In the tiny village of Rigdi, a minute and remote society in India, life was the same for everyone. Well, nearly the same. They had different jobs and tasks around the village: farmer, merchant, jeweler-- but they all lived their lives more or less the same, except Radba. Radba was a short, slim man who lived somewhere in the thick jungle. He had yellowed teeth and a bald wrinkly head, with a crooked smile and his off-putting feature was that he was only seen when he came to town for water and supplies. Even when he did come, he only spoke to the shopkeepers that he was buying from. Radba was so strange that rumors circulated among the local children that Radba was a horrible nature spirit that changed form so that he could be seen in public-- he ate children! Everyone cleared the path for Radba when he came about, because nobody wanted to be eaten. But Bingdhe, a young boy whose father was a stonesmith wasn't completely buying the story. Bingdhe asked his father one day, “Father, do you know Radba, the old man who lives in the deep jungle? The other boys say that he eats children and that he is a shape shifting nature spirit.” Bingdhe’s father looked at his son disappointedly. “Well, is that what you believe?” Bingdhe questioned, “Father, I don’t want to, but it seems possible.” Bingdhe’s father, who’s name was Baghatta, stood up from his stool and motioned for his son to follow him. Bingdhe was scared of what his father was going to do next. Baghatta walked through the town and Bingdhe was followed and asked hopefully every step of the way, “Are we going to the market? The field? The-,” but his father interrupted him. “I am going to teach you a lesson.” Suddenly Bingdhe was frightened, he knew that he should be given chore upon chore and would likely be carrying water back and forth from the well into town for at least a week. But instead his father took him to a clearing with a humble home of stone and straw. Bingdhe had never come across this place before and wondered if anyone lived here. Yes, the chimney was producing smoke so someone must be around somewhere. Bingdhe kept hearing hissing coming from inside the house. Suddenly a six-foot cobra came from around the front of the house and neared Bingdhe. Now Bingdhe was definitely scared and turned to run from the place, but his father placed a firm hand on his shoulder to stop him. Bingdhe was confused. The door to the house opened and Bingdhe was more frightened than ever. A familiar face poked out. It was Radba! Radba ran out until he was a few feet from the snake, and he began speaking in what seemed like snake tongue, a long repetition of various hisses. The snake turned away from Bingdhe and began climbing up Radba’s leg. Bingdhe picked up a stick and advanced towards the snake, but his father took the club from him. “But father,” Bingdhe began. “It’s okay,” his father said. Radba chuckled and pet the snake, which then slid down Radba’s other leg and slithered back towards the house. “Hello Baghatta, what brings you to my parts?” asked Radba. “Apparently my son needs a lesson on what it is that you do,” his father said, “apperently you feed off of children.” Radba, rather than being offended, laughed at the thought. “Why, bananas and mangoes are hardly the texture or taste of a child's limbs, don’t you agree?” replied Radba. “I'm afraid that I am much less interesting then the person you have dreamed up. Come inside for some tea and I’ll show you what I really do out here. Bingdhe was red with embarrassment. How had he possibly believed the things said about this nice old man. They all went inside but Bingdhe almost ran straight back out. The house was occupied by at least four dozen snakes, slithering about the rafters and floor. There were cobras, pythons, vipers and just about any other snake that lives in the jungle, except they were all in Radba’s house! Radba just stroked them and spoke in what Bingdhe was now sure was snake tongue. Radba said, “The people in town didn’t like the snakes as much as I did, so I had to move out here. The snakes are our friends. We understand each other and care for each other.” Bingdhe was astonished, “So, you can talk to them?” “Oh yes,” replied Radba, “Born with it, not sure if it is a blessing or a curse, but I choose to embrace it.” “So what did you say to that cobra back outside?” asked Bingdhe. “I said, 'Can’t you see that this child is rotten from living in the sun instead of a burrow in the earth? He is no good for biting. He will taste of fire and will burn your tongue,” replied Radba. Bingdhe couldn’t tell if Radba was serious or not. “So lets have tea now, shall we?” asked Radba. They all agreed upon that. The tea was very good but it was a flavor that Bingdhe was not familiar with, and he ventured to ask Radba what it was. “Hmm, oh yes I remember, when a cobra sheds, it’s old skin is very easy to crumble in with the tea leaves. It adds a very earthy tone to the tea,” Radba replied. Bingdhe felt like he would be sick. He was eating cobra. He spat out his mouthful of tea and kindly told Radba that he was no longer thirsty. “Just kidding,” Radba said and Bingdhe sighed with relief. “It is just their tails. The top portion is no good.” Bingdhe was once again sickened by the thought of eating cobra. Radba could tell this by Bingdhe’s expression. “Relax, it is actually a rare mushroom that I cultivated in my small garden. If you’d like I'll send some with you when you get on your way.” Bingdhe was surprised by how fond he had grown of Radba, and felt even more foolish about ever believing those rumors about him. As the sun began to set, Baghatta announced that they should probably be getting home, and thanked Radba for his hospitality. As the two were heading away from the house, Radba stopped them and took Bingdhe to his garden to give him one of his mushrooms. “You are always welcome back if you would like.” Bingdhe thanked Radba and told him that he would definitely be back. In the many years to come, Radba became a local favorite of the children, for they all loved to play with Radba’s tamed snakes, drink Radba’s delicious tea, and listen to Radba tell funny stories. Radba was even welcomed back into the village and nobody ever said another word about Radba being a child eating spirit.
They met on top of the Clock Tower that night. Saxa felt sweat rolling down her collar in the air that was as muggy as Amazonian fog. She wiped moisture off her chrome watch. Tiberius was two and a half minutes late.
“You’re l-l-late,” she said dryly as he ghosted up the tower.
Tiberius stayed silent.
“Ok,” she chattered, “We might as well go in from the East sewage systems. That should get us d-d-down to the Catacomb entrance fastest especially b-because there’ll be no traffic over the streets at this hour and the other W-windsor students have already patrolled that sector…hey! W-w-where are you going?”
Tiberius had leapt off the tower in the opposite direction of where Saxa suggested.
She hurried after him and they raced through the skinny corridors of Old Paris, he wrapped in a thick cape and she with gleaming coat tails flying behind. Both were swathed in leather dark as night. They quickly broke through the city constraints into a mushy meadow where tall grasses tickled Saxa and left yellow seeds on her gold lapels.
Tiberius stopped suddenly and Saxa, who was lost in thought, crashed into him from behind. She groaned when she realized he’d paused at a random patch of grass.
“Tiberius, we’re in the outskirts of the city. N-n-no man’s l-land. The Catacombs are the other way.”
“Shhh,” he raised a gloved finger to his lips and pointed underneath their feet.
It looked like an ordinary statuette -- a small stone bust with a chipped nose. But then she saw it: scratched on the side of the head was a message in High Latin.
Verum oculare öt opscurus immolabis.
They’d hardly touched upon the ancient language in class. The only freshman who could understand it was Morton and even then his translations were shaky at best. Saxa turned to Tiberius, wondering if he knew what it said.
Naturally he did.
“I offer my amulet,” Tiberius stated loudly, dropping a small stone onto the earth. Except, those words weren’t what Saxa heard. A guttural hissing had escaped Tiberius; they were the sounds of High Latin.
At once the statue glowed with a ghastly red light and began to recede into the earth. Next second, it was right out of sight, leaving a large gaping hole exposed.
Saxa peered hesitantly into the dark hole.
“Let’s go,” Tiberius said.
She slid in after him, dragging her hand along the rugged sides to slow her fall. She knew she was descending deeper below the surface than even the city sewer systems, perhaps even deeper than the Catacomb entrances she’d explored with the Salvatore, Kati and Morton.
“Brace yourself,” came Tiberius’s muffled voice.
Saxa heeded the warning and flipped in midair. She thudded onto a hard yet damp floor — on her feet but very clumsily so, tipping over her heels and rolling back with a wet thud. She felt Tiberius’s disapproving glare penetrate the pitch black darkness as he groped for her arm and jerked her to her feet.
The Catacombs were so devoid of light that Saxa couldn’t even see with her Knight vision. For the first time, she was limited to aura-sensing and her other four human senses which weren’t very helpful at the moment. Hastily, she conjured a flame with her dragon fire.
Tiberius illuminated the cavernous tunnel ahead and their shadows on the walls looked monstrous in the firelight. “Come on.”
Saxa started slowly after him.
“Remember,” he said as they walked, “any sign of movement and draw your DæmonWeapon…”
But the tunnel was quiet as the grave, and the first sound Saxa heard was a loud crunch. When she glanced downwards she saw the pale skull of a human, the heel of her combat book stuck into its gaping eye socket.
She launched herself backwards.
“Bleaerghhh!”
Tiberius whirled around. “Quiet Saxa! It’s the Catacombs. What do you expect?!”
She gagged as they set off again through the tunnels, picking their way through the maze of remains that littered the ground.
Every nerve in Saxa’s body was tingling. Especially when she realized the walls were rocky not because they were stone, but because they were embedded with bones and dried guts in some ideographic pattern she couldn’t understand. She desperately wanted the tunnels to end. And then, at last as they crept around yet another bend, she saw a giant door ahead on which a large sword was carved. The hilt was set with four large glittering jewels -- each representing a different race of Knight: red for the Dragon-blood, black for the Vampire-blood, blue for the Werewolf-blood, green for the Wizard-bloods. The jewels seemed to glimmer and swirl in an infinite circle of equilibrium.
“Imperium natus ex aequilibrium. True p-p-power comes from balance.” Recited Saxa proudly from The Book of Dragons. The ideal system and the most powerful being were both one of perfect harmony.
“No.” Tiberius responded bracingly. “Not quite.
She crossed her arms. “Fine then, w-what’s behind the d-d-door?”
He chuckled softly but mirthlessly. Saxa could imagine a small sneer drawing across his face behind the white mask.
“You want to know? You want that power? Well you know our rules. Only a demonstration of power can warrant its return. Fight me and prove yourself,” he chided.
She gulped. Any other time, she would have jumped at the challenge, but Tiberius did have Black Blood. And even if he was just a normal Knight, he was still more technically advanced.
Tiberius noticed her hesitation and dropped his sword belts. “Look, I’ll make it easier. No weapons, no lasting casualties.”
Saxa’s heart pounded. She could stand her own against him -- she’d proved that twice in battle before -- but there was almost no chance she would prevail. The Black Blood was too strong. However, if Tiberius wasn’t bluffing, which he never did, and true power did lie behind those doors, then she had to risk a fight to glimpse it. Then, for once, she’d have an advantage over Kati, Salvatore, Morton and all the other Alphas at Windsor.
Having made a decision, she nodded to Tiberius and unbuckled her swords with shaking fingers. Before they even hit the ground, he had lunged and they slammed into each other in a flurry of gloved fists as hard as steel.
Tiberius moved with impossible speed and strength. He landed every single shot and it gradually became harder to block. At one point, she resulted to only dodging. It was clear he had improved just from the last time they’d met and that made her incredibly nervous. She began to falter, striking too early or misjudging the distance between them. A sharp elbow jab struck her across the brow and she reeled back across the cavern.
Dizzy with pain, Saxa held up her hands weakly to surrender. “I can’t d-d--, I can't d-do this,” she rasped.
She felt Tiberius’s shadow fall over her and she braced herself for the blow, but it never came. Strong fingers wrapped around her aching biceps, pulling her swiftly to her feet. Tiberius stared dead into her eyes. He bent Saxa’s arms into a square fighting stance. “Imperias,” came his quiet, guttural voice.
Saxa’s muscles quaked violently, but she kept her arms up.
Tiberius let go in a flash and tossed a punch. Saxa watched his movements with wide eyes before throwing her arms up against the sharp fist. The force sent her stumbling backwards, a new bruise blooming on her arm. The next strike flew at her faster and harder than the first, but this time, she blocked. His fist connected with her forearms with a bang.
“Imperias,” Tiberius said again, his voice soft but stronger than before.
They sparred for what seemed like hours to Saxa’s screaming muscles. She was finally adapting to the flow of movement when all of a sudden, Tiberius’s foot moved.
Bam. It felt like her entire leg shattered. She collapsed like a broken table, her face making contact with the ground first, the hard floor grinding against her cheek. Her mouth filled with the taste of blood and sweaty stones. Her muscles finally reached the limit and she spasmed and jerked wildly on the ground.
Tiberius watched her wriggle like a fish gasping for air. She was so pathetic that he would have guffawed openly in any other situation. But instead, he turned his back to hide his disappointment. It wasn’t until he turned away that Saxa moved again.
She rose from the ground bone by bone, like a zombie or other form of living dead. Tiberius almost winced at the bloody state of her face. “Imperias.” Saxa said and took a fighting stance in front of him. This time, they both smiled a hard, brutal grin.
“W-w-what d-does that mean -- Imperias?” She asked.
“Imperias was a great Knight from the Books of Lore. He gave battle his soul and every drop of struggle in him. He traveled to the corners of the realm from the Dragons in the East to the tribes of the Old Kingdom to learn the sources and truths of combat. In return, fighting gave him immortal power.”
Her eyes went wide.
“Find the truth Saxa. Imperias found his truth in martial arts. You’ll find yours in the Legend.”
She considered his mention of the Legend suspiciously. She'd learned that the smartest Knights conducted themselves with double motives -- two purposes behind every action whether subconscious or deliberate. That was obvious with the other Alphas, who never said or did anything without calculating personal gain first, and Saxa was beginning to see these second motives in Tiberius too.
She wiped away the blood that was dripping into her mouth. “W-w-what are you thinking Tiberius? It’s not just to l-lecture me about existential ideas like true power. You want to tell me something about the Legend, don’t you?”
Tiberius responded by moving into her face abruptly. There was no wind in the cavern, yet his flaming red curls drifted precariously towards her.
“I believe you to be the Knight, other than myself, who’s most likely to be the Legend. You’re my investment Saxa and if you fall, I’ll lose something significant,” he said coldly.
She winced, frozen and unsure how to respond. Tiberius casually picked his weapons back up from the ground.
“... D-d-do I get to see what’s b-behind the d-d-doors?”
“No?” He retorted as if confused that she’d asked. “You didn’t defeat me.”
I walk into a smoke-filled bar spilling with Don Julio and in dire need of a spruce up. Extortionate prices have been slapped onto beers that taste too thin, too musty, and remind me of my late uncle’s apartment --- but I buy one anyways and imagine sipping on a vintage wine instead. Tonight, I turn my back against a poorly lit sign that reads ‘Tapa Bar’ and stalk a couple caught up in a debate so intense, neither notice my attempt to read their lips. A quarter ‘till eleven, and I still hear muffled voices but none that beguile me too much. As I tip the bartender to end an uneventful Saturday night, a woman leaves her husband with a stack of papers and cries:
No vale la pena, mi amor!
I tug mercilessly on my short auburn hair, watching the bright, thin strands fall onto the clean, white tiles. Carpet’s were too much for me, I tore them up from distress, cursing every speck of lint, every molecule of dust, every bacterium that had dare land on the fluffy sheet of white.
Tiles were much better.
Easier to clean, easier to spot straying hairs, dust, lint, anything.
I quickly swoop down to snatch up the strand of hair, accidently brushing my hand against the cool surface of the ground, I recoil in shock,
“No, no, no. No. Breath. Relax. No. No Ella. No.” I forcefully open my hand, watching the reddish strands float onto the white surface, I shake my head quickly and force myself to look at something else, the white ceiling.
Then, like a pair of cold hands grabbing my head and forcing it around, my eyes snap to the strands of hair, I shake with effort not to grab it. I bit my lip and stuff my hand in the pocket, where it hits a piece of stray string.
I gasp.
Why haven’t I noticed it was there?
Or how it could be coated with the strep throat virus?
Relax.
Calm down.
Breath.
Close your eyes.
I fidget with the trim of my white shirt.
The waistband of my white pants.
Adjust my white headband.
I can’t help it anymore.
I bend down to pick up the strands of hair, biting harshly on my lip. The sharp metallic taste of of blood fills my mouth and I force myself to swallow it. I immediately regret it. A sharp, stinging sensation pierced my lip and dulls into a painful throb. Why did I pick that up?
I shuffle forwards, harshly scolding myself.
“No. Bad Ella. You know you shouldn’t have.” I let loose a shuddering sigh as I pull open the lid to the white trash can and toss the strands in. I shudder as it falls into the bottom of the clear plastic bag, trembling with effort not to take it out. I slam the lid back on and rush towards the sink.
I dial in the code, hesitating for a second,
As my therapist taught me, ask the question.
Is this truly necessary? The words rang through my head,
Yes. You touched the ground, the trash.
I raise my hand to the numbers,
6-7-9-2
A small sound clicks and I turn on the faucet, careful not to touch anything else.
The sound of running water calms my nerves, I sigh with relief as I scrub my hands under the cool, clean water for about one minute before I carefully put my hand under the soap dispenser.
I then scrub my hands, wash them, scrub more, wash them. Suddenly, another click sounds and the water shuts. I growl, I know I should wash my hands more, think of all the germs that I hadn’t scrubbed off!
I glance at my hands, thin, red from constant washing, with peeling skin and short nails, just in case I start scratching myself. Then, I also won’t constantly fear the bacteria lurking under my fingernails.
I wobble over to my bed, straightening the sheets for the hundredth time this morning, running my hand over every crease until it’s perfect. Then I sanitize my hands with a rubbing alcohol wipe.
I collapsed onto my bed.
I had failed. Again. The hundredth time this morning. Controlled by the endless compulsions I have. I curl into a small ball.
I know I shouldn’t. I really do. Yet I have no control. Sometimes, I wished I didn’t realize, that way it wouldn’t hurt me so much.
What if i get skin cancer from washing my hands so much, or from that ray of sunlight? I rush forwards, shutting the curtains, then I race over to the sink again.
6-7-9-2
By the time I was finished, my hands were raw and red. I stifled a scream.
Why? Why? Why? I scream inside of my head. I quickly hurry back to my bed before any more germs can get on me. I peel off my socks and set them on the far side of the bed, fearing if I touch them again I’ll catch yellow fever. Or worse, Ebola.
I quickly grab another wipe and wipe my hands three times with it, making sure to get every single bit. There’s only one left, and I get 50 wipes each day. Normally I can leave one or two unused, when mother comes to replace them.
I know I should resist, the more I accept my compulsions because of my impulsions, the worst it gets. I know very well that the temporary relief is nothing compared to the cost of my constant actions.
I sniffle softly, knowing that I had failed again.
But I feel like there’s no way of helping myself, I force myself to run my fingers against the bumpy surface of the walls.
I try to resist. I really do.
I can’t though.
6-7-9-2
I curled into a small ball, shaking violently. Finally, I can no longer hold the scream building in my throat. I unleash a blood curdling screech.
“Why? Why? WHY?” I scream, hot tears pouring over the rim of my eyes, down my cheeks, and splattering against my white pillow. I gasp in terror and quickly wipe it off. I then close my eyes and try to calm down.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
I finally wipe my cheeks, warm tears still rolling down my chin one by one. I catch them and wipe my hands against my white shirt. I let loose another sob, hiccupping and shivering. I pull the covers over my head. Suddenly in fear of all the airborne viruses, under my covers is where I hide for what seems like days. Finally, I hear the door creak open.
My heart stops. My breathing rapidly increases, is it an intruder? Terrorist? I will myself not to breath as the footsteps come closer.
A warm hand pulls back the cover, now wet, and reveals me, drenched in sweat and tears and blood where I had started digging my nails into my palms. Luckily my nails are short. I whimper as the hand pushes the hair from my forehead back, and takes me in her arms.
My mother.
I bite my lip again and the dams break loose, spilling another river of tears,
“I’m so sorry….I did it again.” I whisper, burying my face into my mother’s clean white pants, inhaling the sweet scent of her.
“Oh sweet. It’s never your fault, you're getting better!” Mother cries, cradling my head, stroking my hair. But I can hear her voice shaking and I see her glance over at the box of wipes.
“It won’t ever get better, will it?” I ask softly, Mom froze,
“Oh sweetie, I hate to lie to you, but I really think it will though.” Mom soothingly said, brushing a tear from my cheek. I sigh and get up, my head spinning from a sudden burst of vertigo.
I hug my mother,
“I’m going to go take a shower. I’m filthy. I should go before the blood dries” or I get a blood infection, I add quietly in my mind,
I said filthy like someone else might say “Dead”, blood like someone else might say “water”.
I grasp her warm hand and walk over slowly, punching in the numbers,
7-8-0-2
Mom nods, “Be quick, I’ll set the timer for 40 minutes, I’ll go grab your clothes.”
I smile at her, but it hurts my bleeding, swollen lips, “When I’m done. Will you be here for me?”
Mom smiles, but I can see her eyes growing moist,
“Oh Ella, I will always be here for you.”
I hug her one last time and step inside, careful only to step on the middle of the tiles. I bit my lip. For my mother.
I think.
To repay every tear I cost her. Every minute she gave up her work to help me and my sisters. I take a deep breath.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
I lift my chin and walk over, flinching at each edge I trod on. Ignoring the millions of bacterium clinging to the soles of my bare feet.
My boots splashed frigid brown water, thumped along sidewalks, and entered school, tattooing rough rhythms into a rug.
Their purple soles squeaked along the route to my locker, neon laces dragging through the debris of scores of kids’ shoes heading to class.
They lay, soggy, crossed on the classroom floor.
I stretched, yawned, greeted friends, did work.
They pounded across the busy classroom as we heard gunshots pop-bang-pop-ing far too close down the hall, rushed to lock and barricade our door, and huddled in a corner, but far too late, it seemed, as my boots pulled tight under me, my head in between my knees, stomach churning and mind spinning as I heard footsteps, gunshots, were those screams? growing nearer.
They scrabbled, bolted, and finally went limp when our door burst open and bullets riddled young bodies, my bright boots oblivious to “Thoughts and prayers” pouring out across the nation, the world, a pool of scarlet slowly spreading from me.
My new orange and purple boots were the last things on me dry of blood as I was finally carried to my grave among weeping families and bright police car lights.
Seventeen dead in Parkland, Florida.
Will we be next?
Words are the most powerful weapon at our disposal. Not only do they carry the power of their traditional definition, they also have the power of the connotations they yield. Words that were created to be a description or a fact have developed undertones that change them from simple words to ones that can destroy and insult. We are born with words that describe us, simple things like our physical appearance, and we are forever burdened with the stereotypes and suggestions that they bring.
In my life, I have found one word used to describe me to bring on more criticism and setbacks than any other. That word is my gender. That word is girl. Growing up I remember hearing phrases like “you throw like a girl” and “you run like a girl” thrown around among my peers at recess. From a young age, I could not understand why doing something the way a girl does is a bad thing. I played softball and I had a good arm, I loved to play tag and I was pretty fast, yet the way I did these things was being used as an insult. I came to realize that being a girl means you are defined as weak and fragile, no matter the talents and strengths you possess.
The setbacks of being a girl only intensified with age. I began to notice that being a girl in this world has a lot more ramifications then just being thought of as weak. Every adult I met commented about how skinny I was as a child, grabbing me, calling me boney, and asking my mom if she fed me. I can’t count how many people told me “you look like you have an eating disorder, do you even eat?” I was 11. I loved to eat, and I never even thought about the way my body looked until kids and adults alike began to tell me how I needed to change and I became extremely self conscious. I had a brother who was thin and small growing up, no one ever said things like this to him. This is when I learned that being a girl also meant that anyone was allowed to judge you for the way you look. The criticisms of my body only grew as I got older. In middle school, I learned that people cared more about how “flat” I was than my sense of humor, my intelligence, or my character because being a girl means your looks come before any other quality you possess. Boys didn’t have to be deemed attractive for people to think they were funny or smart. Being a girl means that instead of thinking “she’s so smart” people will think “good thing she’s smart because she is so ugly.”
Being a girl also means that you are supposed to be extremely nice. If you stand up for yourself or say something that people disagree with, you will get the dreaded label of being a “bitch.” There is no male synonym for that word. Boys who say things much more hurtful aren’t even thought of as unkind. They may even be praised for their humor or their “bravery.” As someone who was never the nicest girl in class and someone who is firm in what they believe in, I can’t count how many times I’ve been called that awful word, both to my face and behind my back. Being a girl means that you are expected to always be friendly and you aren’t supposed to stand up for yourself or others.
Being a girl also means that people believe they are entitled to your body. I have yet to meet a woman who has not experienced sexual harassment. I have yet to meet a man that has. I even found that one of the same boys that called me “disgustingly skinny and flat” still felt obligated to grab and touch me. I was 13. Being a girl means people will grab you where you don’t want to be grabbed, people will say nasty things that you do not want to hear, and most of all people will make you believe that these disgusting actions are not a big deal or in the worst cases, they will try to convince you that “you should be flattered.”
Being a girl also means you’ll have to work twice as hard and be twice as smart as him to get that job. You’ll be looked down upon if your greatest aspirations don’t include being a housewife or having children. Not only do you have to be good at your job, you also have to worry about what you wear to be taken seriously because being a girl means your fashion sense is more important than the ideas you have. Being a girl means their your one, ultimate dream should be becoming a wife and a mother.
The word girl carries immense burdens. It means that you will have to deal with many things that people born the opposite gender as you will not. The world wants us to believe that girl means weak. That girls means ditsy. That girl means moody. That girl has to mean mother. That girl has to mean wife. That girl means breakable. This is not the reality. Instead of being ashamed of this title we will wear it with pride because we know that girl means strength. That girl means powerful. That girl means ambitious. That girl means independent. That girl means resilient.
In writing this essay, I was inspired by the sexism that I have experienced throughout my lifetime. Leong’s essay very much inspired me. The way she was able to take negative stereotypes and reclaim them into something empowering is truly amazing. I was especially impacted by her last paragraph in which she states the original goal and meaning of the word chink then transitions into what she has turned it into to: “The word chink may have been created to harm, ridicule, and humiliate, but for us it may have done the exact opposite” (par. 11). I emulated this technique in the final paragraph of my essay because I believe it creates an extremely powerful effect. The entire essay I spoke about what people try to make you believe being a girl means, and I wait until the very end to reveal what it actually means to those who have experienced the kinds of sexism and torment that I spoke about throughout the rest of the piece. Unfortunately, there were many more examples that I could have included in my essay, but like Leong, I decided to keep the essay short and to the point and include only the most impactful stories. I also kept most of the experiences specific to me, like Leong did, in order to keep a personal element because I believed that it would allow the realities that my essay illustrates to seem more real. People have heard of sexism and most people roll their eyes when a conversation about is started, so I thought that only including real things that have happened to me would show readers how true these problems actually are. Leong’s essay differs from mine in the sense that girl was not a word that was created to insult like chink was. I thought about using the word ‘bitch’ instead of girl because I thought that might have been more similar to chink, but I decided against it. The word girl has made more of an impact throughout my life, but I still included a small part about the word bitch because I think it is very important.
At age nine, it was not my intention to ever be stuck in a stranger’s white van. But there I was, in my complete willingness. The rainwater in my hair and clothes seemed to cause everything near me to become damp as well, and I sniffled indignantly, still bitter at my brother’s forgetful nature and leaving me to come home from school alone on the bus. Walking home from the bus stop, my imagination ran away as I could picture the impending doom: I would open the front door, the security alarm would go off, and I would fail to remember the password. The police would have to come, the neighbors would watch as I would be pulled away in the rain. I did not want to get arrested as a child, so I sat in the downpour until this van, belonging to my neighbor’s dry cleaner, had pulled into their driveway to deliver clothes.
“Can I use the phone?” I asked softly to the man, who looked shocked to see a child, drenched to the bone and unattended for. He willingly handed his device, listening to my utterly stupid tale as I called my mother, watching my expression crumble as she told me she would take 30 minutes to come save me. I followed him willingly when he offered to bring me to his store, where my mother found me, seated on a towel with the man’s wife. I was snacking on a persimmon when she shouted at me to get up, and by the time I reached home and saw my father’s car, I knew I was in trouble.
“No, Kang Le-Ah. What if you got killed?” The harsh voice was punctuated by the painful grip on my wrist. I cast my gaze downwards, knowing very well that the moment my Korean name was used, I was in danger
“I thought the man was nice, and I didn’t get hurt.” I mumbled sheepishly.
“Stupid girl,” his voice was a snarl now and he shoved me away, the disgust evident in my father’s eyes as he stared down at me. I fell onto the ivory marble floor, the iciness seeping through my jeans.“You’re lucky this time, but I guess you need to get hurt for you to realize how dangerous the world is.” His voice was like a slap to the face, and I felt tears in my eyes. “Don’t you ever follow a stranger again. Next time you do, you won’t end up at home, and we’ll be left with your dead body.” He left me there, the seed of mistrust planted in my mind.
*****
“Take a pastry for free. You grew so much since I last saw you! Any child of Juyoung’s is welcome here.” The woman beamed from behind the counter of the bakery. The walls were lined with assortments of treats, and my mouth watered at the scent of the recently baked goods. Still, I felt suspicion linger in my mind, and I just stood awkwardly as I stared at her face. I felt no sense of recognition, despite her introduction as an acquaintance of my mother’s. She smiled a little wider, gesturing towards the rest of the bakery.
“Take one! You lost so much fat. I remember your mother was always worried you would look like a dumpling forever.” The information seemed correct; my mother’s biggest concern was how my cheeks never shrunk. I was now thirteen, and being in this old Korean supermarket was a confusion to me as I had not shopped here in almost a decade. While my earliest memories involved playing hide-and-seek with my brother, or crying every time I was separated from my mother, the aisles now felt like a labyrinth.
“It’s really okay,” I stuttered in my broken Korean, and she furrowed her brows, before grasping a red bean bun and shoving it towards me.
“You always had a sweet tooth. Take it, and tell Juyoung I said hi, okay?” She shooed me out of the entrance of her bakery, back into the wide floors of the supermarket, and the door closed with a soft thud. I looked at the warm bread in my hands, and the fragrant scent wafted to my nose. I smiled slightly, unsure of how to react as I continued towards the exit of the supermarket. Children were running towards the snack aisle, while tired parents threw sympathetic looks at one another. The smile widened as I recalled my own childhood, and I looked back at the bread. Perhaps in the corners of my mind I was able to recall the woman. Since when had I grown so hostile to the acts of kindness of another person? She had only shown generosity to me, and I had failed to be genuinely thankful.
In front of me, a little boy fell over his own sandals as he tried to join the beeline for the snacks. His lower lip jut out, the pout forecasting his tears. I ripped off half of the bun, making sure he had more of the sweet contents, before kneeling down before him. His large eyes flickered to my face, a blend of curiosity and fear.
“Here, have this and walk a bit slower, hm?” His tiny fingers grasped it, a shy smile blooming on his face as his frantic mother ran over. She cast a suspicious look at me, until she saw her son eating the bun with the beginnings of a giggle. She offered a fatigued word of thanks, and ushered him away. I let the smooth red bean filling dissolve on my tongue as I nipped at the pastry, the familiar memories of the sweet bread filling my mind.
*****
I hug my red pencil case closer to me, letting my tired eyelids flutter shut. It was not even the beginning of my senior year of high school, and yet my permanent sleep deprived state was clearly taking a toll on me as I struggled to regain focus.
“Are you taking the Literature subject test?” A bold voice demanded my attention, and I glanced up at a girl with messy brunette curls, her thickly rimmed glasses reflecting the dim light above us. Another girl next to me nodded, and I did too.
“I don’t expect to do well though,” the girl next to me chirped lightly, pushing her dark hair back. I nodded in agreement, a smile on my face as she offered a cheery high-five. The first girl merely looked at us, clearly unimpressed.
“Well, I studied really hard for this and I think I’ll get a perfect score. If I don’t get my 800 then there’s something wrong.” Her voice was dripping with conceit, and I resisted the urge to make a remark. The girl next to me tried her best to hide her amused countenance. Eventually, the brunette girl, who we would find out was named Sarah, left us in a cloud of vanilla perfume, and I finally released my sigh.
“I can’t believe her!” Isabel exclaimed, her eyes staring at the spot that Sarah had left. “I thought I was going to gag when she started going on about her studying habits.”
“I think I’ll get a perfect score, and if I don’t then something’s wrong.” I turned my lips into a frown as I raised my voice pitch to match Sarah’s, throwing my hair back obnoxiously. I froze, catching Isabel’s gaze, before we both succumbed to laughter.
“That-that was an amazing impersonation!” I did an overly exaggerated bow, causing Isabel to subside into another giggle fit. My mind softened considerably for the girl in front of me. Every other time I had come to take a standardized test, I had never befriended or even spared a glance at other students. I had stuck to a quiet corner or empty side, where I would enviously watch all the groups of school friends.
“Isn’t it so weird how we’re always told to not really interact with strangers? But if I didn’t how would I have known that you were so fun to talk to, and that Sarah is definitely not a face I would want to see on my deathbed.” Isabel questioned me. We were being called by the section to show our identification and testing ticket. She was from Connecticut, having to drive two hours to take this one exam, and then making the drive back north from New Jersey. It was amongst the many details I had learned about her life, as we discovered we were both the younger child of recently-divorced parents.
“Section B, please come up with your testing ticket and ID!” A teacher hollered from the front of the room, and I follow Isabel. We aren’t in the same room, we would find out, and we never saw each other again. But by the comforting hug she offers before we part ways into our testing rooms, I know that kindness went a long way between us two strangers.
Homs, Syria
Bombs fall from the sky in the distance, lethal raindrops bringing death and destruction, my family's death and destruction. Only Bashira, my little sister, and I survived the smoke and fire that filled our small apartment. She coughs, and I hug her closer to my chest, protecting her delicacy and helplessness from the flames that have engulfed our village. I walk past a teddy bear, dirty from the dust and smoke, not daring to consider what might have happened to its owner. Nearing a small, grassy hill, I look back to see the sleek metal birds that have caused this wreckage flying away, leaving my home to crumble into ruin.
Aleppo, Syria
My eyes flutter open as the sun climbs above the horizon. Bashira lays next to me, breathing softly, our bodies pressed against the cold ground. She sleeps peacefully, oblivious to the cruelty that surrounds her. My sister awakens as I stand up, her young, brown eyes filled with innocence.
"Nura, where is Mama?" Bashira asks, longing for the comfort and safety of our mother. I turn away, for she cannot glimpse my tears.
"We will see her soon," I reply, my heart aching at such a lie. She pushes herself to her feet, and we begin to walk yet again.
Syria Turkey Border
Thousands of people stream into the border gates of Turkey, a parade of refugees seeking peace. Bashira and I stand near a small oak tree, far away from the desperate and anguished faces of the procession. We are to stay close to the sapling until night falls, when Bashira and I will crawl under an opening in the boundary fence, entering Turkey. I lift my sister into the tree, sitting her on a branch, then sink into the soft earth beside it, drowsiness leading me into a dreamless sleep.
~∞~
"Nura!" Bashira screams, interrupting the tranquility of my slumber. My eyes open to a warm rain pouring from the heavy storm clouds above. Shouting fills my ears, piercing the silent evening like a knife. Standing up, I process the desolate scene before me. Bombs fall from the starless sky, bringing death and destruction upon those beneath them. Sleek metal birds circle the border gates, preying on those who run. Smoke rises from burnt trees and smoldering grass. My sister jumps from the oak tree and into my arms, hugging me tightly. I cradle her, protecting her fragile innocence, sprinting away from the nightmare that has become our reality. Charred plants scratch at my shins as I race through them. Suddenly, my foot strikes a small rock, I plummet toward the soil, my heart lurches, and Bashira is flying through the air. Something small rapidly plunges through the stormy dusk sky, growing larger as it nears the ground. Bashira lays in the dirt, crying, as the bomb's scarlet glare shines upon her. A raindrop falls on my sister's tender face, reflecting the inhumanity of this world. I hear three beeps, and Bashira disappears, lost to the explosion's flames.
~∞~
I stumble forward, falling to my knees as the last bird glides away. I begin to crawl under the chain fence, scraping my shoulders against the jagged pieces of steel. Reaching the other side of the border, I stagger further slightly, then drop to my hands. I curl up in the dead grass, and allow tears to stream down my face.
~∞~
Several pairs of hands seize my arms, pulling me from the ground. Clamor fills the air, and several people shout in a language that I cannot identify. I look up to see a Turkish border patrol in a state of chaos, hurrying around the devastated piece of land that surrounds the tall, metal fence. Two agents walk beside me, dragging me in the direction of a large van. Several frightened faces peer through the tinted windows, undoubtedly other survivors of the attack. As the doors open, I am forced inside the vehicle, joining the refugees within. Once I am seated on a cold bench alongside another Syrian, the motor rumbles, and the van begins to move forward, leaving the scene of destruction behind.
Turkey Bulgaria Border
After traveling miles through a hot, dry landscape, the van halts at yet another towering fence. The Turkish agents accompany me and the other refugees to a gate adjacent to Bulgaria. And then I'm hustled through the entrance to Europe, left alone and abandoned by the border patrol, my only hope to discover a country that will welcome me.
Szolnok, Hungary
As the dismal sun rises on the horizon, I begin to walk another day. The air is cold, and snow falls from the dark clouds above and onto the dirt trail on which I stand. A bird sings in the branches of a tree, shattering the silence of the forest like breaking glass, and the leaves of a shrub rustle, although no wind blows through the woodland. I withdraw into the shadow of a large pine, observing the path with intent. Suddenly, Hungarian officers emerge from the ferns, sprinting along the trail, pursuing other refugees.
Hallstatt, Austria
The murmur of voices awakes me from my sleep, as the Syrians around me stir. I force myself to rise to my feet, and exit the small park in which I spent the night. I step onto the small street surrounded by quaint townhouses, and start to wander through the road, passing other refugees along the way. As the sky lightens, another day begins, another attempt to find an accepting home.
Berlin, Germany
The warm lights of storefronts shine upon my face as I travel through the streets of Berlin. I'm startled to have arrived in a country seemingly untouched by devastation and destruction, by explosions and detonations. I see a memorial of handsome stone slabs arranged in a wide, open field; the bronze plaque that marks it dedicates the monument to those who fell victim to the demolition of Europe. But how could a city as beautiful as this have once been reduced to rubble?
~∞~
Glimpsing an immigration office, I open the doors, and stumble inside, exhausted, but relieved. I stagger toward a counter, and the government official behind it says something in German. I have arrived in a new land of hope and happiness, but I am without Bashira and without my family. But if a ruined Berlin was rebuilt from its ashes, perhaps Syria, my country, my home, can be restored as well, reconstructed from its wreckage.
Clockwork
I stepped out onto the rocky sidewalk of my little town. The cool fall breeze was stinging my face. I needed a gift for my grandmother. She loved antiques. I was planning to get her an amazing gift for her birthday.
Hurrying off, I found a nice little antique shop. When I opened the wooden door, the sound of the store bell rang in my ears. I looked around me. They had everything from old bed frames to antique cups. I saw something glint in the corner of my eye. When I turned around I saw cases upon cases of jewelry. Picking up one particular silver piece, I saw that it had a light pink heart in it. It was the perfect pin for my grandmother. The pin was cold in my hand as I brought it to the cash register. Before I checked it out, i heard a voice.
“Are you sure you don’t want this instead?” I spun around. A sigh escaped me as I realized it was just the store clerk. In his hands was a beautiful clock. It had vines carved into it in such an intricate design that it almost looked mythical. By the looks of it, it was one minute until seven o'clock. I took the clock from him and studied it for a while. Just as I was about to give it back to him, the clock struck seven and made a wonderfully strange noise.
The room started spinning for what felt like forever. When it finally stopped I found myself on the ground and dizzier than I had ever been in my life. I tried to pull myself together. Once I got my vision back, I looked around me. This was definitely not the antique shop. There was a thick forest of trees on one side and a city on my other side. The strange thing about that is that the city was on its side. The people were also sideways. It looked as if someone had painted a picture and hung it upside down. As I walked forward, I realized that the creatures in the city looked like some type of tall gnomes.
I stepped into the city and felt like I was being compressed into a very tight space. The feeling lasted for about five seconds and was gone. I now found myself inside the city and sideways! I just wanted to get home, and I wanted to do it fast. I tried to get someone to help me but all I got was weird looks. These “gnomes” probably don’t get many visitors. I was beginning to wonder if I was ever going to get back. Finally, and older creature came up to me.
“Excuse me, but are you lost?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I’m not from here."
“I see”, she said looking at me. “Well, come with me.”
I followed her into a small house. She explained that her kind was called Ferizon. I told her how I had gotten here. I also asked her if she knew how I could get back.
“I do know,” she replied, deep in thought. She took a book off her bookshelf and opened it to a page. She studied the page intently then ripped it out of the book. She told me all I needed to know
“You are going into the forest of Tanzia and eat a herb called reverse potonly. It will take you home.” She also informed me that it might be dangerous, but I said that I would do whatever it takes to get home. She looked at me with a mixture of sadness and anxiety, but I couldn’t stay. I said goodbye and left. I stepped out onto the unfamiliar ferizon pavement and I promised myself that I would get home. I stepped through the barrier and felt like I was being compressed into a tight space again, but I was okay.
I took a deep breath and walked into the forest. I braced myself for the worst… nothing came. I sighed, maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad. Then it came. Something big blew past me. I looked behind me, but nothing was there. As I turned back around, I saw it. There was a tiger, teeth bared, tail whipping around, ready to pounce. The peculiar thing about this tiger is that it had midnight blue stripes instead of black stripes. I did the only thing I could think of. I ran and climbed up a tree as fast as my legs could go. The tiger clawed at me and cut my leg. I started leaping from tree to tree. I was astounded that I could do it. The tiger just kept growling and chasing me. I finally growled back. The tiger stopped and tilted its head. After a while
I jumped down from the tree I was in. I pet the strange tiger’s soft fur. The tiger sat there looking very happy. Apparently this tiger had a soft spot. I named him Stripe because of his unusual blue stripes.
I set out on Stripe’s back, determined to get home. I suddenly felt a stab of sharp pain sear through my leg. I grabbed a long leaf and tied it around my leg, it stopped a bit of the bleeding. I rode on Stripe’s back for a while until I remembered the paper that the ferizon lady gave me. I pulled it out of my pocket and studied it. It said that in the heart of the forest you will find a meadow. In the center of that meadow, you will find the reverse potonly herb. The herb is beautiful. It is a teal and green herb that has very precise detail. I was starting to feel confident about finding the herb. That feeling was soon over. I heard a loud crash. Stripe stopped. In front of me was the most bizzare creature I had ever seen. Behind it was the herb.
Stripe started advancing on the creature. I jumped off him. I knew that I had to do whatever it takes to get to that herb and get myself home. Stripe tried to pounce but the creature just pushed him aside with his giant paw. I went to go and help Stripe, but the creature swiped at me. I couldn’t help him. I rolled under the creature’s legs and grabbed the herb. I ran to Stripe and hugged him. I took a bite of the herb and the world started spinning again.
I landed hard on the floor of the antique shop. When I regained my focus, I saw that in my hands was a ginger kitten with blue stripes. I smiled and stroked Stripe as all the events of the day ran through my head. I turned to the store clerk.
“What just happened?” I asked him.
“I am not sure. I don’t think anything happened.” He said.
Although I saw him smile as he turned around and checked out my grandmother’s pin. He pretended to not know the answers to any of my questions. I finally gave up. I suddenly realized that all of my wounds are gone and I didn’t have the herb anymore. I guessed that maybe I couldn’t take everything I found, just Stripe. I was okay with that. I picked up Stripe and my grandma’s pin. I walked out of the store and just as I did, the clock struck eight.
He ran into her, but never saw her.
The blur of his white hoodie came before Janice. Unguarded, the hopeful girl watched and waited for him to notice her. He walked behind her, a constant half foot away, talking softly with his friend in black. Hidden in the last shadows of the night he never approached her. Janice waited with silent intensity. Casually, she slowed her pace. Seeing that did nothing, Janice took a bolder approach. Coming from his right, she swung her lunch box and the right side of his slow-moving form. Giving a jocular greeting, her heart pounded in waiting for his hello. Under the cafeteria’s dimmed lights, Janice could see the indifferent look on his face. Tight-lipped, acting as if he never knew her. She did not know what changed between last week and then. All she knew was how high her humiliation levels were rising.
While the low glow of the rising sun cascaded across the expanse of the Mary Stone High, Janice gradually rose above her embarrassment. If anything that impassive face was a clear indication of how out of her league he had always been.