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 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.
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.
i.
I forever wait in this house for a figure that will guide me. I forever wait in this house for a lecture on how to grow. I forever wait in this house under the false pretense that someone will be a caretaker to me as I am to them. In this house, I will try to build a home.
ii.
When Older Sister comes home from college, I am shocked to see her in front of the house. I open the door and see her standing in the night. My feet stumble to reach her as I hesitantly pull my arms around her shoulders and remember what it is like to have her next to me. When I look at her face, I ask Older Sister why she is crying, and she does not answer, only comes inside the house with one suitcase and a collection of tears for me to dry. I watch her sit on the edge of the couch, untie her shoes, and slowly stretch her feet over the sofa cushions.
Older Sister asks me to go to the kitchen and bring her back a glass of water. When I go back to her, she grabs the glass but does not drink it.
“Why don’t you ever call?” Her words are brisk as she places the cup on the ground, her tears dispersing like the droplets of water on the cup’s rim.
“Because you said not to.” I respond fluidly to her and recall the day she said she was too old to remember her family. That day, Older Sister had gathered her things into her arms and had driven off with her friends in the backseat, leaving Mother to cry, leaving Father to pace around the room, and leaving me to help them. But it seems as if Older Sister has forgotten that day. Yet, I vividly remember the dismal absence of her presence blanketing the house.
Older Sister remains quiet on the couch.
“Why are you here?” I ask Older Sister. “Why did you suddenly decide to come back home again? Why did you not call to tell us you were coming? Why were you crying?”
Older Sister finally takes a sip of water and closes her eyes.
“How are mom and the baby?” she asks, ignoring me.
“They are both fine.” I dismiss her question abruptly as she always dismisses mine.
“When will the baby be born?”
“Soon. Very soon.”
She softens her eyes until they close. Her breath becomes light.
She sighs, “I miss this house.”
When Older Sister says this, I do not believe her. I simply am reminded of a time when I did not have to take care of her. And it seems as if I will always find myself holding her, catching her pretzeled words with my ear, balancing her tears in my hands, and constantly consoling her.
Older Sister soon falls asleep on the couch and forgets to say “good night.” I grab a blanket from my bedroom and slowly entangle Older Sister in it, tucking her feet in at the bottom and folding her hands over the top.
iii.
Mother slides her wedding ring off her ring finger in the morning when she braids her hair in the bathroom mirror. She balances her pregnant stomach on the bathroom countertop and combs through her hair. Sometimes, Mother tenderly places her hands on the underside of her belly. Intricately, she weaves her black strands together. Then, she calls from across the house and asks if she can braid my hair. I always say yes because I know this is the only time she will love me for the day. At this moment, Mother will say I am beautiful, and I will only believe her then. Afterwards, I will ask her how the baby is doing. “Fine,” she will say. “Just fine.”
But I know it’s not true. At night, she will scream, yell, and beg for her dreams to stop.
I will run to the room and console her. I will ask her what I can do to help her. Unlike Father, who sleeps soundlessly next to her, I will bend forward to hold her hand in mine.
“Get this baby out of me,” she will scream. “Get this baby out of me.”
At that point, I will cry with her because I know of the anxiety she gets for holding the baby inside of her. I understand her fear of caring for something and having that thing solely rely on you.
“Hush. Hush. Hush. It’s alright.” A breathy whisper will escape my mouth and soothe her.
Mother’s quick-paced breathing will soften and soon it will become a faint collapse of air in her throat.
I will later sleep in bed on the right of her and curl my body around hers, careful to avoid the curve of her stomach.
Throughout the night, to the left of us, Father will not stir the sheets as he sleeps silently.
iv.
Father waits by the windowsill in the morning. He sits quietly, surrounded by a ream of newspaper from thirty years ago, “the good old days.” Opaque pen ink is scribbled on the bed of newspaper laid out before him. His eyes scan the printed words, following the curves and stiffness of each letter. His under eye bags are a discolored purple grey—spoiled grapes—and his eyes are drooping brown on his face.
He has not talked to me for weeks now, I think. I didn’t think he wanted to anyway.
I shuffle towards him in the kitchen. He is unappalled by my presence as usual. I will give him something to eat because I know he has not eaten anything yet.
He accepts the offering of food by rolling the sleeves of his blue and white pinstripe shirt. He eats, eyes still on the daily news, and finishes by ruffling his hair and popping the collar of his shirt up.
I will not see him until later today after work when he unravels his tie from his neck and throws it carelessly on the floor for me to pick up.
v.
At night, I wait for the bathtub to fill with cold water. This is the only time of day I will be alone.
This is the only time of day I will care for myself. I slip my clothes off my shoulders and slowly dip my big toe on the right foot in. Freezing. The only temperature the water is in this house. One by one, I dip my legs in antarctic waters until my entire body is submerged below the surface of the bathtub. I rub a bar of rose soap on my skin and let the bubbles rise as I sink deeper and deeper underwater.
I imagine one year ago. A fond memory of Older Sister, Mother, and Father laughing all around me before the peace was disrupted by Older Sister leaving, Mother announcing her pregnancy, and Father enveloped in work and ink.
vi.
When Baby Sister is born, I hold her in my arms and imagine that she is only cloud sky; delicate, pure, newborn substance. When she is sleeping, I cake her skin in baby powder—bleached vanilla— and pretend she is an angel that was sent to me. Her nascense remains abundant, skin riddled in marvelous pink undertone. One by one, I fiddle with her toes and press them into my cheeks, trying to birth dimples in my skin.
I linger over the thought of how Baby Sister was made to bring the family together—peace offering—but her value was soon diminished by everyone. She was supposed to be a proposed olive branch that would seamlessly mesh the family together, but clearly, it did not work.
I remember how Father in the early stages of Mother’s pregnancy, when he still loved her, would graze the side of her growing stomach and smile. I remember when Mother would glisten, blush raspberry, twirl her black braid over her pale fingers, and shortly drop the braid on the side of her breast. I remember how Older Sister would laugh at their love. I remember how I would wish to feel as loved as Baby Sister was in Mother’s stomach.
I am awoken from thought by Baby Sister’s laugh. She is gripping the hem of my long sleeved shirt and tugging it. I stand with Baby Sister and kiss her small, round head. Soon, I am followed by the rest of my family. Father slips into the nursery room and stands behind me, overcast shadow. Mother sulks into the room and lingers next to Baby Sister and me. Older Sister watches from the door, but then huddles around Baby Sister and me.
And I realize now I will have to care for Baby Sister endlessly. I understand now I will care for Older Sister’s tears, feed Father, nurture Mother’s nightmares, and build Baby Sister.
Immediately, as if my body knew before my mind, I drop Baby Sister on the floor.
Father looks palely at her plump body resting on the floorboards. Older Sister silently bends downwards to touch her, and Mother shrieks.
The pigeon flutters its wings. Its red eyes stare at me, metal body shines in the sun. It’s the only type of bird on this planet. The bird flies off, and it squawks like a monster. I’ve gotten sick of it - the same damn recorded sound that comes out of every pigeon. I asked my mom why they’re like robots…she said they weren’t. She said they were real. If they’re real, then I’m sure not.
The water isn’t water; it chokes you. If you look it at closely, it’s orange, and there’s dust and chemicals and lots of other crap swimming in it. They say it’s water, but it sure isn’t. Real water doesn’t choke you.
And life sure doesn’t feel real – it feels like a dessert in which I’ve gone crazy. They hide everything; I remember my first day on 7q, a group of moving hazmat suits were painting the ground green. They told me it was grass. They painted the walls gray and it told me it was stone; it wasn’t. It crumpled from my glove, and pieces broke off like sand. So did the grass.
Mom comes into my room- she says I need to get some sleep, she says it’s been a hard day. I don’t tell her that every day has been a hard day on this planet. She’s cried enough without that.
But she kisses me and I say goodnight. The sound of pressure bursts through my ears as she takes out my old oxygen tank and puts in a new one.
And I go to sleep with only one thought in my head; will tomorrow be a blazer?
The next day comes, and surely it’s a blazer. That’s what we call the days when it’s so scorching outside that the ground starts to blaze. Those are the days when the sun orbits too close to 7q. It’s gotten so close it’s started to burn other planets. That’s why they crushed our homes on Earth and told us it would be much better here. And that’s how the whole world found themselves stranded on planet 7q.
It’s all fake, the civilization they’ve tried to build up on this planet. It’s all robots and lies and painting over the truth. Paint the ground and call it grass as much as you want, but you can’t paint over that orange sky. The sky gives it away.
I go outside. The sky is a stark orange, and it has been, ever since I first looked up and noticed there wasn’t a single cloud. It’s all absolute dryland, like Tatooine. Except this world is real.
The small stubs on my shoes hit the ground, and with each step, the stubs sink into the sand. It’s like walking in snow, but it isn’t like walking in snow. You get real snow if you have real water.
“Nice weather we have here today, huh?” Eric, the local gardener says. He’s an old man, and he spends his last days on his porch, looking at nothing. His chin has grown bushy, and his thick, wiry hair makes him look like a sailor.
“Let’s bring out the deckchairs then.”
I smirk; that’s a joke we Martians have. The joke’s not funny, but in an isolated wasteland like 7q, we laugh, cause it’s the only choice we have.
“Where you goin’?” he asks.
“Just, just… far.”
And he leaves it at that. Eric knows that I’ve taken this path every day for the last 419 days, but yet he asks. I’m glad he does.
I trudge over to the hill, 9.u, and don’t give it a second thought like I first did when I came here. Why does everything have a number? Why’s it so fake? I never heard an answer.
And so I climb.
My boots stick into the side of the hill, and I make my way up the slope of 9.u, when the fierce winds pick up. Just ‘cause it’s a blazer doesn’t mean it’s calm.
I can feel the sand falling down and the rest of my body follows. I slip.
Shit.
My face comes inches away from the dusty ground, the only support from my elbows, dug deep in the soil. I mutter something too unchained for words, and slowly, as I get up, the red cloud forms around me. Mom will be mad – the dust has a way of forming on suits and never washing out.
I slip down 9.u and head back home. The sun is in full blaze, the 14th orbit of every month, and it hits 7q like a storm. I wish it was a storm.
But my boots keep hitting the ground and my body keeps moving, and before I know it, I’m covered in sweat.
When I first came, it was the only real water I knew. Salty, but still water. And it was truly something; the boy with the real water. But now it’s the same old crap we have to drink that I sweat. Filmy, orange silt squeezing out from my pores. Like it or not, everyone becomes part of planet 7q at some point.
Slowly night comes, and we watch our planet’s moon, 7Q, twirl around the planet like a horse on a carousel. No one really cares but the guys in the hazmat suits.
I go to my room. Sometimes I do that; I just sit there, stupid, and try to forget all of it. It’s like meditation, cause after a while it helps.
Mom’s shoes tap slightly on the ground, and I hear her coming to my room. I climb in the chamber.
She comes into my room, says I need to get some sleep, says it’s been a hard day. She takes out the oxygen tank and puts in a new one.
“Good night” I say.
“Good night” she says.
As she rounds the corner past my room I can hear her burst into tears, trying with every bit she has to keep it silent, but she can’t. No one can on 7q.
And I go to sleep with only one thought in my head; if tomorrow will be another blazer. And if I’ll still be in this horrible dream that is planet 7q.
Earth if you’re reading this, please bring us back home.
“Run!” I screamed at Annie, as the sound of an explosion boomed from behind us. “Into the bunker!” Annie tripped on some broken glass, cutting up her arms and legs. There was no time to clean her up, as the enemy fighter planes were just overhead. “Get up!” I bawled, with tears streaming down my face. This is the end, I thought, she’s going to die.
After that day, I’ll never be the same again; I’ll be happy and carefree. Although it doesn’t seem that way, it’s true. It all started when I was filled with stress about the weekend homework load, and all I could think of was how it was finally Friday. Although I had the furrow in my brow due to the dreading thought of how much homework I’d be doing tomorrow, that was tomorrow’s problem. I had the rest of the afternoon to be, or pretend to be, stress free. My friend Lily had originally invited me to go to the new movie theater with her tonight, but she had to cancel because she caught the flu. With the wind whipping against my bare hands as I hiked up my driveway, and the feel of the cold on my cheeks, a heated movie theater wasn’t sounding too bad. “Hey dad!” I said happily, as I ran inside, throwing my heavy backpack on the floor with a thump. “Can you drive me to the movies tonight?”
“I thought Lily cancelled,” he replied, as he embraced me in a warm hug, messing up my dirty blond hair.
“Yeah, she did, but I was hoping I could still go by myself.”
“Ok, I guess so, but be careful. I’d come with you, but I have to coach your brother’s basketball practice.” He made a face. “Don’t you wish you got to calm down fifteen little boys with basketballs?”
“Totally!” I laughed, and for the first time that day, I wasn’t stressed. I love my dad, as he always makes me feel better, being humorous, caring, or understanding whenever I need it. As I looked into his eyes, I wished I could stay with him forever, never leaving the safe and happy place I call home.
It was time to leave, and I was racing out of the house, my coat flapping against my arm, as we were already running ten minutes late. Shaking from the cold, I jumped into the car, and zipped up my jacket. My brother, never bothering to talk to those around him, was sitting next to me, playing a game on his phone. After about fifteen minutes, I looked out the window to see blinking lights, spelling out the name of the movie theater, “Magical Adventure.” That’s an interesting name for a movie theater, I thought to myself, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. “Bye dad, bye TJ!” I shouted to them, giving them each a quick hug before I raced into the theater, trying not to fall on the slippery ice beneath me.
“Have fun! Text me when the movie’s over!” my dad yelled back.
“Bye Autumn,” my brother mumbled, not even bothering to look up, because in his mind, his video game must’ve been more important than me.
I pushed open the door, stepped inside, and was immediately taken aback by the reactions of other people in the theater. It was packed, and each person had a different facial expression. Some looked horrified, or scared, while others looked joyful and amazed. One thing they all had in common, however, was that they were all stunned and speechless. I guess this place shows really good movies, I considered. I scanned the list of movies, and finally chose one about World War II, because like my dad, I enjoy historical fiction. I paid for my ticket, and stepped into the theater. As the movie started, and I dug into my popcorn, the unbelievable happened.
***************************************
I looked around and saw the inside of a small cottage, with an old-fashioned stove, a wooden table, and a fireplace burning with logs. A girl walked into the room, and yelled “Come on, Linda, we’re going to be late for school!” I turned around, utterly confused. Who is she, where am I, and who’s Linda?
“Linda, why are you standing there like that, looking like I have three heads? We have to leave! Put on your sweater!” She handed me the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, as it looked like it was from the 1940s.
“Umm, excuse me, I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you, and who’s Linda?”
“Linda, you’re acting really strange today,” she answered, and then she said really slowly, talking to me as if I was three years old, “I’m your sister, and you are Linda.”
I had no idea what was happening, or why she was saying my name was Linda. “I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken. My name is Autumn Winston, and I live in Boston, Massachusetts” I replied.
“No, you live here, at 47 Pine Ln in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, where we’ve lived for six years.” She was clearly annoyed at me, acting as if my ignorance was an act, and I was just messing with her. “Whatever. Just put on your sweater, and meet me outside when you’re ready.” I still had no idea what was happening, but I decided to go along with it for the time being. I buttoned the sweater, and grabbed a backpack off the floor that had “Linda Johnson” scribbled on it in pen, and headed out the door. On our walk, I took in my surroundings, and across the street from us, I spotted a woman and man who I’d seen enter the movie theater with me earlier that morning. I waved, hoping to catch their attention. When they saw me, they rushed over, and said with puzzled and worried looks on their faces, “Hey, weren’t you in the row across from us in the movie theater?”
“Yeah, I saw you guys before the movie started!” I replied. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”
“I have no clue,” said the man. “All of a sudden, we appeared on the side of the road, right across from that restaurant.”
“Yeah, I appeared in this house with a girl who’s calling me her sister, even though I don’t have any sisters. She said we’re in Pearl Harbor.” I responded.
The woman looked at me with a look of shock on her face as she said, “But the theater is in Boston! We’re over 5,000 miles away!”
When “my sister” realized I was talking to some strangers, she scolded, “Linda, keep walking, you’re holding us up!” She led me into a small building, with a sign above that read, “Pearl Harbor Elementary School.” This was odd, since I was in middle school, not elementary school, but I didn’t argue as she lead me down the creaky wooden floors into a small classroom, in which a teacher stood at the front, writing the date on the chalkboard. “December 5, 1941!” I shrieked. “But it’s January 5, 2018!”
“Quiet!” Snarled the teacher, who continued to write the lesson plan on the chalkboard.
“Sit down, Linda, and why are you acting so strange today?” the girl sighed.
As the day continued, I just got more confused. We were being taught about World War II, and who was winning certain battles. When I raised my hand to inform the teacher that the Allies had already won the Battle of the Atlantic, she looked at me like I was crazy, and “my sister,” who I learned was named Annie, slapped me. I tried to understand what was happening as the day went on, and it was during lunch, as I was munching on sour carrot sticks, when I realized why the name of the movie theater was called “Magical Adventure.”
I thought about trying to explain my situation to Annie, but decided against it. I would just end up confusing her more. As lunch ended, and we headed back inside, I thought about how I wished life at home could be this peaceful.
Two days later, I awoke with a start. Boom! The sound of an explosion burst in my ears as I jumped out of bed, shaking with fear. “Annie! Annie! What was that?”
“Linda! Are you okay?” She asked, and I looked into my sister’s eyes, and although she was trying to sound calm, she was shaking like a leaf.
“What is happening? What-” I was cut off by the sound of another explosion, this one scarily closer than the one before it. It was then that Timothy, our six-year-old brother, started crying and screaming. As Annie rushed over to comfort him, our mother barreled into the room, and said frantically,
“Children, they’re attacking! Japan is attacking Pearl Harbor!”
“What? Why? What have we done to them?” Annie shrieked.
Pearl Harbor, I thought. December 7, 1941, two days after December 5, 1941. The attacks of Pearl Harbor were starting, and I’m in the middle of them.
As I looked up with a look of horror and recognition across my face, mother gave us more information. “Your father was called in, he’s working with the army right now. I need to stay here and collect all our valuables, so they don’t get stolen,” she cried, with tears staining her blouse. “But I need you, Linda, to bring Annie and Timothy to the Davidson’s house, because we don’t have a bunker, and they said they have a one large enough to fit all of you.”
“Ok,” Annie sobbed, as she wrapped her arms around our mother, “I’ll take care of them.” I looked back at the house I had started to call home, as Annie shuffled us out the door, and thought about how much I wished I could go back to my real home.
Broken buildings and the injured all blurred past me as Timothy, Annie, and I raced through the town, making our way to safety. As we ran, I thought about how much I yearned to go back to my life in the 21st century. As I think back upon it, it seemed ridiculous that just hours ago I was stressing my day away, all because of a math test. Now, my worries were about losing the people I love. Right now, if I discovered that I failed a test, I wouldn’t care at all, because in the long run, one test doesn’t matter. What does matter is being happy, and being safe, and in order to do that, I needed to forget homework and find a way to help Annie get us to the bunker.
“Annie! Annie!” Someone was shouting at us from across the street.
“Mrs. Mullens!” Annie shouted back. “Is everything alright?”
“Oh Annie, I’m so sorry, but I just overheard one of the army generals talking about the casualties, and he said your father was shot when he was trying to fight the incoming Japanese, and your mother was hit with a bomb explosion, and she isn’t going to make it…” Mrs. Mullens stuttered. As I looked at Annie’s face, I realized that I’ve never actually witnessed true devastation. Her mouth hung open, and tears flowed from her eyes. I embraced her in a hug, trying my best to comfort her, but I knew that no matter what I did, I wasn’t going to bring our parents back.
“Come on, Annie! We have to keep moving!” I pulled on her arm, but she was so heartbroken that I practically had to drag her along. Ten minutes later, she shook herself out of her daze, and started leading us in the direction of the bunker. We broke into a sprint, and I forced my exhausted, sore legs to propel me forward as it came into view. We were only feet away from the bunker when the sound of an explosion went off, so close that I thought my ear exploded as well. The sound made Annie stumble, and she hit the ground hard, landing on broken shards of glass. She didn’t move.
“ANNIE!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I didn’t know what to do; I had to save her. Now it was up to me to get her and Timothy to the bunker. I pulled Annie to her feet, and dragged her, with Timothy close behind, inside. A bomb went off, only feet away, but since we were in the shelter, we were safe. It was just then that Annie awoke, and when she looked around to see the walls of the bunker, along with Timothy and me, she smiled. It was then that I knew we were truly safe.
***************************************
My head was pounding, and when I looked up, instead of seeing the stone walls of the protective bunker, I saw bits of popcorn, red soda cups, and the giant screen of the movie theater. I was back. I looked around at the faces of the other people in the room, and tried to comprehend what just happened. I was just in World War II, I thought, and now I’m in a movie theater, over 5,000 miles away, about seventy years later. With my legs shaking uncontrollably, I stood up, and walked out of the theater to my dad’s car. It all made sense now. The mixed expressions of the other viewers, the theater name, everything.
“Hey Autumn! How was the movie?” my dad asked me, smiling from the car window.
I paused for a second, tried to figure out who Autumn was, and then realized that was my name. “Let me just say, I’ll never forget it.”
“That’s great!” my Dad replied, clearly oblivious to my stunned facial expression, “Sorry to ruin the good mood, but how’s the homework load this weekend? Do you have a lot? Are you stressed about it?” As he was conversing, I climbed into the front seat of the car.
“No, I’m not stressed, why would I be? It’s just homework.” My dad looked at me with his jaw hanging open, and it was after I saw his expression of disbelief that I processed what I had just said. For the first time in years, I said homework wasn’t a big deal. But when I thought back on it, I realized it never was. War is something to stress about, not homework.
Now that I experienced it first hand, I finally understand that. To some people, things are a big deal, but to others, they’re petty. If I had told Annie that yesterday I was freaking out about a science project, she would’ve thought I was crazy, because her worries are that her brother might die of starvation. But to me, the project was a big deal.
Life is about perspective. People view things in different lights. You just have to choose which light to view it in.