The pleasing aroma of freshly cut grass wafts through my nostrils as I step out onto the rectangular field, surrounded by the sounds of night with only the glowing field lights to accompany me. My toe kicks forward the round orb; its black and white checkers become blurred as the ball rolls dizzyingly towards the goal. That white frame is like a beacon to me . . . a destination far away and nearly out of reach. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a soccer field. I can still hear the sounds of fellow players running down the field, shoes kicking up mud and tufts of grass. For a moment, I see my coach standing on the sidelines, but I blink a few times and the image dissolves like a mirage in the desert. I remember the years of effort and the tryouts and the failures. I remember my last effort, my last push to success. And I remember that phone call, the coach who said I was number sixteen out of fifteen players who got accepted. After that, my memories blur—I never touched a soccer ball again, never set foot on a field again. I looked longingly for years at the players who made it and thought about where I could have been if . . . if . . . it was always what if . . . I jog up the field as that checkered orb lightly dances in front of my feet I shake my head, clearing the painful memories away like dusting out an attic filled with spidery cobwebs. I still have not laid the soccer in me to rest and tonight, with the cool night air, feels like someone reopening a raw wound. My vow never to play again seems meaningless to me now as I stand, alone, on the gigantic expanse of green turf. I kick the ball again, picking up the pace now as I dribble a few yards more towards that beacon of white in the distance. I even try a few fancy moves, imagining an opposing player in front of me trying to steal away the precious ball. The chirps of the crickets seem to mock me as I ask myself what I’m doing here, on a night when I should be having fun with my friends. Instead, I’m practicing a sport at which I have no chance of succeeding or even making a team. In response, my feet start moving automatically—performing warm-ups that have been drilled into my mind so many years ago. I didn’t even realize I had remembered them. I go faster now, my feet weaving around the ball, lightly touching its shiny surface as they perform those familiar movements. I hear the voice of the coach in my ear, telling me to bend lower and move faster. I speed up even more, any trace of self-doubt gone by now. I soon graduate on to full-scale dribbling. I jog up the field as that checkered orb lightly dances in front of my feet. The wind rushes in my ears and I forget all about those painful memories. Right now, I’m just playing for myself and only me—not for anyone else. I finally reach the penalty box whose stark white lines stand out like a bright color among a sea of dark. Suddenly, that seemingly unreachable destination of the goal and its net doesn’t seem so unreachable anymore. I push the ball out to the side, just like I’ve been taught, and snap my knee and foot as the ball goes slamming into the goal. I’m out of breath and sit down in front of the goal on that memorable ground, overwhelmed by the emotions that rush through me like a train speeding through the countryside. I feel tears coming and, embarrassed, I wipe them away. I didn’t know I felt so strongly about soccer. When I feel ready, I get up again and perform every drill I know. I don’t think about technique or speed, I just marvel at my grace and the fluidity of my motions. After what seems like a minute, I check my sports watch and realize a full hour has gone by since I decided to make this emotional journey. The crickets still chirp and the wind still blows tiny specks of grass across the lonely field as I pick up my treasured soccer ball and walk slowly off the field. I vow to return again tomorrow. Adara Robbins, 13Osprey, Florida Natalie Chin, 13Bellevue, Washington
September/October 2005
Traveling Light in the Andes
“Will you look at that?” I said, tugging on Mom’s sleeve and pointing down from the balcony at the lady walking in through the gate, being helped by Jose Luiz and his siblings. “If ever there was a typical American tourist! She must have at least eight suitcases. Jose Luiz is too kind. She should have to carry her own things if she’s going to bring all of that stuff. That is just ridiculous!” “Oh my gosh! She doesn’t belong in a hostel, she needs a three-room hotel suite!” agreed my thirteen-year-old sister, Summer. We watched the lady walk towards her room, with her bags preceding her. Just the other day my own family had made the long train ride to Ollantaytambo, Peru, in the sacred valley of the Incas. The mountains of the Andes towered high around us, the ancient city of Machu Picchu lying far to the east. Also tumbling through the valley was the wild Urabamba River, its raging waters swelled by recent rains. We considered ourselves fortunate to run across this warm and friendly hostel run by Jose Luiz and his family. I was also excited that we might visit a Quechua village higher in the Andes and see the beautiful weavings we had heard so much about. * * * Janet, tired from her long trip, greeted Jose Luiz and his little sister Pamela with a happy heart, thinking of the last time she had seen them. It had been at least a year. Pamela was only four then, and Eva had just given birth to their third son, Core. Jose Luiz and his sister helped Janet to unload her suitcases as the rest of the Pinado Bara family showed up. She was delighted as all of them but the very youngest came up to hug her and help with the luggage. Walking up the familiar cobblestone street towards the hostel, Janet smiled to herself. Janet, tired from her long trip, greeted Jose Luiz and his little sister Pamela with a happy heart As she carried two of her suitcases across the grassy courtyard towards the stairway, Janet couldn’t help but notice an American family on the balcony outside their room. That must be a wealthy family, she thought to herself. You’ve got to have a lot of money to travel with five people outside the U.S. Their only girl was running around in shorts. She probably goes into town like that too, Janet thought. This is definitely their first time in this kind of place. They should know how offensive it is for a girl to have her legs completely exposed like that. Then she climbed up the steps and disappeared into her room not too far away, leaving her suitcases just outside the door. * * * “Do you mind?” Dad said, trying to step over the suitcases that were lying right in the way, blocking the stairs. He tripped over one and tumbled to the deck. “Could you move your bags?” he snapped, throwing a dark look into her room, then spun around and marched down the stairs with my brother, Nick, trailing after him. As we were getting ready to go to the village of Huilloc, I saw Jose Luiz pick up Janet’s bags and carry them into his house. Our hike up to the small Quechua village turned out to be a lot longer than we had bargained for. Mudslides loosed by the torrential rains had blocked the narrow cliff-hanging road high up in the Andes. Otherwise we could have gotten within a mile of the village in a van that the hostel owvned. After an exhausting uphill climb we finally entered the village with Jose Luiz as our guide. The first thing we saw was six weavers dressed in the colors of their village, working away in their yards, children running, playing and shouting all around them. “This is Huilloc,” said Jose Luiz in his nearly perfect English. “I think you will all have fun exploring around here. The people are very friendly. I’m going to go down to the river and get some water. I’ll come find you in a couple of hours. Good?” “Yeah, that’ll be great, thanks so much,” answered my mom as Jose Luiz lifted Nick off of his shoulders. “We really want to see the women working on the weavings, so you’ll probably find us wherever anybody is doing that.” My mom smiled, looking around. Then we all turned back towards the village. As I sat in front of one of the looms, my gaze strayed to the weaver’s hands “Adios!” I said in my limited Spanish as we departed. As we neared one of the huts I noticed several roosters walking on the thatched roof, pecking away for a meal of delicious bugs. “I’d like to go for a little hike further up the mountain,” said Summer, to my utter dismay. “That’s fine, just as long as you don’t force us to go with you,” I said, not wanting to walk any longer on my aching legs. The kids in the village were very friendly, but a little bit shy when it came to having their pictures taken. The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring Huilloc. We met a lot of very kind families, but what fascinated me the most were their wooden looms. One end of the loom had been driven into the ground, while the other end of the loom rested in the weaver’s lap. The weavings produced were more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. They contained a rich array of colors from deep purple all the way to bright yellow, each one as appealing as the next. As I sat in front of one of the looms, my gaze strayed to the weaver’s hands. They moved with what seemed impossible speed over the fabric, but without losing the precision of decades of practice. Before we left we bought two small weavings, one that had been made
Fridays Are for Tea
The streets echo with Farsi, reverberate with the sounds of decaying cars wallowing down the road, ring in the calls of vendors. In the old parts of the city, calls to prayer drift down the streets. The sun is beginning to set, flushing the white high-rise buildings lining Tehran’s skyline with pinks and oranges. And beyond the city . . . well, the city never ends. It continues, choppy outcroppings of businesslike buildings punctuating long, alley-traced neighborhoods. The city goes to the edge of the world, then disappears into an indistinguishable tan haze. As Tehran fades with the sunset, it mirrors the waning of the sweltering thirty-five-degree Celsius heat. When I was little, Mamma would take me out to our balcony at sunset. As the sun sank down in the sky, we would watch the murals of the ayatollahs on every block disappearing into the darkness. By day, their stern eyes watched the city from fifteen-meter heights, and by night, they vanished. “Someday,” she would tell me, “those murals won’t even be there, watching us by day. Someday, when we are free.” That’s what I think of at sunset. Today is Friday, bringing welcome relief from the tedious hours of studying that Saturday through Thursday encompass. It is the day my mother takes off of work from her editing job; my father leaves his office. We have Fridays off for prayer, a religious holiday. The streets fill up today, more than usual, the numbers of bright vending stands increasing, more people milling, more life. The truth is, it has never been just tea I’m sixteen, old enough to go to pre-university soon, after high school. Old enough to vote in the elections this year—but Mamma says voting doesn’t really matter anyway. Elections are irrelevant. Religion dominates by rule. Mamma has told me this since I was little, her calm voice merging with twinges of bitterness. Today I spent the day with my friends, playing tennis in the park. But Friday nights are our most special. My father and brothers leave to pray, returning at eight for dinner. Since I was thirteen, Mamma has invited a group of her friends over during late afternoon. “For tea,” Mamma explains to my father when he asks. “Just tea.” The truth is, it has never just been tea. There is always tea, yes, but only to serve as a disguise for those who stop by without warning. I remember when Mamma first told me about the group. I was eleven, still in elementary school. She was folding my hijab for me, freshly washed, black and soft. “Shusha,” she had said, “haven’t you ever wished you didn’t wear the hijab each day?” Of course I didn’t want to wear it. I wanted to run limitless, play soccer and tennis, free of the awkward cloth. “I haven’t always wanted to wear it, Mamma. Not always.” Her fingers stroked the soft cloth, reminiscent but rough. I had always noticed that she treated her own veil roughly, not taking the same pride in the covering as she took in her other possessions. “I wouldn’t wear the veil if I didn’t have to,” Mamma told me. “If the clerics didn’t enforce it as a sign of purity. If I could be safe without it.” Mamma’s soft voice was strangely frank, distorted to fit the voice of a stranger, confiding in me as she never had before. I was unaccustomed to this new version of Mamma, treating me as if I was an important adult, as important as her intellectual friends, the filmmakers and writers she socialized with. “Shusha,” she said, her eyes deep and sincere below her sharp eyebrows. “Would you like to come with me this afternoon to have tea with my friends? We’re meeting at Gelareh’s home.” Mamma left every Friday afternoon to meet with her friends, women who treated me like the little girl I was. I had never been interested. “I don’t know, Mamma,” I answered, trying to be polite. I didn’t want to go. She smoothed my sleeve absentmindedly. “Shusha, we do not go just to chat, just for tea. It is a political group. A secret group.” “Oh.” Why was it secret? Mamma had told Baba about it every Friday at dinner. “Yes, I enjoyed myself this afternoon,” she would tell Baba, her voice polite. Or, “We talked about Sattareh’s new movie.” I had never once heard Mamma lie. “Why don’t you come, Shusha?” “All right, Mamma.” I smiled with my eyes, but my mouth was frozen. A secret group? “Good girl. But if Baba asks you anything about it, you mustn’t mention what we talk about. Say the tea was good.” “Yes, Mamma.” Mamma shouldn’t have talked to me this way, showing disrespect for my father. I knew Baba didn’t always like what Mamma wrote about in her women’s magazine. But she didn’t lie; she didn’t do things Baba wouldn’t approve of. That was the first time she had told me about the group. I had gone that night, to the gathering at Gelareh’s house, feeling uncomfortable and shy and brave. I had gone the week after, and the week after that, until I wanted to go, not just because Mamma wanted me there. I had become a member of the group, talking, organizing, writing. And I had always told Baba the tea was good. He was proud of me, proud that I was joining my mother’s circle of friends. Eventually, the meetings were moved to our house, conveniently held during my father and brother’s prayer time. That was five years ago. And today, I keep walking home, hurrying to make it home before it gets too dark. By darkness, our neighborhood is like a graveyard, only bearing the residue of the day’s busy activities. The only life that leaks onto the street is from houses, small amounts of light and noise that drift out into the cool evening air. Finally, our block comes into view, cars dispersed along the street
