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Curtis Freedom

The hot July sun beat its fiery rays down on the heads of the slaves working in the shelterless Carolina cotton field. Tall, twelve-year-old Curtis, dragging his cotton bag behind him, paused to steal a moment to soothe his aching back. Straightening up, he winced as his back stretched. His hands, rough and scarred from picking cotton day after day, twitched at his decrepit straw hat. Glancing over the field, he spotted the Big House, standing out starkly against the darker forest behind it. “You! Boy! Keep working!” The order was shouted out in a harsh, thick voice from behind Curtis. Resisting the urge to shout back, “My name’s not Boy! It’s Curtis!” he bent over his work once more. Curtis what? he wondered, disgusted, to himself. It didn’t really matter, of course, but still, the lack of a last name galled him. Stop worrying about it, he told himself. No one even calls you by your first name, let alone an appendage like a last name. Curtis couldn’t forget it though. He sometimes wondered where his parents were. All he knew was that he had been born in the hold of a slave ship somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. He had no memory of his mother or father, let alone a last name. Oh well. Who needs a last name? he tried to satiate himself. It didn’t work. “Sing!” the overseer ordered roughly. “Sing and be cheerful!” If slaves were quiet, overseers took it for a sign that they were plotting escape. Singing was a popular way to keep them “happy.” One of the slaves struck up: Gonna jump down, turn around, pick a bale o’ cotton, Gonna jump down, turn around, pick a bale a day. Oh, lawdy, pick a bale o’ cotton, oh, lawdy, pick a bale a day. Gonna picka, picka, picka, picka, picka bale o’ cotton… The overseer smiled at the swingy tune. Curtis scowled again. That night, in the hut he shared with several other slaves, Curtis listened to the talk of Harriet Tubman. Most slaves called her Moses, after the way she freed slaves, like Moses had freed the Israelites. She had been to Canada already, but she came back to bring other slaves out of “Egypt.” “They say she’s headed this way. If she comes to us, I mean to go. I’m sick of slavery.” A young black man tossed a stick into the fire. “I’m ready to ride the railroad to freedom.” Me too, thought Curtis, sitting in his dark corner, listening, but unwilling to join the gossip. But will “Moses” ever come? *          *          * One week later, as the slaves sweated in the fields, Curtis caught the sound of someone singing. The song almost seemed to be coming from the woods beside the field. He knew the words. They were part of a popular slave hymn: I looked over Jordan, and what did I see, Comin’ for to carry me home? A band of angels coming after me Comin’ for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home… That’s odd, Curtis thought. Why would someone be singing that song on a weekday? Then a faint memory flashed across his mind. Hadn’t he heard that slave rescuers sang that song to let other slaves know that it was time to escape? It had to be Harriet. Curtis began to sing the words too. Soon other voices joined in. The others knew; tonight was their escape. Curtis thought about escape for the rest of the day. Could he make it? Was slavery really worse than the unknown? Doubts assailed him. A moment later, hearing the crack of the overseer’s whip, Curtis glanced up. He glimpsed the unfortunate slave’s face twist in pain. In that moment, Curtis knew he had to go. Anything was better than slavery. That night, five of the slaves, three men, a woman, and Curtis, packed their few belongings. Stealing as softly from the little quarter as possible, the five walked towards the woods. They would have to pass the Big House, where lights still blazed, to reach temporary safety. Curtis was almost having second thoughts again. If they were caught, they would be flogged and probably sold down south. The thought chilled his blood. There were such stories about the South… Curtis, clenching his teeth, forced himself to keep walking. I can’t endure anymore. I don’t care what they do to me, he told himself. Still, he glanced back fearfully as he slunk along behind the others. There. It was past. Once in the woods, they were able to breathe more freely. Uncertain what to do, they halted. After a few moments, an owl called softly, and a figure glided out to them. Even in the dim light, Curtis was able to recognize Harriet Tubman from the posters he had seen of her. With her were six other slaves from a neighboring plantation. “By dawn, they’ll have discovered our absence. We must put as much distance between ourselves and them as possible,” Harriet said, as she counted noses. They started the long hike. The whole journey seemed odd and dreamlike to Curtis. The only noises were noises they themselves made. Harriet led her Israelites to a creek. “We’ve got to throw the dogs off the scent, so we’ll walk in the stream,” she explained, stepping into the chill water. The slaves followed her lead. Curtis shuddered as the water closed around his ankles. When they could finally climb out of the stream, Curtis could hardly feel his feet. Still they kept on. At last they came to a road. Here they could travel more quickly. The numb feeling had moved on up Curtis’s legs by the time when, at dawn, Harriet led them into a barn at a little distance from the road. The slaves collapsed, exhausted, on the warm hay, too tired even to worry about whether it was safe. All the next day, the slaves rested in the

Filling the Jar

Matt opened his father’s drawer. Within lay a large pile of phone, water, and electric bills. One after the other they read “late” or “unpaid.” Next to them, there was a small pile of grocery coupons that was being rapidly depleted. Wrong drawer, he thought. I’ll try the bottom one. As Matt opened it, the bottom drawer creaked loudly and released a musty smell. Matt chuckled. Good thing Dad’s at the factory, he thought. He thinks I’m working. Why work myself when he can do it? In the drawer, a small jar full of small bills was carefully laid to the side. A small label on it said, “Rent Money.” It held about 400 dollars. Next to it, a piece of paper read, “February Rent: $500.” Matt reached into the jar and took a twenty-dollar bill. Finally, he thought, I found it. As Matt left the two-room apartment, he saw a notice on the door. “Whoa,” he gasped, his eye wide in disbelief. “They raised all the rents in Queens. Well, Dad can pay it. He’s got five days.” Matt closed the door and ran upstairs to talk to Jose and Nick, who were twins and his best friends. He knocked softly on their dark brown door. After a few seconds, Jose answered. He had blue eyes and a mop of dark brown hair. He towered over Matt, who was fairly tall himself. “’S’up?” Jose asked, his usual conversation starter. “Nick is testing his slingshot on our door. Come in.” Unlike Matt’s family, Jose and Nick had money. The brothers didn’t even have to share a room! Matt thought they were very lucky. The three boys gathered in Nick’s room. Matt looked at the walls. These posters are so nice, Matt thought. I wish I had them. “So?” Nick questioned eagerly. “Why’d you come? It’s kind of late.” Matt gave them a smug smile. “Well,” he began, “I got twenty bucks, and they’re selling those extra-large exploding poppers at the deli at five dollars for ten poppers. We can get forty of them with my money and shoot people with our slingshots!” They all laughed. Slingshots were their hobby, and they loved to hit people with cheap, store-bought explosives. “But where’d you get the money?” asked Jose. “You usually have to borrow, and your dad works ten hours at the factory. Did you steal it?” “Nah,” Matt lied. “It was his present to me.” But in his head, he felt a little guilty. Whatever, he thought. We’ll pay rent fine. I do this all the time, and Dad doesn’t care. He did say I needed to get a job, but why should I? “Now then, I’m going to buy a pack of poppers, all right?” They nodded excitedly and told him to hurry up. Matt ran out of the twins’ apartment and hurtled down the stairs. He opened the glass building door and made a dash for the small deli. Its yellow sign was beaten and torn. “Hi, Matt,” said Carlos, the clerk. “I don’t see you too often. What are you here for? You rarely have money to spend.” The small man smiled warmly. Matt grabbed a pack of poppers. “I’ll take these,” he said hurriedly. Matt paid quickly and zoomed back out of the store. “Kids these day,” Carlos sighed. “No way I was this rowdy back when I was thirteen. I was already working.” He laughed to himself. I wonder how he got money, Carlos wondered. As Matt ran toward the apartment, he saw his dad coming home from the large factory. Odd, he thought, they must’ve closed the factory early today. When he saw his father coming closer, he immediately stuffed the large, white poppers and the leftover money into his backpack. He saw that his father had a very grave expression on his face, but that happened fairly often. “Hello, son,” he said, “I’m glad that I have found you. Did you find a job?” “No,” Matt replied, “I didn’t.” He did not mention what he had done instead. “Ugh,” his father muttered. “I’ve come home because the factory closed, and they cut the day’s pay. We’re struggling enough as it is. So, Matt, where are you going?” “Oh,” said Matt, startled at the question. Think fast, he thought, think fast. “Just to visit Jose and Nick. I haven’t seen them in a while.” “OK,” Matt’s father replied. “Be home by eight o’clock for dinner. I’m going to go do some work for Carlos.” His father walked off towards Carlos’s deli. He’s finally gone! thought Matt, very relieved. He hurried back to the build ing and showed Jose and Nick the poppers. Pop! They all laughed as they tested one out. Matt’s financial worries began to wash away. “We should totally get more of these and shoot them at people!” Nick exclaimed. “ I’d love to see the look on Principal Walton’s face. It would be priceless.” The boys chuckled at the thought of scaring their hated principal. “OK, but after school tomorrow,” Matt said. “I have to go home.” They exchanged goodbyes, and Matt went back to his apartment. Man, he thought wistfully. I wish we lived there. When he walked in, his father had a very worried look on his face. He was leafing through bills and looking at his most recent paycheck. “Matt,” he said, “sit down, I need to talk to you.” He handed him a microwave dinner. “The landlord has raised our rent by fifty dollars, and…” Matt faked surprise, breathing out sharply. But in the back of his head, he felt a pang of guilt and worry. “Yes,” his father continued. “I’ve done the math, and we can’t pay it. If that happens, we will be evicted from the building after three days’ time. That is why I need you to start working and earning some money. I’m sure you could get a job from Carlos. Together, I think that we can do this. So, Matt, do you

Beautiful Night

How the sea looked so different at night than at day I will never forget. How the sea lapped at my toes, moving up with the tide, to my ankles, knees, and eventually to my head. I was engulfed by the sea. Every time I lifted my head up to breathe in the salty air I noticed how beautiful the moonlight caught the waves, how the symphony of the ocean crashing against the rock was so enchanting. And then silence. The ocean current had transported me to the sea, miles from shore, where I began to sink down, down, down until I landed on the soft bed of sand. I watched the bubbles float up from my laughing mouth and fantasized over the beautiful fish, dancing across my vision. Eventually I floated back to the surface, where the renewed current swifted me past miles of glinting, silent beauty. I landed back on the shore, where the sea lapped at my head, eventually going down to my knees, my ankles, and toes, until it retreated from my grasp.

The Dragon Kite

Hugh gazed happily at his creation. Yes. He’d done it! “Leah, come look at this!” he called, holding the kite for his nine-year-old sister to see. Leah gasped out loud. “Whoa!” she breathed, admiring his handiwork. Her eyes traced over the delicate needlework on the smooth fabric. “Pretty cool, huh?” “Yeah…” She leant out an arm to touch it. “Don’t touch!” Hugh quickly whisked the kite up above her head and safely out of reach. “I like those flaps over there. What are they for?” “They’re to give it added lift,” he said proudly. “You’re going to win for sure this year! You’ll even beat Maude Lesley!” Leah cried, dancing around merrily. The thought of beating Maude Lesley at long last made his head spin with happiness. His kites had always come second to hers in Kite Fest. But not this year! No, he would win for sure. Kites were his favorite hobby. Yet somehow, despite his intense effort, Maude’s kites always seemed to be better. *          *          * “Have you seen Maude’s?” stuttered John. “No, but I don’t need to. My kite is far better than hers, John.” John shrugged uneasily. “I don’t know…” “Well I do,” Hugh confirmed resolutely. A thought suddenly sprung into John’s head. Yes, this would make Hugh see sense. “Do you want to go see it? If you stand on tiptoe and peer over her garden wall you can see it. It wouldn’t be cheating… just comparing. Then you’d know for sure how unbeatable it is.” Hugh was best friends with John, yet he couldn’t believe how narrow-minded John was being. Shrugging, he followed John over to Maude’s house. Feeling like a burglar, Hugh stood on tiptoe and peered over the wall, not knowing what to expect. He did not expect what he saw. Maude was crying, her tiny frame shaking uncontrollably. “It’s… not… fair!” she managed between hearty sobs. “It took… me a whole year… to make!” Her mum was desperately trying to calm her down. “Maude, sweetheart, it’s only a…” “A whole year!” she wailed. Her trademark plum-blue eyes were filled with tears. “I don’t understand where it could have gone! We’ve searched all along the riverbank yet my kite’s not there!” Hugh backed away from the wall in shock. He knew that he should be feeling sorry for Maude, yet he couldn’t help feeling smug. This was great! With Maude Lesley out of the competition he was sure to win! *          *          * “Thank you. Oh, it’s heavy. Yes. Talented? You insist I’m a talented kite flyer? And maker?” Hugh pretended, talking to his chocolate Labrador, Moochy. Moochy showed his agreement by cocking his head playfully to one side. Hugh could just imagine the large golden trophy, glistening magnificently in the sun. The river was a favorite dog-walking location for Hugh, and the twilight turned the normally hectic and joyful river very mysterious and beautiful. Before Hugh could do anything about it, Moochy was tugging hard on the lead. Hugh tried to yank him back, but a fully grown labrador is a lot stronger than a skinny eleven-year-old, so, much to Hugh’s dismay, Moochy ran wild. Sighing frustratedly, Hugh sped after the happy dog and found him in some tall reeds, sniffing at the ground quizzically. Yanking on his collar, he spat, “Bad boy, Moochy! Come on. We’ve got to go home. I said come on, Mooch!” Moochy was resistant and stayed, with his bottom planted firmly on the ground. Mumbling bitterly, Hugh got down onto his hands and knees and parted the waving reeds. His stomach seemed to drop. It was Maude‘s kite. *          *          * Hugh broke into a run, eager to return home. Moochy thought this all a splendid game, so he bounded along happily. Why should he return the kite? After all, it wasn’t as if Maude had never won before. Yes, if he kept it he would be doing a greater good, allowing other participants the chance to take home the trophy. It was unfair, unjust that she won every year. Hugh’s eyes traced over the magnificent kite. It was shaped like a traditional Chinese dragon, with a large open mouth and sharp white teeth. Maude need never know it had been found. Hugh might just be able to copy some of the design elements. He didn’t even really care about the copying, just so long as he won, and not Maude. It was all down to him whether or not Maude would win. He had arrived home and slipped inside noiselessly, and sprinted up to his bedroom. Stowing the kite under the bed, he made a quick decision. He would keep the kite, not return it. He had waited a long time for the title of Kite Champion, and this year it would go to him. “Hugh? Dinner!” called his mother. Feeling content, Hugh made his way downstairs and into the dining room, where a delicious meal of roast chicken was awaiting him. He sat down and sunk his fork into the tender meat. As it travelled down his throat, it stayed in a lump. His mouth had gone dry, and suddenly he didn’t feel hungry in the slightest. Only guilty. He took a gulp of water and blinked twice. Don’t be an idiot, Hugh, he thought. You’re doing the right thing, so why are you feeling guilty? *          *          * “And the winner of the 2012 Kite Fest goes to… Hugh Willows!” Hugh raced to the podium, where he accepted the trophy joyously. His eyes scanned the audience. Hugh saw a small child curled up in a ball and sobbing broken-heartedly in the distance. The child’s head rose and he saw who it was. Maude. Suddenly the floor gave way and he was hurtling through a fiery tunnel, until he dissolved into a screaming nothingness. Hugh’s eyes snapped open. Just a dream, he thought emptily. Just a dream. He looked at his watch, which read half-past six. That meant that the competition was

The Owls of Morovia

“Annabelle, I just don’t think this is a good idea,” my best friend said nervously. “I mean, the sign even says, ‘Private Property: No trespassing, No swimming, No exceptions!’” “Oh, come on, Sarah! Nobody’s home right now anyway,” I replied. I enjoy having fun. You know, taking risks and doing the most ridiculous dares ever. That was fun. Now, I had my eyes set on swimming in the lake right before my eyes. It was so close, and the water looked so cool and clean. It definitely beat swimming in the community pool. “Sarah, I’m swimming in that lake whether you’re coming with me or not.” “Annabelle, wait!” I had already slipped through the fence and was in the process of taking my shoes off. “Annabelle,” Sarah pleaded, “what if something happens to you, and I become known as the girl who just stood by and watched, and then no one will be my friend, and no adult would respect me, and then where would I be in life, and that would also cause me tons of emotional problems when I get older, I might get post-traumatic stress disorder seeing something horrible happen to you, I could have nightmares for the rest of my life…” “Sarah,” I stopped her from going into one of her complete run-on-sentence-type ordeals. When she’s nervous she never stops talking. “You are just trying to distract me from going in that lake by jabbering!” With that, I jumped right off the pier and into the water. It provided wonderful relief from the heat wave that had swept through my town in Virginia. I stayed under the water for a few more seconds before resurfacing. “Ohhh, that feels so nice,” I said, trying to get Sarah to jump in too. “Nice try, Annabelle,” Sarah said, “there is no way whatsoever that I am even going on the other side of this fence. No, sir, I’m staying right here on un-private property.” “Suit yourself, you can stay in that dreadful heat while I’m nice and cool in here.” “Humph,” Sarah grumbled. *          *          * Suddenly I felt… different. It was as if I was weightless and was floating through nothing. It was dark, and I was under the impression that I had gone underwater, but I was still breathing. My vision blurred, and the world started spinning. I closed my eyes, only wanting to stop spiraling and find out where I was. Then everything stopped. I wasn’t in the water anymore, but I was still soaking wet. I slowly opened my eyes and saw an open sky with fluffy, white clouds spread out above me. Where the heck am I? seemed to be the only thing that I could think at the moment. A lush, green meadow went as far as the eye could see. It was so peaceful. It wasn’t a lake in Virginia where I was just moments before. I finally made myself get up and walk around to help dry my wet clothes. I thought about what I should do next. My options were: stay where I was and wait for someone to find me, or start moving in a random direction and hope to find someone. Of course, there was always the possibility that I was dreaming or something, but it all felt real. I paced and paced like I typically do while thinking, when I no longer had to make a decision. The ground beneath my feet began to tremble and vibrate. On the horizon I spotted at least twenty figures that looked like men on horses. Maybe I was in the pasture of a horse ranch or something. A few minutes went by and the horses were still heading toward me. I started to walk forward so I could meet up with them sooner. As I strode up to greet the men, they formed a tight circle around me. They all drew their swords while murmurs spread throughout them. One man’s horse stepped forward a bit and the man’s eyes narrowed. “It is the glorious Harvest Day! One of the most important holidays celebrated in honor of Sir Nathaniel Corin of Morovia and his perilous quests to find food for his starving people. Why are you not working in the fields where a peasant like you belongs?” the man asked, sounding bored and irritated. “I… uh… well… you see, I don’t know who Nathaniel Corin is, and I’m kinda lost. All I want to do is get back home and, you know, not work in a field,” I replied, not really knowing the best way to respond to that whole spiel. All of the men gasped in unison and whispered urgently to one another. The man who had spoken to me clenched his fists, his eyes seemed to pop out of his head, and his face turned an unnatural shade of purple. “Now listen! Make sure you listen well, because that kind of talk can get you killed! It is Sir Nathaniel Corin, or Sir Corin. It is never, under any circumstance, just…” he swallowed hard before reluctantly saying, “it is never just Nathaniel Corin.” What kind of a freak was this guy? I mean, seriously! Nobody even worshipped Oprah that much and I highly doubted that not saying the “Sir” could get me a death sentence. I was really tempted to tell this man that, but instead I said in my best theatrical voice, “My most sincere and deepest apologies. I do hope that you will forgive me. I really do just want to get home.” OK, the last part wasn’t a lie, but I was kind of enjoying messing with this guy. Suddenly, someone in the crowd piped up. He cried, “Wait! Take a good look at her; she resembles the girl in Sir Corin’s puzzle!” The man who was now returning to a normal shade of skin screamed, “Hush! Why should she know about that?” The man sighed, then said, exasperatedly, “She knows too much; we must

The King of San Marino

By Elizabeth Surman Scenario Number One: I’m not sure if the directions on my math homework mean one thing or another. Solution: Go to Dad. Scenario Number Two: I woke up late and can’t walk to school today. Solution: Ask Dad to drive me. Scenario Number Three: Mom hasn’t gotten back from grocery shopping but I’m hungry!!! What do I do? You guessed it! I’ll go to my dad and ask him to help me create a snack from ingredients in the pantry. Dad does so many things for me and here’s my chance to thank him for his kind deeds. First things first: He’s not a quiet man. When he comes home after work and his feet slap against the tile, making a sound as loud as a wild bear’s roar, the house shudders as if it anticipates the noise that will follow his arrival. To the annoyance of my mom and two sisters, he hums constantly, like the hummingbirds that occasionally visit our yard. At my bedtime, Daddy enthusiastically barges into my room to give me a cuddle and say goodnight. To awaken me, he increases the volume on his music and sometimes tickles me. Because of this, we love him dearly. Do you need to be cheered up? Go to my dad! His humor will make you laugh so hard it hurts. Not only does my dad tell jokes and puns, he appreciates and watches comedies. He jokes when he trips or stubs his toe (which is very often). He even wrote a book declaring himself the “King of San Marino,” the small town where we live. One of his favorite comedy shows is The Three Stooges. We go to a Three Stooges convention together every year. He loves to recall the funniest lines from different episodes and it makes me giggle. However, my dad is very serious and devoted to his work. Sometimes, Dad stays at his office late at night, working for my family. Because of this, I think my dad makes an amazing lawyer. Have you ever tasted a mouthful of heavenly French toast that has been prepared on the barbecue? This is the result of a creative experiment by my father. On Sunday afternoons, you might find the two of us side-by-side in the kitchen, inventing creative meals with ingredients you wouldn’t typically find in the same dish. Our best products may end up on the table that night for dinner. Now you know almost everything about my dad except his appearance. Would you recognize him on the street if I told you that: a) Dad has curly black hair that frames his head like the fur on his pet poodle, Pandora, who he had when he was a boy; b) his hazel eyes twinkle; they are the sun bathing me in their golden rays; and c) he has a rather large nose, although he claims (in vain) that it is an optical illusion? No matter what he looks like, I love my goofy, clumsy daddy as much as I love writing.

Imprisoning the Manatees

I squeeze my eyes shut and yank the plastic goggles from my face. Pulling them away, I swipe at the inside, attempting to clear away the fog that is obstructing my vision. My feet are coated by the gooey bottom of the Crystal River. The rest of my group remains face down in the water, searching for manatees. I shiver and my goggles fog up again. I stagger blindly towards the large white blob that I know is the motorboat. The water swirls and swishes around my legs as I walk against the current. I plunge one foot, then another, into the quaggy river bottom. “Almost there!” I sigh, and trudge onward. Suddenly, I trip on a large object floating in the water. I fall onto its slippery surface and my feet search for the bottom. I take a deep breath and submerge my face into the murky depths. I see a beautiful blue-gray creature that I recognize at once as a manatee. Its shell-shaped tail strongly and majestically propels the animal forward. I lift my head and stare down into the clear patch of water. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I consider calling out to my group as instructed, but at the same time I don’t want to. I don’t want this gorgeous creature to be hounded by humans. I glance over at the manatee tour guide through my now clear goggles. He has river water and brume covering his goggles. I think of the rules: do not chase the manatees, do not scare them, and do not touch them. There are fines for breaking these rules and yet the tour guides are paid to break them! They are paid to hunt down manatees in motorboats. They are paid to dump people within two feet of these beautiful, endangered creatures. How is this any different from anyone else chasing a manatee? I take a deep breath and watch the manatee swim away from me and toward the other end of the river, toward momentary freedom. This time my vision is obstructed by tears.

The Fighter

I am an animal. I am a fighter. It is who I am. Each day it is the crack of the whip and the ring of a bell. It is the creed I live by, the carrot or the stick. Each rosy dawn I awaken to greet a new day, a new challenge, and always a new fight. The musty, warm smell of hay will surround me and the rustle and snort of my herd members will always be heard. The round pen we are contained in is only enough to hold me. If it weren’t for that Powder River corral, I would be free, free to run and escape the restraint placed upon me. I am a fighter, one who fights for his right to freedom. I am nothing else. I was born from one of the finest bucking mares for miles, in a small dusty corral, on the eve of June. My early days are now a blur to me, nothing but feelings and short memories. I do remember the man. Burly, rough, smelling of sweat and woodsmoke, he would bring the hay, loaded in his arms. “You are my winner, little firebrand,” he would mumble to me under his breath. “Soon you will be a bucking legend among the best of the best.” He would sigh and scuff his boot against the dusty, hard ground, then, whistling a slow sad song, he would trudge back to the house. Little mind I paid him then. It is interesting that after so long he would remain in my memory and not fade away like most of my other memories from my youth. I scarcely recall my own mother, so why, above all, should a man remain in my memory instead? A mystery, to me, it remains. I do remember, however, the weaning. Harshly separated from my mother, and all I knew disappeared in the bat of an eye. No more were the quiet peaceful days with my mother in the sun. Introduced were the long lonely nights and the endless nickering of the frightened colts around me, a never-ending cry of bleak misery. I began to rely only on myself for comfort, never anyone else. I became the fighter I am today. I became “the animal.” I don’t remember the first time I bucked. I remember my first rodeo, however. The noise, the smells, the fear. Never before and never again will I feel such fear. I trembled with adrenaline and terror, wide eyes engulfing my surroundings, as the fear engulfed me. I was driven from the pen in the back to the long queue of bucking chutes, forced in, and entrapped. Then came the saddle, the heap of leather and cloth, heaved on your back for the first time and strapped on under your belly. I despised it. However, even more than that, I despised the rider that followed it, plopping down on my back like he owned it and taking an infuriating tight grip on the lead rope attached to my halter and around my sides with his legs. The fires of hate boiled a frothing stew inside me, raging and foaming within me, fueling my desire to break free and show the infuriating human on my back who was boss. I remember wriggling and shuffling in the chute, tossing my head and stamping my feet in furious impatience. Then, the bell rang and the gate opened. There is something about the bell, the buzzer, or the opening of the gate that sends a fighter, a bucking horse, into a mad rage. I see the gap and I release all of my fury, all of the hate that boiled within me while inside the chute. I shot out of the chute like I was shot from a cannon, kicking up my heels and leaping like a madman. My rider, I could feel, was flopping around, gouging me with his spurs and hanging on to the rigging for dear life. I leapt and spun, bucked and kicked, dodged and reared, whirling and tossing my rider about furiously. In a matter of moments, I catapulted my rider from my back, sending him in a wonderful arch to land with a thump on the ground nearby. I recall clearly the roar of the immense crowd and the shrill ring of the buzzer seconds later, and in a rush, I was herded from the arena. Still mad with fear, I circled inside my pen nervously, snorting and plunging about. Little did I know, that for the years following, I would have many days like this, fighting days. For the years following, I would grow fiercer, increasingly wiser, and forever more determined. I would learn to trick, learn to fight harder, learn to deceive. I would acquire the titles The Nightmare and The Animal, which I maintain to this day, taking them with pride, knowing they mean I can fight and win. I would become known for the ferocity in my fight, the success at the end, and the sheer determination I fight with. I live to fight, and I fight to live. It’s as simple as that. As I have said before, each morning I awaken to greet the new challenge ahead of me. I will feel the adrenaline, the hate, the fear. They will drive me into the chute, where I will be trapped, saddled, and mounted. I will feel the frothing madness and the overwhelming desire to throw my rider. I will fight. Like a caged animal, I will fight to be free, fight to show who is boss. I am an animal, a fierce fighting animal. It’s who I am, always will be. It is drilled into me, planted inside me, by instinct, by breeding, by influence from man. I am the fighter, and that will never change.

The Road Home

The sky outside is a blood-red color. Slowly, I close my eyes and let a mercifully cool breeze blow on my face through the open car window. I open my eyes and stare out at the landscape spread out around me. Vast green plains and tall grasses are spread out in front of my vision. The scarlet sky is streaked with pink, orange, and purple. The light of the fast-setting sun reflects off my stormy gray eyes. The shine makes my brown hair look red. “What a beautiful place,” I breathe. Then I remember with a jolt. If my family and I hadn’t got evicted, I wouldn’t be here, right now, in this un-Montana-like place. I sigh quietly, and then unintentionally go over yesterday’s events in my mind. The giant, horrible eviction notice, which seemed to cast shadows over the lawn. The landlord with the nasal voice. My sobbing mother. Why did this have to happen to us? Every day my parents tried to make ends meet, but they failed to do so. We had lost our house and were now on an unfamiliar road, in an unfamiliar place, driving west in the oldest pickup truck in history. My parents had informed me and my three-year-old sister, Lizzie, that we were going to live at our grandparents’ house in eastern Washington for a while until they could find jobs here. Originally they had both been working at an office in Montana, but the company just didn’t work out. After thinking about all this, I smile sadly. My parents always told me I was a thinker, not a speaker. I strongly agree with them. Suddenly, the car starts spluttering up a storm and then starts jolting back and forth, back and forth. I knew we should have stopped for gas when we passed that gas station about an hour ago. Lizzie wakes up from a nap from her purple car seat and starts wailing. This long car drive has been really hard on her. Honestly, we’ve been driving for at least nine hours! Poor Lizzie, I thought. Lizzie’s face is screwed up and tears are streaming down her cheeks. Her sandy-colored hair is coming out of her pigtails. Lizzie had remained quiet for this entire trip, but this was the last straw. My mom reaches around from her seat in front of me, takes Lizzie’s tiny hand in her own, and speaks softly. “Don’t worry, Lizzie; it’s only one more mile.” “One more mile,” my dad says out loud, patting the dashboard. “Hang in there, Blue.” Blue is the name I gave our red vehicle when I was two and had just started talking. Mom and Dad thought the name was so cute they started calling our truck the same thing. “Allie?” Dad questions me. “Are you still there?” “Oh, yeah,” I reply with a yawn. “What time is it?” “About nine o’clock,” Mom says. The car shudders again, and I clench the sides of my seat with tight fists, urging the car on with my mind. “Come on,” I think with every ounce of my brain. “Please.” Dad steers the truck down a gravel road and says as the car shudders once again, “We’re here!” “Woo-hoo,” I say in a semi-excited voice as Dad pulls down a long driveway in front of a modest-sized house. As if on cue, our old car chokes on the last bit of gas, and then dies. “Whew,” Mom exhales a sigh. “That was a close one. Come on, Lizzie, let’s go say hello to Grandma Joy and Grandpa Rob. Mom gets out of the car and then picks up Lizzie from her car seat and starts walking towards the house. By now Lizzie has calmed down and looks around with green curious eyes. Dad gets out of the truck and opens the car door for me. “Come on, honey,” he says softly. I hop out of the car onto the driveway. Ah, solid ground again, I think to myself. The sky is now much darker, and stars are beginning to peep out from behind their dark veil. Lights are shining from inside the house, their light dances on the front lawn through the window. The smell of white-chocolate-chip-and-macadamia-nut cookies is beginning to waft through the open door. I turn to face my solemn-faced father. He stares up at the house with a glazed expression. “So this is going to be where we live?” I ask him. “For a little while,” he replies. He gives me a hug and whispers, “Welcome home.”

Inhaling the Scent of the Wind

The scent of apples whispers through the air Reminding me of our lazy days in the orchard Lying in a bed of violet morning glories Inhaling the scent of the wind Remember the day we held a butterfly funeral in grandma’s backyard? You found it in the dirt beneath the bougainvillea bush With only one fiery wing That fluttered into silence We talked about everything and nothing By flashlight under pink and purple sheets Biscuit asleep between us, tail curled in comfort You stopped coming around When you turned thirteen The two years between us Suddenly yawned into a black abyss You became a teenager More interested in texting than watching hummingbirds fly Boy talk, than watching the water dance in the fountain And now when we meet We are strangers

Bird Circle

Two birds spiral, Then one races after another, And they dart through the air. When their chase is done, One stretches its slender neck and dives, The other pumps its strong wings and rises. In one acrobatic movement, a circle forms. Yet the miracle lasts only for a moment. They circle once more and land, Rustling their wings. The sounds of the world return.

Poem

Speaking of sorrow and happiness. Telling a short story with a new voice. Speaking with a mouth of words. Soft as a baby’s cheek. Poem.

Calvin Coconut: Rocket Ride

Calvin Coconut: Rocket Ride, by Graham Salisbury; Wendy Lamb Books: New York, 2012; $12.99 This book is about a kid named Calvin who is getting bullied to give the bully a ticket to his dad’s concert. Calvin lives in Hawaii. His dad is coming there for his band performance. His dad is a famous rock star. Calvin hasn’t seen him for four years, so he is very nervous to meet him. His dad will give him five tickets for his concert. He plans to give the extra tickets to his best friends. After that, he still has one ticket left. Who will he give it to? Tito, a big and strong kid in his school, likes to bully others. Now he is demanding Calvin give him the ticket. Calvin doesn’t want to. Instead, he has Shayla, his classmate, in his mind. He knows she really enjoys his dad’s music. She is wearing a T-shirt at school that has a picture of his dad’s band on it. She is very excited when Calvin tells her about the offer. Calvin feels like he has done the right thing. But Tito keeps on threatening Calvin. Calvin feels very scared and is forced to change his mind. He tells Shayla that she can’t go. She is sad and heartbroken. I can relate to this story. I feared a bully in school, too. The bully was actually once my friend in kindergarten. In grade one, I had many new friends. He wanted me to play with him more than I would like to. In order to get my attention, he started to play rough with me. When I started to avoid him, he was upset and bullied me. He started with throwing rocks and woodchips at me. Then he became bolder and bolder. He progressed into kicking me. Eventually, he bluntly punched me in the neck. I felt scared and miserable. Every time I saw him, I quickly ran away. I was even reluctant to go to school to avoid him. Will Calvin give in or face the bully? Calvin feels bad for Shayla and regrets what he did, so he calls his dad for help. His dad tells him that he can have two backstage passes for him and Shayla. Shayla is so happy to receive the pass that she jumps up and hugs him. Now Calvin still has one ticket left. However, Calvin doesn’t want to give it to Tito, because he doesn’t want to encourage Tito’s bullying behavior. Instead, he gives it to Lovey, Tito’s girlfriend, and asks her to help him tame Tito. She tells Tito to stop bullying Calvin because Tito listens to her. At the end, everything turns out the way Calvin likes it to be. His dad becomes his best friend. He and Shayla have a good time at the concert. Tito does not bother him anymore. So Calvin solves his problem by telling his dad and Lovey. They helped. For me, what did I do? I informed the teacher first. But he still looked for chances to annoy me even under the teacher’s eyes. Then I told my parents, who talked to the principal. Now it got serious. The bully got punished. His punishment was that he couldn’t come near me. The principal watched him all the time at school. It finally stopped the nasty behavior. I heard that bullying is very common at school. It is bad behavior. Both from the book and my own experience, I know that bullying can make you feel scared, powerless, and sad. The best way to defeat a bully is to ask for help from lots of people. If I was Calvin, I would tell his teacher and parents early on, so that he didn’t have to be worrying about Tito for such a long time. Calvin is in fourth grade. Although he is a small kid, he finds courage and wisdom to face the bully. I would recommend this book to students around his age. Young readers will learn how to take care of themselves when they are bullied.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, by Amy Chua; Penguin Books: New York, 2011; $16 Sophia and Louisa Chua are perfect kids. They get straight A’s and are the best at everything. Sophia played piano at Carnegie Hall when she was fourteen; Louisa was accepted as a student of the world-famous violinist Naoko Tanaka. This sounds incredible, right? Meet Amy Chua: Yale Law professor and “Tiger Mother.” She forces her daughters to practice their instruments for hours a day and doesn’t let them be anything except top students. They can’t have play dates or sleepovers, play computer games or watch TV, or choose their own activities. The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother is the story of how Chua raised her daughters. She is Chinese and says that Asians stereotypically have very strict parenting habits that result in high-achieving children. They force their kids to be perfect or suffer the consequences. “Western” parents care about their children’s self-esteem and worry about their child psychologically. Asian parents assume their child can handle it and dish out the criticism. I’m not trying to be racist; this is shown in various studies and in this book. I know kids whose parents really pressure them and sometimes the results aren’t pretty. This book really struck a chord with me because, well, I’m a kid. I’m the same age as Chua’s daughters were for most of the book. I think I offer a different perspective than most people who read this book because I can read about this type of parenting and wonder how I would respond to it. In my opinion, Chua had the basics right, but went too far. I think it’s important for parents to have high expectations for their kids; it shows that they’re confident enough in their child to think they can achieve it. At least for me, I get self-esteem by seeing that I am competent and good at things, not because people tell me that I am. But Chua screams at her daughters and threatens them if they don’t keep practicing their instruments. I play piano and clarinet, and I know practicing is really important. But I wouldn’t want to practice for four or five or six hours a day like Chua makes her daughters. I don’t think threatening kids is the right way to get them to do things. Her daughter Louisa feels a growing resentment towards Chua after years of forced practices and arguments. It ends with an awful public shouting match when Louisa is thirteen. She screams “I HATE YOU” at her mother and smashes glasses in the restaurant. Of course, teenagers are dramatic and whatever, but that was serious. Sophia and Louisa’s talent and success are incredible, but is it worth the high price? This was a really thought-provoking book for me. It’s been a controversial subject all over the media, but I think kids should get an opinion, too. The book is written incredibly. It opened a whole new world for me—the parent’s world. For once, I experienced the frustration that comes when your kid doesn’t cooperate; I felt the chills parents get when they are unbearably proud of their child. The story is very suspenseful and draws you right in. It was like a soap opera—I had to find out what happened. I even told my mom I was cleaning my room just so I could finish it. Sorry, Mom. In raising her daughters, Amy Chua learns that sometimes you just have to let go and that parents don’t always know best. I highly recommend this book to anyone who just wants a great read.