November/December 2005

The Voice That Challenged a Nation

The Voice That Challenged a Nation, by Russell Freedman; Clarion Books: New York, 2oo4; $18 Marian Anderson was a great opera singer during the 1930s and 1940s. She was also an African- American. Marian was born on February 27, 1897, in South Philadelphia. She was the oldest of three daughters of John and Anna Anderson. At age twelve, Marian lost her committed father to death. Her mother had to raise her three daughters by herself. Marian worked to help her mother by scrubbing steps and running errands for her mother with her sisters. Today it is very unlikely that a kid would be scrubbing steps in an urban area like Philadelphia. It amazed me how the family worked together to make ends meet. Whenever she got money from her performances it was usually five dollars, and she gave her mother two dollars, gave one to each of her sisters and kept one for herself. Even though I think that today’s kids are very caring, I think that not many would give their hard-earned money away like this, especially to their younger siblings. Marian got through school and was able to afford music lessons because the Union Baptist Church, which she attended, raised money for her. She had joined the senior and junior choirs and never missed a Sunday with them. She was very dedicated to these choirs and loved to sing. I was amazed at this symbol of unity in the African- American culture as well as the American culture in general. Her goal at that time was to be able to study and improve her voice at a certain school. However, when she went there for an application, she was turned down because she was black. The way the author described the situation made me livid. A singer with a voice like Marian’s deserved to be heard and accepted at a famous and first-class school. This incident made her wonder why she wasn’t able to get an application because, even though she was black, she knew she sang amazingly well and she had great potential. However, she did go on and I believe that this incident helped her to overcome some of the other surprises that were caused by prejudice along the way. What Marian went through to be recognized in mainstream America made me distressed and perplexed. How could a country that proclaimed “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” for all be so cruel and prejudiced toward one of its own? Even after Marian became famous in Europe and loved in America, the Daughters of the American Revolution denied her the right to sing at Constitution Hall. Many people stood by Marian, including Eleanor Roosevelt, the First Lady at the time. Eleanor went so far as to resign from her position in the DAR in order to protest against Marian’s rejection to sing at Constitution Hall. On April 9, 1939, Marian sang on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to thousands of people, being “the voice that challenged a nation.” She sang two more times at the Lincoln Memorial, one being in 1963, at the Civil Rights March, when Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his “I Have a Dream” speech. In 1955, she became the first African-American soloist at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. She led the way for many artists, including her nephew, James DePriest, who was able to conduct a series of concerts in Constitution Hall. She was not only extraordinary because of her voice, but also her strength, dignity and character, which shone through her voice. She was an inspiration and role model, not only for African-Americans, but also people of all nations. Akeyla Todd, 12Bronx, New York

A Wider World

Kayla dropped the laundry basket down by the washing machine. This was the last load to bring down. She was hot from running up and down the stairs all morning. She rolled up her sleeves and looked around the basement. The unfinished cement walls looked bare and cold, brightened only by the dabs of paint she had splotched there when she was five. She climbed the wooden stairs to the kitchen where her mother was writing a shopping list. “How many guests do we have booked?” Kayla asked as she pushed her sandy hair out of her face. Having a B-and-B was a lot of work but it brought in extra income as her dad’s house-painting business didn’t bring in much. Mom looked away from her shopping list. “I think we’ll have three rooms taken by tonight. Mrs. and Mr. Wosen will take one and then Charmaine, and a new lady is coming tonight. An author, I think.” The people who had built the house must have loved the sea as she did But Kayla didn’t care if she was an astronaut. There was no one her age. She was used to being the only person around under twenty, but she hated it. She didn’t even go to school! She knew taking correspondence courses gave her more time to help her mom, but still. She gathered her schoolbooks off the sideboard, grabbed a Werthers candy from the little black cat-shaped dish by the door, and ran out to the porch. She stepped into blue flip-flops decorated with palm trees, and headed toward the beach, sucking her candy. It wasn’t really a proper beach, just a little string of pebbly inlets separated by small outcroppings of rocks and scrub. She swam down here in the summer but now in early September, the ocean water was too frigid to do anything but dip your toes. She settled down on a patch of moss and began her math. *          *          * When she returned to the house her mother was making up beds in the empty rooms. Kayla walked down the long hall with the guest rooms on either side. At the end of the hallway she pushed open an old white door. She ran up the narrow flight of stairs to her own room perched at the top of the house and stood just inside the doorway soaking up the sunlight that streamed through her many round windows. She loved her room. The people who had built the house must have loved the sea as she did for they had built the five round windows exactly like portholes. Kayla sometimes pretended that each window opened onto a different country She put her schoolbooks on the shelf next to her whale-watching and sea-life books. She checked the small box outside her door where her mom always put her mail. She found a postcard from Sharon, a girl from England who stayed here two summers ago, and a plain white envelope. She tore open the envelope and two pieces of pink writing paper fell out. She didn’t recognize the handwriting. She read, Dear Butterfly, (Butterfly? Kayla thought, genuinely puzzled.) My life is so blah. Nothing ever happens. I haven’t seen you for ages. Since you left it feels like my world is falling to pieces. All my friends have more friends than I do. They all go to private schools. Today my little brother messed up my room. It seems like my friends live in other worlds and no one understands how I feel about mine. Please write back soon. Your friend, Chelsea “What a wimp,” said Kayla aloud. “She has a little brother, friends, and she goes to school, and she still thinks her life is boring.” But who in the world was that letter meant for anyway? She was definitely not Butterfly. Kayla studied the envelope. The address was blurred as if something had been spilled on it. There was a return address. Montreal. I’m sure I don’t know anyone from Montreal, thought Kayla. Kayla’s mother’s voice filtered up, calling her to make dinner. Cramming the mysterious letter into her pocket, she ran down the stairs. *          *          * From the hallway Kayla heard voices from the kitchen. She was about to go in when she caught her name. Kayla peered around the doorway surreptitiously. Brochure in hand, her mother was chatting to a lady. She must be the author coming to stay, thought Kayla. Though she knew it was wrong, she stayed to listen. Just for a moment, she told herself “Oh, yes, Mrs. Tarnsford,” Kayla heard her mom speak, “I reserved a room for you looking out over the forest.” “Wonderful! And I heard you have a daughter. I am writing a book and she may be able to help me if she would.” “Of course she will,” Mom purred. “I’ll send her up after dinner.” Kayla groaned inwardly. She remembered when the librarian, Mrs. Baxter, had been writing a book on “the juvenile reader,” her mother had volunteered her and consequently she had spent three hours answering questions like, “How does reading relate to your personal development?” or “What book has inspired you to break the boundaries of your expectations?” At least this time, Kayla told herself, she knew what to expect. Feeling slightly guilty for listening, she stepped into the room. Mrs. Tarnsford had just gone to get her bags. “Do I have to?” Kayla blurted out. Her mother looked round with a wry smile. “So you heard?” Seeing Kayla’s face she went on. “Yes, you do have to. She is a good paying guest and she is only staying three days. Now I have lots to do. Please start the dinner,” she said, giving Kayla’s shoulder a squeeze as she went out of the room. *          *          * Seven o’clock saw Kayla reluctantly climbing the stairs. All the other guests had gone out to dinner and the cracks under their doors were dark. Come to think

The Burden of Words

Today is gray. A sluggish gray, tantalizing us with memories of the sunny days we could see Popocateptl. The day has been immersed with haze, clouds clotting the sky. It’s on days like this that the pollution becomes an accomplice with my asthma, draining my nose and rasping my throat. Rasping my thoughts. My head is cotton, gray cotton. I hurry to get home, reminding myself of the mountain of homework that awaits. Home isn’t that far from school; close enough that I can walk. My home isn’t in the city’s quiet, peaceful neighborhoods that elude the dizzying pace outside. We live right off Insurgentes, known for being one of the largest streets in the Americas. It’s six paces from the curb to our strip of shriveled yard, nine more to the steps, four up to the stoop. Our home perches on the street, absorbing the street’s noise and everything else that comes with it. And our home looks like every other one. It’s a cream stucco-concrete building. Wrought-iron bars protectively span the windows. A collection of spikes of multicolored glass crown the flat roof—our generic, low-cost security. Home, enough for our five-person family unit. I let myself in. The smell of warm bread wafts through the house, hanging in the closets and hovering in the hall. Mmmmmm—Mami must have been to the panaderia. Leaving my satchel in the living room, I float into the kitchen through strands of mid-afternoon light. I know from the smells, from the singing, from the atmosphere, that Mami is inside. “Hola, Mami.” “Mi’ja,” she says, pecking me on the cheek. “Como estas?” “Oh, I had an OK day Como siempre.” “Ay, mi’ja, aren’t you hungry? Here, have a torta.” She sets the sandwich in front of me on my favorite azure plate. Food is love, always. I push the torta away; I just had lunch. “Gracias, Mami, pero no tengo hambre.” “Ay, Rosana, por favor. You are never hungry anymore. My daughter shouldn’t be so thin. Just look at you.” I look at myself. Pale skin, lightest of my family; rough hands my mother wishes I’d manicure; protocol jeans. The light above buzzes, on the verge of burning out, like it always is. Mami imposes food on me; imposes it on everybody. Everything is normal. “OK, just have some bites. Just a little.” “Por favor, Mami. I’m tired, not hungry” “Ya, ya. Same thing.” The torta goes back on the counter. She’ll find time later to impose it on some other innocent individual. “So. How was your day?” I shrug. “The usual. But, Mami, I was wondering— there are some extra honors courses being offered after school. They would really help me do better in college. Would it be OK if I took them?” Mami is washing dishes in the sink, deep in the suds of irony I know she wishes she’d gone to college herself. “Really, Rosana, I want you to be an independent woman someday. You deserve a good education, mi’ja. But family comes first. You need to spend less time with your studies, more with your family. Too many rebellious ideas swirling around in your head.” “Por favor, Mami.” She turns toward me, shoulders sinking. The kitchen is dim, but her eyes seem lighter, deeper. “You know what Papi would say.” I’m perfectly aware of it: he would say no. I try again: “But Mami, you always tell me to take advantage of the opportunities.” Her eyes are glistening. “I know I tell you to. But you’re forgetting what is most important.” Then she pauses, her voice lowering to a whisper. Her voice is grainy, sound coming drifting in separate molecules. “I have raised my daughters to be strong-willed and independent because I was raised not to be. I didn’t go to college. I married too early I wish I hadn’t.” “I have raised my daughters to be strong-willed and independent because I was raised not to be” Her words hang in the air, heavier than the smell of fresh bread. The molecules have stopped floating; now they’re at a standstill. The power of her words has frozen them in place, in time. Mami turns back to the sink quickly, still washing dishes in the suds of irony. For an instant, it is as if the words were never spoken. “I didn’t mean that. I love your papi very much.” Her words ring unconvincing. And I know without her uttering another word that she really wishes she had gone to college and had a career first. Mami remains silent now, as usual. She’s never spoken about herself that way before. When she speaks again, it is not my mother’s strong voice. It’s a wilted voice, marred to crack like an egg. Like my mother. Like us all. “My role is to be a good mother, a good wife. I wanted to work; I couldn’t. I had children. I would have been a failure if I weren’t married with children by a certain age. But you are different.” Being different should be a compliment, but it’s not. “You are different. So go ahead, take the courses.” I should feel happy Relieved. But I don’t. I feel only as if another burden has been placed securely on my shoulders, tension rising, an encumbrance imposed. With my mother’s blessings. Natalia M. Thompson, 13Madison, Wisconsin Jessica Brodsky, 13Brookline, Massachusetts