I lived a beautiful life free of worry or sorrow until the age of fourteen, when both my mother and father died. Then, I had nowhere to go except my Aunt Helga’s. Her name explains her perfectly. Aunty was strict and old-fashioned. She was an old maid and her rigid lifestyle made me a prisoner to her. I am not a weak character, but there are some people whom you cannot contradict, no matter who you are. That was the way it was with Aunt Helga. She was not unkind to me; she was just very stern. I lived with my aunt for four years. In all of those years nothing marked one day from another: Saturday housework, Sunday church, and the few weekly engagements and visits. Otherwise I was at home with Aunt. In those years, I could see no way to escape from where I was. I probably would have lived with my Aunt Helga forever, sheltered and ignorant of the world, my aunt constantly nagging me. “Clara child, why put your hair like that? How I do hate these new fashions! And, for heaven’s sake, do not sign your name Aster.” “Clara! Never let me catch you wearing red again!” “Clara. When you dust the dining room, make quite sure you remove the runner before you dust the table. And do put on an apron.” And it went on and on. Indeed nothing would have changed had it not been for Martha Hayward and her brother, Thomas. Martha and I were naturally drawn to each other even though we were completely different. Martha was not particularly beautiful. Her blond hair clashed with her deep brown eyes, just as my bright blue shadowy eyes and dark hair made my face look pale and thin. Martha was large. I was small. She was buoyant and happy. I was rather mysterious. Perhaps that was what was so appealing to Martha, but also to Tom, her brother. Asters are my favorite flowers, and I often wear them in my hair I liked Tom as much as Martha. Luckily I could see both of them often. Aunt Helga, upon their arrival, found gossipy, fretful Mrs. Hayward almost as interesting as I found Tom and Martha. Their visits improved my spirits a good deal. It was evident to me that Aunt liked all of them, for at breakfast one morning she said to me, “Do you like the Haywards, Clara?” “Why, yes, I do. I like them very much,” I said. “Do you?” “Yes, I have to say I do. Even though they are only Haywards. One must give allowances for name, Clara. Go change the flowers in the tea room. Then go to the post office for me, and on the way back pick up half a yard of blue silk and one foot of green ribbon. I cannot bear to think Mrs. Hayward has the new ribbon and I do not!” Of course this was not very much praise for the Haywards. But that my Aunt would think of anybody but herself was remarkable for her, or that anybody other than herself was worth talking about. * * * One blustery fall morning found me sitting in front of the parlor window, absently watching the asters swaying in their bed. Asters are my favorite flowers, and I often wear them in my hair. Also, when my father was alive and we lived in the country, he used to call me Aster when I wore purple. So I love them dearly. The parlor door opened behind me. I took no notice of this. Probably it was Aunt Helga. A hand gently touched my shoulder. I looked up. It was Tom. “Clara,” he said, “I have brought you some flowers,” revealing a purple cluster. “Oh! Tom, how did you know I love asters so much? I never told you. Did you know I was thinking about them?” “I have ways of finding out,” said he, loftily looking at the ceiling. “Don’t joke, Tom. How did you know?” “Are they your favorite?” he asked, looking well pleased. “I really didn’t know that; I just thought you would like them.” “I do, very much,” I said. “Well, hope you think the same about their giver.” He was not teasing, I saw. And he added, “You will think so by and by, won’t you, Clara?” And perhaps I will. Gertrude Suokko, 13Woodstock, Vermont
September/October 2008
Thirteen Ways to Look at Autumn
The smell of gingersnaps, apple cider, and pumpkin pie wafting through the air in delicate swirls arm-in-arm with the colorful wind. The shy sun poking through the wooden arms of a lamenting willow. Golden drops of warm sunshine strewn across the yards of piled leaves and blades of thin grass. Quietly, almost silently, the bitter wind and its long fingers pull and wrench at the crackling leaves. The sighs of schoolchildren accompanying the morning fog on the dawn of the first day. The clouds overhead as gray and lumpy as my grandma’s oatmeal. A flock of geese, united in song, fly south for the winter. Shadows trace the geese’s dark feathers against the flames of dusk. As I watch them fly the roar of the ocean drowns out my bellow: Why must you depart? A dove and a nightingale cooing along with the caws of a raven upon the calling of Hallow’s Eve. Pumpkins and jack-o’-lanterns with wicked smiles glaring at you from doorsteps. The sweet taste of pumpkin pie dancing upon your tongue. I do not know which to prefer, the beauty of contrast or the beauty of harmony. The last green leaf or the vicinity. The mountain is sighing. Autumn must be near. Kelly Dai, 12Merion Station,Pennsylvania
The Dragon Speaks
“Hey new girl,” a boy’s voice boomed large out of nowhere. “Are you Asian? Are you from China?” Emily’s face felt scorched. She knew it was turning the deepest shade of sunburn right now because she was dying of embarrassment. She slid further down in her seat, halfway under her desk. In her first week at her new school, this was the last thing Emily Chang wanted—to call attention to herself in this way. But she couldn’t help it. It wasn’t her fault. “I’m American, just like you,” she found her courage. Talking over the din of whispers in the room, she added in a small, barely audible voice, “Chinese-American,” stressing the American part. Emily quickly jumped up from her seat as the bell rang, signaling the end of her math class which had been her favorite class, that is—up until now. Oh why did we have to move from San Francisco to Boston? she asked herself, but she already knew the answer to that tired and futile question. Dad had lost his job as a sous-chef at one of San Francisco’s leading hotel restaurants and Yeh-Yeh (which means father’s father in Cantonese), had offered him a job back home in his restaurant, the Golden Dragon, in the heart of Boston’s Chinatown. Dad said they were “lucky that they had somewhere to go.” Yeah, right, she thought. She could feel her anger and disappointment surging again inside her, as she pictured liquid mercury rising in a thermometer stuck in a bubbling bath of boiling water. She couldn’t squelch it this time. This time, the mercury was sure to win out and the thermometer would snap. She was at her breaking point. San Francisco was the only home she had ever known. She was born at San Francisco General. Although she had only been in her new home barely a month, she already missed the sprawling picnics her family celebrated in Golden Gate Park, their sauntering walks through the Palace of Fine Arts on sunlit spring days, dim sum each Sunday morning with Gung-Gung and Paw-Paw, her grandparents on her mother’s side, but most of all she would miss her charter school and all it meant to her. At her old school, which was ninety-five percent Chinese-American, she didn’t have to explain herself. Everyone there used chopsticks at lunch, knew how to write their name in both English and Chinese and didn’t question why Chinese New Year was the biggest holiday of the year. Now in this new school she was assigned to, she was the only Asian-American student in most of her classes. She felt like a guest at her own birthday party. When Mom said it would take some getting used to, she wasn’t kidding. “I could learn something from you,” Emily whispered to the wise-looking mythical creature Emily hopped on the long mac-and-cheese-colored school bus and stole a seat in the back. She felt her head throbbing from the day’s latest disaster and was happy when she started seeing telltale signs her stop was coming up. She eagerly awaited passing under the cherry-colored arch, the gateway to the city’s Chinatown, to signal she was home. To her, it resembled an oversized Chinese character scrolled in the finest calligraphy. She smiled at the curbside phone booths fashioned in the shape of tiny pagodas, now relics with the advent of cell phones but quaint nonetheless. From her bus window, she could see a carefully arranged string of golden roast ducks hanging in the window of her favorite bakery. Some lucky family tonight would have a scrumptious meal of crunchy roast duck with soft plump bread pillows, the kind that melted in your mouth. Her stomach grumbled. She jumped off at her stop in front of Yee’s enticing silk shop and rounded the corner, heading for her grandfather’s restaurant. Her family of four, which included her mom, dad and little sister, Sabrina, had moved into the cramped apartment in Chinatown above the restaurant while Yin-Yin and Yeh-Yeh, her dad’s parents, had moved to a roomier home in the nearby suburbs. She didn’t mind their cramped quarters, so Dad could be close to his work. She loved being in the middle of all the excitement downtown. From her bedroom window she marveled at all the fascinating sights and delighted in the familiar sounds. Neon dragons and great walls turned on at dusk, illuminating the community’s pride in their culture. She loved the glittering storefronts with all their shiny silks and hand-painted porcelains, and all the signs in Chinese characters she had no difficulty reading made her feel right at home. Emily stood for a minute outside the jewelry shop and peered in. She admired the sparkling collection of jade pendants and rings. There were so many different shades and hues of the translucent gemstone. She knew that the deep emerald color was valued the most and she couldn’t wait till her thirteenth birthday when Mom told her she could pick out her own jade pendant. She knew exactly which one she would pick. “Every girl needs lucky jade,” she was overjoyed to hear her mother say. Her excitement bubbled over, looking at the gold picture frames which hung in the window. These were the kind shopkeepers bought to congratulate one another when they had gained enough capital and courage to open their own shops. Thick gold characters, carefully framed, hung on a ruby velvet background, spelling out congratulatory wishes, such as, “Wishing you good luck and prosperity in this new venture,” and other things. Someday, she hoped she might even follow in her dad’s and granddad’s footsteps and open her own restaurant or gift shop. Then she might have her own lucky sayings. Looking down at her watch, she knew she had a date to keep. She had promised to rendezvous with her family in the restaurant for an early supper before going upstairs to complete her homework, and before the customers would start coming into the restaurant, in droves! One
