By Evelyn Chen Illustrated by Teah Laupapa “Good night, Cordelia and Georgia,” Mom said. She smiled at us and gently shut the bedroom door behind her. I listened as her footsteps receded down the hall. It was our first night at the beach house in Oregon. Every summer, we came down here with my cousins and stayed for a month. It was heaven—the days were filled with swimming, wading, gathering shells, sailing, and exploring the nearby shops. My cousin, Georgia, who was also thirteen like me, and I were suddenly given free reign and we went as we pleased, suddenly free from the cage of school and homework and parents that we had been restrained with for so long. I propped myself up on my elbow and grinned at Georgia in the semi-darkness. Moonlight streamed through the open window and a soft breeze caressed my curly black hair. The roo was small, with barely enough room with our cots side-by-side, a large dresser, and closet. It was painted a cheery yellow that looked gray in the dim light, and the lavender curtains fluttered like butterfly wings. Georgia smiled at me as she sat up, curled up in a pile of blankets. We looked almost identical—with shoulder-length, curly black hair that could never be tamed, bright blue eyes, and grins that never slid off our faces. Mom always said we could have been twins, for all people knew. “I can’t believe we’re finally here. Let’s go at low tide tomorrow and look for starfish and anemones,” I suggested. My fingers danced over the soft blankets that I had pushed to the side. It was much too warm for blankets. Mom always said we could have been twins “Sure!” Georgia said, her eyes lighting up. “I can’t wait for morning.” She shoved her blankets to the side and shifted on the cot, which creaked disagreeably. The plastic covering crinkled loudly. I lay down again, my eyes sliding shut. I could feel weariness tugging at me. It had been a long drive here and I was exhausted. I lay there, straining to keep my eyes open as I listened to Georgia chatter about our plans for the month. “Cordelia! Delia! Are you listening?” she called. She reached over and poked me. “I said, we should go boogie boarding if it’s not too cold.” “Huh? Oh, OK,” I said numbly, my sleep-deprived brain slow to reply. “Listen, I’m kind of tired. Can we sleep?” “Fine,” Georgia grumbled. She lay down again and turned over so we were facing each other. I smiled as my eyes slowly slid shut, giving way to darkness. I twisted frantically, my lungs burning for air. The fishing net around me chafed my arms and cut into my throat. I struggled in the chilly water, my bones aching with cold. My head throbbed with pain and I fought to not black out. Air… air… air… my very toes screamed for it. I thrashed like a dead fish as darkness consumed my vision… I sat bolt upright in the cot, drenched in cold sweat. My trembling fingers gripped the blankets hard. The dream flashed through my mind—I was caught, caught in a net, slowly drowning. I shook my head, trying to get the dream out of my mind. Just a dream, it was just a dream. I focused on the sound of the waves crashing against the shore in the distance. I suddenly heard loud panting from next to me. I turned around and saw Georgia sitting up, shaking violently. She glanced at me, her eyes wide open and wild with fear. “What’s wrong?” I forced my voice to stay steady. Georgia swallowed hard. “A nightmare, that’s all.” My stomach turned over and I felt a wave of nausea pass over me. Was it just a coincidence that we had both had a nightmare at the same time? “What was it about?” I asked. My limbs were shaking harder than ever. I couldn’t stop my legs from bouncing up and down. Georgia gazed out the window, the moonlight illuminating her face. She sighed almost inaudibly. “Drowning. I was drowning in a net…” Her voice trailed off and she shivered. “No way. I had the same dream,” I whispered. Georgia whipped around so fast that her hair fanned out around her face. She gasped. “You’re joking.” I shook my head. We sat there, staring at each other. My mind was racing. “I-I,” I said weakly. I couldn’t get the words out. We gazed at each other in a tense silence. Cordelia… Delia … Georgia… Gia … A soft, melodious voice burdened with sorrow floated up from the window. The voice sent shivers down my spine, like water rippling over me. Something was calling my name. I slowly turned towards the window, my heart pounding hard in my ears. I could feel blood rushing to my head. Cordelia… Delia … Georgia… Gia … Almost unconsciously I stood up, pushing away from the cot. The blankets fell to the floor, thudding softly against the wood panels. My toes curled on the cold floor. I hugged my arms to my chest, the soft fleece warming me. I turned my head to see Georgia standing up. Her eyes were slightly vacant and her mouth was open a little. “Georgia,” I whispered hoarsely. I nodded towards the hallway. She inhaled deeply and nodded back, a silent communication going between us. I grabbed her arm and slowly cranked opened the door. The house was silent, except for the eerie ticking of the kitchen clock. Every bedroom door was closed. I paused to listen. I could hear a faint snoring and loud breathing. Everyone was asleep. We padded down the hall, wincing at every creak of the floorboards, but no door opened. Milky light cast shadows across the floors. We paused at the screen door leading to the beach. I let go of Georgia’s arm, and she let if fall limply to her side. I pressed my face
May/June 2015
I Am Malala
I Am Malala, by Malala Yousafzai and Christina Lamb; Little, Brown and Company: New York, 2013; $26 Would you stand up for what you believe in, even if it meant losing your life? With the rise of the Taliban, people of Afghanistan and Pakistan faced difficult times. Life was especially hard for girls. There were frequent whipping, beating, and verbal abuse. Women were locked up and beaten just for wearing nail polish. Non-covered ankles, bright clothes, high heels, white shoes, and even laughing loudly could lead to harsh punishment. Furthermore, the Taliban banned girls from attending school and getting an education. Hundreds of schools for girls were destroyed by this Islamic fundamentalist organization. School is meant for learning, but in that region of the world, it was a place of fear and violence. However, one girl spoke out and fought for the right to an education. On October 9, 2012, when she was fifteen years old, a gunman abruptly stopped her school bus and fired three shots at her. The shots were heard around the world, sparking national and international support for her. Her name is Malala. Malala Yousafzai was born on July 12, 1997, in Swat Valley, Pakistan. Nobody congratulated her parents. Girls were thought to be capable of only household chores and raising children. “I was a girl in a land where rifles are fired in celebration of a son, while daughters are hidden away behind a curtain,” said Malala. Nonetheless, her father saw something special in her and named her after Malalai, a war heroine in Afghanistan. Her father being a school owner and a teacher, Malala developed a deep passion for learning at an early age. She was one of the few brave people to speak out against the injustice girls faced in her community. Like her father, she spoke out and was heard on radio and appeared on TV. She also wrote a blog detailing her life under the Taliban rule. Her remarkable story became a New York Times documentary and caught the eyes of millions. Unfortunately, her strong words angered the Taliban, who decided to kill her, despite her age. A week after being shot, Malala woke up thousands of miles away from her home with a tube in her neck to help her breathe. She had survived. And she became even more determined. Her story was heard around the world and she soon became a spokesperson for education worldwide. At such a young age, she made people around the world stand together for a universal cause, demanding that all children go to school. More than three million people signed the Malala Petition. Her fearless nature is inspiring beyond measure and she has fought for the cause of millions of children who live in poverty, endure terrorism, and do not have the chance to go to school. In 2014, Malala won the Nobel Peace Prize for her incredible struggle, making her the youngest winner of this prestigious award. I am Malala is a breathtaking story of how one girl’s courage and words touched millions of people: Too many children take the privilege of going to school for granted. This book reminds all of us to value our rights and freedom. It takes us through Malala’s audacious journey of confronting terrorism, violence, and fear. You’ll be glad that you traveled with her. Neha Gopal, 13College Station, Texas
Iron Chef
Yum. The sweet smoky aroma of barbecued ribs fills the backyard and slowly drifts into the house. The backyard has uneven, rough stone tiles and a Big Green Egg Kamado (Japanese barbecue smoker) under the potato tree. Grass and roses are growing to the side. The chef learned how to cook so well from her mother. The chef expresses herself through cooking. She says, “Cooking is my way of art and creativity.” The chef is CC Zhang, my mom. CC Zhang has black hair, dark eyes, a high bridged nose, is slender, and is tall. Mom looks like a typical Northern Chinese woman. Mom has a confident gait and is not afraid to say no. She wears a smile but has little patience for nonsense. Mom is extremely disciplined and mentally strong. Before she came to America, my grandpa told her, “Work hard, and be the best.” When she came to America, she didn’t have money, didn’t speak a word of English, but remembered her parents’ words. She was an honor student at her college and for years was titled, “The Most Productive Employee of the Year.” Mom was born in Beijing, China. She has three older sisters and two older brothers. They have a close relationship. I asked, “Do you have a favorite memory with them?” Mom replied, “Oh, every day.” Mom has never gotten into an argument with her older siblings. My grandma and grandpa used to tell them to be nice to each other. They used to live near Tiananmen Square. On the weekends, they would play together in the park and fly kites from time to time. They would also go to the movies. After that, they would go to a fancy restaurant. There were only a few fancy restaurants in Beijing back then. Mom said, “From then on, I was fascinated by food.” Her cooking is the best. I have had it every day, and there was never a time where I went “blah.” Ethan’s mom as a girl in China (left) and today My mom also was surrounded by cooking when she was little. Grandma used to host parties often. First, Mom would watch. Later on, she started to help cook. Eventually, she cooked entire meals under Grandma’s watch. Mom is extremely focused when she cooks. She is very aware of what is happening in the kitchen and organized. Once, I told her, “You look very intense when you cook!” My mom answered, “It looks intense, but cooking is very therapeutic for me.” I continued to question her, “Why did you come to the United States?” She answered with a smile, “To go to a university.” A couple times a week, after Mom drops me off at school, she goes grocery shopping. She is picky about the quality of the produce: fresh and tasty. Mom often shops at a locally popular store. Her creativity is reflected when she is cooking. She almost never uses a cookbook and all is from her vast imagination. Once she said, “Real chefs create their own recipes, but a cook uses the recipes.” Since kindergarten, we have had a house rule where there is no TV watching during the weekdays. However, on the weekends, when my mom gets a chance to watch TV, she only watches the cooking show. The cooking show gives her inspiration, but she does not copy the recipes. She often tells me, “Presentation of the food is equally important to the taste because the presentation and color of the food give the person an appetite.” Last Thanksgiving, we hosted a party. All the dishes were different colors. It was like looking at a rainbow. There was dark amber, orange, magenta, green, and white! One of the guests cried, “It is too pretty to eat!” When I was a baby, my mom told me that I never had baby food from the grocery store. It was always homemade from scratch. The first time my mom bought baby food and tasted it, it was horrible. Since then, the family menu changed. Everything is made from scratch. This includes soup, meat, vegetables, and even marmalade. When I like a dish or dishes from a restaurant, she says, “I’m going to try and make it at home.” She always does it perfectly. Mom’s dishes always have a lavish look and are utopian delights! The presentation is exquisite and artistic. Dad said, “She has a very good appetite.” One of my favorite dishes is barbecued ribs, and when mom made them, they were juicy on the inside and crunchy on the outside. The color shades ranged from dark brown to light brown. The meat came off the bone easily. The taste was out of this world. Mom always cooks multiple dishes at once, a skill that I admire. I think it is very hard to do multiple tasks at once, but she seems to do it with ease when it comes to cooking. Mom uses a variety of different ingredients, sometimes making variations of previous dishes. When I look at her, I see the culture of China. Food is the center of life. In China, instead of asking, “How are you doing?” people on the street ask, “Have you eaten yet?” The funny thing is, when I am eating breakfast with my grandma, she asks me what I want for lunch and dinner. Mom knows every sound in the kitchen. If she hears bubbling and popping sounds, then she knows the water is boiling. If she hears a sizzling sound, she knows the pan is hot enough and it is time to put the food on the pan. When she smells the food, she knows the food is done. She knows this by heart, a skill accumulated through her years of cooking. Now I have a great gourmet sense of food. I can thank my mom for that. Food is the culture, and the culture is the food. Dad says, “Mom’s cooking has a unique combination of flavors, and
