Mina gazed across the playground—over fifty children her age were scattered in front of her, but not one of them would be her friend. It wasn’t that they were unfriendly; three of them had already asked her if she wanted to eat lunch with them, but it was Mina who had vowed not to make a single friend at this school, or any school in the entire United States for that matter. What was wrong with Jordan anyway? thought Mina. Looking at all the other students though, she did half wish she had been friendlier when first introduced to them. Mina would have stayed at the edge of the playground scowling, wishing the bell would ring, if the girl hadn’t approached her. “Hi, I’m Hannah… you’re the new student from Jordan, aren’t you?” said a girl who looked to be about eleven, with dark brown eyes and a gentle smile. “I saw what you painted in art today, it was really good. I wish I could paint like that…” Mina just glanced at Hannah and then went back to scowling. “I just moved here from Boston a month ago… actually, I think I live across the street from you…” Here Hannah trailed off, looking expectantly at Mina as if waiting for her to say something. If Hannah was expecting a gracious “Nice to meet you” or “Hope to see you around the neighborhood,” then she was going to be disappointed. It wasn’t too late to say any of these things, but Mina was obviously not going to. Seeing this, Hannah looked at the grass beneath them and muttered, “I think someone’s calling me,” and sprinted off. As Mina looked at the strong, mature trees around her and the clear blue sky above her, she thought wistfully of how she could paint this place. Mina was not boasting when she said she could paint. Apart from Hannah, only her parents had commented on her work, but she knew she had talent. Mina’s favorite things to paint were the mosques and the gold souk, both of which she knew well from living in Jordan. She had come to the United States thinking her painting days were over, that there would be nothing interesting to paint here, but to find such beauty… no, she thought. In fact, she would paint even more pictures of the sand dunes and the Hajal mountains that were Jordan. Seeing Hannah’s pale blue top in the distance, Mina started regretting her cold behavior towards Hannah, but stopped almost as soon as she started. She was going to stay strong on her vow, not to make a single friend. And besides, she liked standing in the shade of the trees, all alone. “Hi, I’m Hannah… you’re the new student from Jordan, aren’t you?” “Have you made any friends yet?” asked Mina’s mother, at dinner. “No, and I’m not going to. I hate school. I want to go back to Jordan,” answered Mina. Her parents looked at her, the disappointment shining in their eyes. “We came to America for your future. And now you say you hate it here?” asked her mother, even though she knew the answer. “What was wrong with Jordan?” asked Mina. After a pause, her father answered, “Think of the opportunities you will have here. You will have twice as much as you would in Jordan.” “But everything is different. I prefer my old life to this one,” said Mina, thinking her father couldn’t possibly have an answer to that. But seconds later, he put his fork down and, changing his tone, said, “Mina, habibti, don’t you see? No matter what country we are in, we are ourselves. The only person stopping you having your old life is yourself. ” Enraged by his words, and somewhat offended, Mina shouted, “You say you came here to make my life better. All you’ve done is made it worse.” Before she knew it, she was running down the road, away from her house. As she ran, she thought about what her father had said. Though they were in a new country, they still ate lamb, okra and saffron rice, they still spoke Arabic and, most importantly, they still prayed to Allah. Though their lives had changed, how much had they changed? She slowed down as a chilly breeze swept in, and by the time it left, so had her anger. She turned around, and started running back home. As she ran, she started composing what she would say to her father. She ran in, going straight to her father and, kissing his hand, apologized, saying she “hadn’t thought before speaking.” After being forgiven, she asked if she may go somewhere, and although they were puzzled, her parents told her to go, but to be careful. “I won’t be far,” said Mina, “I’m just going across the road.” She smiled to herself; she knew what to do, and that was to apologize to Hannah. * * * Mina found herself in front of a one-story, brick house with Hannah’s shoes by the door. Mina couldn’t believe such a simple house could be so beautiful. The whole section was bathed in shade supplied by a huge oak tree. The tree’s bark was cracked, and though it looked very old, it also looked very sturdy As for the house… Mina just couldn’t stop looking at it, with its rustic red bricks, and dark green vine crawling up the side. Mina gave the house one more look, then rang the doorbell. After waiting a few seconds, she was greeted by a woman with dark brown eyes and a gentle smile. It could only be Hannah’s mother. “Um, hi… I’m Mina, Hannah knows me from school… could I talk to her?” The woman’s expression suddenly changed and she said, “Oh, Hannah’s told us all about you, and how you treated her… well, I’ll go and get her,” and she walked away Mina was embarrassed by what the woman had said, but even
January/February 2007
My Last Skirt: The Story of Jennie Hodgers, Union Soldier
My Last Skirt: The Story of Jennie Hodgers, Union Soldier by Lynda Durrant; Clarion Books: New York, 2006; $16 To be free can have multiple meanings, but to Jennie Margaret Hodgers, in My Last Skirt: The Story of Jennie Hodgers, Union Soldier, it symbolizes having no skirts. For her, losing her skirt would mean losing all the limits that come with having the identity of a woman. The first time Jennie Hodgers puts on men’s clothing is because, like many Irish families of the time (late 1850s), her family didn’t have a lot of money. So she takes the role as a shepherd boy, until, after her father’s death, she and her brother Tom move to America. It is here that you witness betrayal from Tom. When he sees how much more successful she is in America, he reveals her secret to their employer. This scene was very touching to me. My brother and I are very close. Just picturing him doing something such as that made me feel heartbroken. Although the author, Lynda Durrant, doesn’t come out and say it, Jennie, or as she soon changes her name, Albert Cashier, is feeling a similar emotion. Afterwards, “Albert” knows she can’t stay in New York anymore. She gets on a train that takes her to Chicago. It is there that she does the unthinkable: Albert Cashier enlists in the Union Army The army is the test of whether the skinny Irish shepherd boy Albert Cashier or the tomboy Jennie Hodgers will survive. In the end Albert Cashier wins, but not without disadvantages. The years in the army have changed her mental state, which insists that, at times, she really is a man, as well as her physical state. All of the laborious training has changed her gentle lady’s body into hard, unnatural muscle. I couldn’t help but admire how she keeps going in spite of these drawbacks. The way the author creates Jennie is remarkable because Durrant has to give insight into Jennie’s secret. She has to describe conflicts that prevent Jennie from revealing her identity and the personal pain that comes with the burden of keeping this secret. As I read, I was in constant argument, as Jennie meets a man, Frank Moore, and will not let herself fall in love. I wanted to yell and say, “Just do it! You’ve lived a hard life. Do something that will make you happy!” It is in these ways that the author sucks you in. Every author has their own way of drawing the reader in like that. For some, it is with conversation, or with others it could be descriptive details. In Durrant’s case, it is with emotions. If something sad or depressing happened to Jennie, I could feel my eyes start to water. If something uncertain or scary was taking place then my hands would tense up around the book. My Last Skirt: The Story of Jennie Hodgers, Union Soldier is for anyone, boy or girl, mom or dad. There is so much in it, including history, romance and adventure. However, because this book isn’t meant to focus on the battles, the action scenes aren’t the greatest ever. There is an easy-to-follow plot line, with surprises on every page. You’ll find that you walk away with a lot of respect for Jennie (who was a real person) and the other petticoat soldiers who served their country, even though it didn’t recognize their contributions. Hannah Sellers, 12Chagrin Falls, Ohio
A Different Kind of Lullaby
Her room was quiet. Too quiet. In fact, the whole house was quiet, and Abby knew why It was empty—all except for her. There had been a note, of course, there was always a note, waiting on the table after school. Abby: Gone out for a while. Be back soon. Love always, Mom Abby wondered why her mother couldn’t have been a little more specific, and exactly what her idea of “soon” was. That had been approximately three o’clock, now it was around ten o’clock. She lay in bed, tossing and turning. The silence scared her; it seemed to envelope her and swallow her up. The quilt made her too hot; she pushed it off. Now she was shivering; she pulled it back on. Abigail means “father’s joy,” she thought angrily. If I was his joy, then why did he leave us? Groping around in the dark, feeling for the right buttons, she turned on her radio, turning it up as loud as it would go, blasting it through the house, but the emptiness remained inside her no matter what the volume of the music. She eventually turned it off, but found that she could not lie still, could not take the silence any longer. For one fleeting moment, she screamed, her lungs burning. It made her feel a little better; the screaming gave her an odd sort of sense of power. The feeling only lasted a moment, though, as her common sense took over—what if someone had heard her? What if they had called the police? The fire department? What if one of the neighbors came over to see what was wrong? What if someone called Social Services when they found out she was alone? What if… What if… Ms. Stevens had been right; she did feel better, much better She had to keep herself from thinking these things. Come on, Abby, focus. Green meadows, blue skies, calm river, tweeting birds… She played the game she and her father had played so many times, when she had stage fright before a school performance, envisioning the perfect place, but this time it only served to make her more agitated. Oh, Dad! Swinging her legs out of bed, she got up and walked over to the window. She shoved it open, desperate to hear those nighttime sounds that would fill up her room with reminders that summer was not far off A gust of warm wind rushed in, sweeping back Abby’s long chestnut hair. Crickets chirped their evening song, an occasional lightning bug flashed, then receded into the darkness, flying away to new and better things. How desperately Abby wished that she could do the same. She slammed the window shut with a deafening crash that reverberated against the walls, and then the room was once again quiet. She only heard the bang as if from a distant place, vaguely felt the cold glass beneath her hands, felt her fingers sliding down, down, down. Just how she felt. Her world was going down, down, down. Abby gently leaned her head against the windowpane, trying to fight the emptiness swelling deep inside her. She wondered what had happened to those times, so long ago, when her mom and dad had sung her to sleep, familiar lullabies, beckoning her to dreamland, step by step. Although she knew that at twelve, many people would consider her too old for lullabies, she still missed them achingly. The soothing sound of her parents’ voices had always filled up the silence that haunted her now. Lullaby. Even just the word was soothing, like someone stroking her hair, holding her hand. Like a hug right when she needed one. If I ever needed one, she thought angrily, it’s now. Parents, guidance counselors, teachers, they always say they’ll be there for me when I need them, but where are they all now? Abby flung herself face down onto the bed, drowning her face in her pillow to muffle the heart-wrenching sobs that she was sure could not be hers. Gradually, her back still rising and falling, the sobs began to come more softly, in a certain rhythm, a certain pattern, and she began to relax. Her breathing began to come easier, and she drifted off to sleep at last, to a different kind of lullaby; the feel of hot tears running down her cheeks, the sound of her own ragged breathing, her own crying. Her lullaby. * * * It was midnight. Abby knew that she must have fallen asleep at some time, because she had just woken up. She put out her hand and felt her pillow—it was still damp from her own tears. She heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, heard her mom come in and get into bed. Abby resented that her mom had been out so late without even specifying where she was going, but she knew that her dad’s leaving must have been just as traumatic for her mom as it was for her, alone in the master bedroom, in the queen-sized bed by herself. Even with her mom back in the house, Abby could not shake off the emptiness, and she felt a strange tug inside when she realized that her mom had not come in to say goodnight, as she always had before. Desperately she insisted to herself that there must be a way to make the loneliness go away, she just hadn’t found it yet. Suddenly something her English teacher had told her class just the day before came rushing back. “Poetry can be therapeutic,” Ms. Stevens had said. “Write what you feel. It’ll make you feel a lot better afterwards, I promise.” The kids in her class had moaned and groaned, saying they would never in their lives write poetry of any kind, but Abby had tucked away that information for figure use, thinking there might be a time when she needed something like that. Abby flicked on her bedside lamp, and reached for a