. He read history books, and even the poetry books that his mama loved so much. When he was eleven years old, he read a book about George Washington Carver, a black scientist who was the son of slaves. From that time on, Byron knew he could make something of himself. His love of reading certainly didn’t come from his father. For as long as Byron could remember, his father had drifted in and out of his life, like the ocean tide. Byron resented his comings and goings. He always upset Mama and disappointed Keats, who worshipped him. He was loud and rude and mean. He only came for money and a hot meal, and then he was gone again. Three years ago, Mama got a letter postmarked from Florida, telling them their father was dead. That’s all Byron knew. His mama had cried and burned the letter, and they never talked about him again. Byron didn’t care, but Keats was hit hard. After that, Keats started getting in trouble. He skipped school and hung around with a bad group of boys. Byron had just finished medical school, and started his hospital training. He had no time to help out. Keats would probably be in some sort of reform school, if it weren’t for Dr. Harrison Peabody III. Dr. Harrison Peabody III was the man his mama worked for. He was a kind man and had already helped Byron get into the Jefferson Medical College, where he himself had gone to school. When he found out Keats was in trouble, he helped get him into a better school outside the city. Now his little brother was actually talking about becoming a doctor, like Byron. Finally, things seemed to be looking up for the Jones family. CHAPTER TWO Byron was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t see the two little girls standing on the sidewalk at the bottom of the driveway. Two sets of the same bright blue eyes stared right at him. The bigger girl stepped forward. “Hi, mister. What are you doing in Dr. Carter’s yard? You’re not stealing anything, are you?” Byron laughed. “That’s not likely since this is my place now. I’m Dr. Byron Jones. I’m the new doctor, who is replacing Dr. Carter. How do you do?” The girls’ eyes grew bigger. “You look way too young to be a doctor. Doc Carter had gray hair, and lots of wrinkles. Even his ears were wrinkled! My name is Lucy. I’m six. This is my little sister, Carol. She’s three. Say hi, Carol.” Lucy stopped to take a breath. Carol continued to stare with her thumb in her mouth. She had blond curls and a big blue bow in her hair, the exact color of her eyes. Lucy was about a head taller, and had the same blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her two front teeth were missing, and Byron thought she looked adorable when she smiled. “Do you give lollipops?” little Carol asked. “Dr. Carter always gave me a lollipop after my checkup.” Before Byron could answer, an angry-looking woman came running down the sidewalk. “I thought I told you girls to stay in the yard. You forgot our rule again, too. No talking to strangers.” She emphasized the word “strangers,” and gave Byron a nasty look. Byron stepped forward and held out his hand. “I hope we won’t be strangers for long,” Byron said, smiling. “I’m the town’s new family doctor, Byron Jones. I’m happy to meet you,” he added. The woman looked at Byron’s outstretched hand as if it would bite her. “We already have a doctor in the next town, mister. When Dr. Carter left, we started to see Dr. Potter in Horsham. We don’t need your kind in this neighborhood,” she sneered. “Let’s go, girls. Never come back here again,” she ordered as she dragged the little girls away. Byron
