Dear Mother, Tomorrow is the day. Just think of it! Tomorrow I will be in America! Everyone is talking about how much opportunity and dreams coming true and hope awaits us there. No one cares if you’re Christian or Jewish, Italian or German, people say. Once we’re there, we’ll be free! I guess that for most of the people here, that’s true. But for me, there’s really no opportunity or dreams coming true or hope. As soon as I get off this ship, I’m going to Huntington Station and boarding an orphan train. I should be happy. Maybe someone will adopt me. Then I’ll finally have a family, finally have someone who loves me. But you’re in France, Mother. The whole time I was in the orphanage, I was hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’d show up at the doorstep and take me. I’d jump into your arms, and we’d hug each other, and you’d swear you’d never leave me again. I had it all perfectly planned out. That hope is gone now. I am in America; you are in France. The Atlantic Ocean is big, Mother, far bigger than you can imagine. It doesn’t matter anymore whether or not you really are dead like everybody says you are. We will never meet again. Your loving daughter, Amélie * * * Dear Mother, Sara insists that I should learn English. She learned it, and she said it was easy as could be. I know that English is the language they speak in America, and that it would help me ever so much if I were able to speak it. But my tongue refuses to learn that language. It is ever so confusing, and I always forget to put adjectives before nouns instead of after. Sara is a friend I made on this ship. If she were going on an orphan train, she wouldn’t have to worry a single bit. She has silky hair, deep blue eyes, and is very pretty. She also has a talent for thinking quickly, something I’m not quite good at. We were talking about the smell of the sea when suddenly there was a loud honk hink honk. A boat was docking next to us. A few people with white coats stepped out, ready to inspect our ship. People started running all around, tripping over each other, all running toward the rails, as if in a hurry to jump overboard. I had no clue what was happening, so I told Sara, “Come on! Let’s go check it out!” After falling over and being trampled a few times, we sat on a box of old ship things, the only place where we could find room. Then we saw it. I had heard about it, a gift from France to the USA, but never had I thought it would look like this. The Statue of Liberty. People were cheering, crying, going down on their knees and praying. A person was talking to our captain, Captain Santelli. “S.S. La Gascogne, cleared to go!” said the person. We were put on a ferry going towards some island. And that is all I can write now, Mother. I’ll try to write more soon. Your loving daughter, Amélie * * * Dear Mother, I thought that as soon as I got off the ferry, I would be in America. That’s why, even though Sara was speechless, gazing at Lady Liberty behind us, I was sitting and looking at my train tickets. “Think you’re going straight off to America?” someone asked. I jolted. What was that person talking about? “We have to go through Ellis Island, you know,” he spoke again. He was dressed in rags, and he looked like a younger version of how I imagined my father would look. “Pardon me?” I asked. I had heard about it, but never had I thought it would look like this “It’s where all the steerage goes before they come to America. They inspect us and make sure we’re good to enter.” He attempted to scratch out the dirt from underneath his fingernails. “I found out from people on board.” I tried to remember where I knew this person from. “I don’t remember seeing you before…” I said. He suddenly turned red, then purple, then white, then green, and finally back to a normal face color. “I… umm… well… you probably never noticed me… I’m sure that’s it…” He coughed. “If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to tell anybody?” he asked me. I nodded. “Well…” he paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to say this, “I was a stowaway.” I gasped. “I’m turning eighteen tomorrow,” he said. “I wanted to get away from my family, start a new life in America. But I didn’t have any money, so I snuck aboard.” I was frozen. “I hid in the bilge and snuck food from the garbage cans of the first-class deck.” He looked sincerely at me when he was finished. “Please don’t tell anyone,” he said. Don’t worry. I won’t. * * * Dear Mother, I’m so sorry that I forgot to end my last letter. We had just arrived at Ellis Island, and so I had no time to sign my name. There were many people on the dock, as many people as the Atlantic Ocean was big. Never, ever had I imagined there would be so many people! Everyone was carrying their trunks, all trying their hardest in a race to get to freedom first. Me, I had no luggage, only my train ticket and what was on me. Slap! An officer walked up to me and pinned a tag on me, eyes full of concern, yet covered by a comfortable blanket of confusion. I was number 137. I wasn’t sure, Mother. Was that all I was, a number printed on a piece of paper? I guess I was, for I had nobody. Nobody to meet me once I got out of Ellis Island.
May/June 2017
Twenty and a Half Minutes
He walks along the narrow path, skirting in-between the buildings. He knows that inside, young men and women are dressing in their uniforms and taking up their swords. Most will last the night. After that… he cannot say. Many on the path are headed toward his destination, the walls that barricade their fort. He eyes their black armor that is lined with red. Just another thing that makes him stand out. He is dressed in the same way, except he wears a white cloak, and white boots and gloves. A sign of peace—except there is nothing peaceful about his abilities. Soldiers peek at him as he passes them, and a few ask him to tell them their fate. Whether they will survive this battle or not. So he takes their arm and glances at their palm. But what he says to each of them is the same: “Fight with all your spirit, and do not leave this world behind.” Their faces turn towards him as he walks on, and he knows that they will puzzle over this riddle until it is time to fight. He can’t tell what will happen, and he decided long ago that if they die, they might as well go out fighting. But he knows that this time, the soldiers will fight fiercely anyway. There are over 150 refugees living here. It is better than having to die in guilt. By now he’s reached the top of the barricade and walks along the platform. When he stops, it is next to his best friend. The young woman turns, her short blond locks peeking out from beneath a red cap. She smiles, but he takes her arm and turns her palm over. He can’t lose her, not her, not his best and only friend Twenty and a half minutes. His breath stops, and he lets her hand slip out of his grasp. The blood pounds in his ears. She is his one friend, the only thing in this world that he truly cares about. He can’t lose her, not her, not his best and only friend. She is oblivious to his distress. “What does it say?” she asks, twirling an arrow in her fingers. He swallows his panic. “You know I’m not allowed to tell you, Rosamy,” he replies. “Although, ‘fight with all your spirit, and do not leave this world behind’ comes to mind.” She laughs. It has always amazed him how she can be so cheerful, even on the edge of a battle. “Well, then, how soon will the fight start?” Rosamy tosses the arrow into the air and catches it by the feather. He closes his eyes. He does not see darkness, but instead the field before them. Now it is filled with the enemy’s warriors, and sounds of battle ring in his ears. He snaps his eyes open. “In just a few minutes. Maybe even sooner.” An intense expression slides onto her face. “Then I shall fight until I die, or until the battle is over. Hope to sages my aim is true,” she declares fiercely. There is a scream, and he turns to see a soldier duck as a scarlet-tipped arrow whistles over their heads. A figure appears on the horizon. Even from here, he can see the flash of sun on silver. Out of the corner of his eyes he notices Rosamy load her bow. A scream reaches him, a war cry so terrifying, he would run if he hadn’t heard it before. Ten arrows thud into the wood. Then the scream is gone, and the lone figure is no longer alone. The battle has begun. He yanks his friend out of the way as scarlet flashes by. He glances at her palm, hoping he has beat fate, although he knows twenty and half minutes couldn’t possibly have passed. Thirteen minutes. They stand in the center of the wall that faces the opposing force, and he steps up, pushing past their archers. He takes the edges of his cloak in his hands. Then he stretches his arms out. The cloak shields some soldiers, and he knows that they will survive, for no one may fire upon the man in white. That agreement was made five years ago, when his ability was discovered and it was decided that his life was much too precious. He can see how soon someone will die by looking at their palm. This gift has tormented him for years, ever since he signed up to be a cadet. He knew when his friends would die, and he could do nothing to stop it. That’s why he’s avoided making new friends. Why the only one he has is Rosamy. Soon, she will be gone too. The foot soldiers will not spill out of the gates until word is given. He closes his eyes and can see the warriors before them, fighting. A sea of black and silver. He whistles and lifts his eyelids. A white dove appears on his hand. He directs it down, to the fort, then it flies to someone on the paths. He can now hear the gates squeak open. A scream shatters the air, cut short. The first casualty. The sounds of fighting attack his hearing. He ignores them, aware that there is nothing he could have done to stop this. At least most of their soldiers will survive. If the time until death extends past thirty hours, he cannot see it. And many palms he looked at were empty. But one palm, the one palm that mattered to him, it had only minutes on it. He glances toward Rosamy, who is pulling an arrow back. He can make out the numbers on her hand. Three minutes. He glances behind him. There are soldiers herding the refugees into the stone buildings, the only ones that are safe from fire. Wailing rises into the air, and he sees a teenage girl, arguing with someone in red and black. He can barely hear her voice.
The Queen of Katwe
The Queen of Katwe, by Tim Crothers; Simon & Schuster: New York, 2016; $16.00 The Queen of Katwe is a true story about an amazing Ugandan girl named Phiona Mutesi. Phiona grew up in the slums of Katwe. Life in Katwe is tough—little or no education, poor sanitation, crimes, violence, and extreme poverty. People search for food on the dangerous streets and often struggle to stay in one place for a long time because they can’t afford rent. This was the life of Phiona. One day in 2005, while Phiona was searching for food on the streets of Katwe, she spotted her brother and decided to follow him. He led her to a dusty veranda where she met Robert for the first time. Robert was a Christian missionary who had a dream of empowering the kids of Katwe through the game of chess. Phiona didn’t know anything about chess. The boys who had already been playing chess for a while made fun of her. Robert didn’t expect Phiona to come back because of all the teasing she suffered, but she came back the next day. So, Robert had Gloria, a girl younger than Phiona, teach her the fundamentals of chess. Phiona didn’t like the fact that she was being taught by someone who was younger than her, so she worked hard every single day to be the best she could. Soon, she started to beat everyone, including her mentor, Robert. Obviously, she had a natural affinity for chess, but it was her hard work and dedication that helped her become the national junior champion at the age of eleven, only two years after she first learned to play chess. By the time she was fifteen, she had become the Uganda national champion. Phiona is now a Woman Candidate Master, the first in her country’s history. Her ultimate goal is to become a Grand Master, the highest title in chess. I consider myself a serious chess player. Although I am not as good as Phiona, I practice the game of chess daily and often go to tournaments on the weekends. I feel like Phiona saw her life reflected in the game of chess. In chess, players have to persevere against many obstacles put in their path. In Phiona’s real-life situation, the obstacles were poverty, starvation, violence, and an unstable family situation in the slums of Katwe. This book definitely has some parts that are sad, upsetting, and even scary. Some people may find it disturbing to read about the horrible conditions in which the children of Katwe live. In that sense, I feel that readers must have a certain level of maturity to read this book. However, the book also tells us a remarkable story of how one girl from one of the worst slums in the world found hope for her future through the game of chess. Like chess, life is all about struggles, frustrations, and triumphs. This book teaches you anything is possible if you put your mind to it. I want to recommend this book to anyone who needs a little inspiration in life. Whether you want to become a chess champion, write a book, get good grades, make it on a soccer team, or run your first 5K, this book will inspire you to achieve your goal. You just have to remember that, just as chess requires a lot of perseverance to win, you will need a lot of perseverance and patience to achieve your goal. This book has motivated me to strive for my best every day. Meg Isohata, 12Mountlake Terrace,Washington
