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Rhoda Woo: Dancing in Japanese

Harajuku. Sunday in October. The sun is awake and smiling in a brilliant, clear sky. At

home in Pittsburgh, the leaves are already going red like blushing cheeks, and scarves cover

white necks. In Pittsburgh, Sunday in October means playing piano while the morning is still

foggy; it means movies and Mom’s spareribs for dinner.

Here, I guess it means dancing.

They’re here every Sunday. The takenoko dancers. Pretty Japanese teenagers oozing with

energy, dressed up in outfits from the 1950s––they gather on the widest avenue in Harajuku and

dance until the sun burns out. Ponytails bobbing. Cigarettes providing light as the day wears on.

A couple springs from the bushes, freshly dressed in clothes smuggled from home. The

girl wears a tiny plaid skirt that flips as she walks. Her boyfriend dons a leather jacket. They spot

a cluster of their friends and jump into the throng on beat, heeled shoes hitting the concrete

sidewalk with a slap. The two blend right in, and soon I can’t tell which couple I was watching.

It’s okay. I sip my cooling coffee and wander the area with my eyes. The skilled dancers

are lovely to watch: their petite limbs swing sinuously and the others in the crowd are drawn

toward them like magnets. But the awkward teenagers are just as nice, in a sweet, endearing sort

of way. At any rate, all of their smiles are just as bright as each other’s.

I think I could join in, if I wanted to. I bought a pretty, cap-sleeved button down when I

was packing for my year abroad. Mom helped me figure out what to bring, and even though she

pretended to be angry that I was leaving, I knew she was proud. On the phone in rapid-fire

Chinese, she told the neighbors, Rhoda is going to Asia for an entire year, all by herself! Grown

up already.

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Grown up, already? I don’t know that I am. At least, I wasn’t before I left. But I think I’m

okay with that.

The couple I was watching before breaks away from their group, gurgling with laughter.

They collapse onto the curb next to me and ask if I have a light. I say no, sorry. That’s okay, they

say.

Still grinning, still flushed red with bliss. Mom will kill me if she finds out I came here,

says the girl––at least, I think that’s what she says; my Japanese is embarrassingly basic.

But you’re having fun, aren’t you? The boy’s tone is coaxing.

Her smile grows warm, filled with the sun in the sky, the heat of the crowds. Let’s go

dance some more, and this is her answer, and it is enough. She drags her boyfriend back into the

fray.

Later, I’ll wind my way to a café with Barry. We’ll talk politics and music, and drink hot

coffee, and he’ll have a smoke. I love talking to him. Right now, though, it is enough to simply

be––to sit on a curb next to the takenoko dancers, absorbing their vigor,

tapping my feet to the beat of their boom box music.

Lucy Wainger: Real World Bleachers

I love my mother. Unlike parents on TV, she doesn’t pry. She doesn’t pressure, or punish,

or push. She speaks to me the way she speaks to other human beings. My mother wears

acceptable Mom-ish clothes and lets me dress myself. She never dances in public. She’s good at

cooking but even better at her job.

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I love my mother; that doesn’t mean I can’t feel like shit.

Rome is a nice place to be: warmer than Paris in a few senses of the word. Buildings are

painted orange and line the street like the crooked teeth in my mouth. March is usually cooler but

the sun’s out and people are shedding layers of sweaters.

It takes maybe an hour to walk to the Spanish Steps. We stop to browse a grocery store

and peer through the windows of designer clothing shops. I don’t say so, but looking at those

clothes is depressing. I mean, I’m in black pants that don’t fit right and old Converses that aren’t

really cool anymore, a purple sweatshirt and a greasy ponytail to cap it off. I know I can buy

something pretty if I want, but what’s there to look pretty for?

When she described the Spanish Steps before we left for our vacation, I imagined a

staircase, I imagined people falling on top of each other to get a couple snapshots that they’ll

forget about later. I was right. That doesn’t do them justice, though. I think the Spanish Steps are

worth falling on top of each other for.

My mother suggests we sit awhile and people watch. We do––and I promise I love my

mother, the way she simultaneously compliments and cuts down bodies, her taste in fronts––but

the longer we sit there watching other peoples’ lives play out, the more pretty Italian teenagers I

see. I see girls wearing thigh high boots, women who make all-black and cigarettes look sexy,

not scary. I see kissing couples and a lot of cute boys who are years older and miles away from

me. Like beautiful designer clothing that I have no business buying, I have no business being in

this city of beautiful people.

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I love my mother, but secretly I hate her for being my mother. I hate that she’s old and I

am young, too young to be trendy or traveling a foreign city alone. Yeah, being alone would be

better than being with my mother.

Would it?

It feels like people are watching me from where I can’t see. I’m sure they have mothers

too, but they’re not hanging out with theirs.

“Let’s get out of here,” I tell my mother.

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Anmolpreet Kandola: Double Memoir

Some mistakes help you learn. Others are unforeseen and bring about drastic change.

Some may not even be your fault.

I was really focused on doing my homework, like almost sweating, thinking about what

I’d do with the free time I might have if I finished all my homework and studying early. My little

brother came into our bedroom, running and jumping. There was never a middle ground with

him, he was either uncontrollably laughing, or crying when you eventually yelled at him. Like

SpongeBob, but I like SpongeBob, I can turn him off when I want to.

“HEY HEY HEY Hey, HELLOOO!” my little brother screamed. I was almost done with

one of my homeworks, just about to let out a sigh of relief. My little brother jumped on the bed.

The empty space on the page was now filled with a demented ‘y’. Before I could stop anything, a

large jump like an earthquake to my loose leaf turned the ‘y’ into a long line ripping through the

rest of the words on the page. It was in pen.

“OH MY GOD, LEAVE!! LOOK WHAT YOU DID!” It was all I could make out with my

startled expression. My anger eased quickly as I began to re-do my homework and my little

brother stormed out, as if I should have apologized to him. Then it hit me. I yelled, got my point

across, but I still had to do my homework over. And my little brother couldn’t be feeling too good

about himself either. But I didn’t know how he felt. It was like trying to remember how I learned

to speak English. I know I learned it, and I didn’t know it at birth, but what was the feeling I felt

at times when I was a kid and I would disrupt my older cousins? I couldn’t remember, and by the

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time we were both back to normal again, not too long after, this sort of thing was close to daily, I

would forget this question. But one day, I hope I remember.

Anmolpreet Kandola: Too Far

It was a sunny day, in March 2001, and my family and I had gone to India for my

relatives’ wedding. I remember all the haste in getting ready, I was only 3. It was a rush,

someone calling for help to pin on a dress, or yelling to call someone to pick something up from

somewhere. All the men were still getting ready, including my dad. My mom had gotten me

ready early “Anmol!! Kot Pent Pala!! Udher Ja-ke Khel-la!” - “Anmol!!! Put your tux on!! Then

go play there!” There was a designated area, where all the children who were already dressed,

would go play. I mean my cousins, who were a few years older than I were there too, although

they left soon after.

Near the area us kids were playing there was a bed, in a room. I laughed because of all

the kids were playing counting games or drawing, and it seemed I was the only one who noticed

there were a lot of mercha or peppers, set out to dry. Before long, there were many kids running

up, asking me to play with them. My eyes didn’t leave the bed. I walked slowly, and now some

kids were peering, resisting the urge to follow, yet following my lead. I picked up a pepper, and

squeezed it in my hand.

I remember how nice I looked, dark gray tuxedo, a vest too with a dark blue shirt, and I

was sort of chubby. Back then people told me I had the “full and cute look” and now they ask

“where did it go?” So I was now rummaging through the peppers, with my hands which were set

there to dry when another kid started following me, as if we were in a competition. I always have

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been, and probably always will be the fierce competitive type. I secretly put a red pepper in my

pocket, so I always would know that I had one more than this person, trying to out-do me in

whatever it was we were doing. Then it either was my curiosity or my laziness and boredom that

lead me and this other boy to draw back slowly. Maybe we yawned, but we let our hands sting

our eyes. The itching aggravated me. I think that at the time, I felt as if it was this other boy who

made my eyes itch. Soon after, I rubbed my hands in his face, and he then rubbed his hands in

my face.

Now it began to burn, and my vision began to blur. We were helpless, and he began

crying. I felt like I had won something, a pointless competition. Soon after, my tears began to

pour. Believe me, I was well known and I heard “Gurabakhash!!! Khidar Ge?!!! Dekh Anmol nu

ke ho gae-ya! Labo onu!!” “Gurbakhash (my mom)!!! Where is she?!!! Look what happened to

Anmol!!!” Various women yelled in hopes to find my mother and then I realized what had

happened. “Oh my god! His eyes are swollen! Enah ta akah jaal sakdhiyan!” “Oh my god, his

eyes are swollen! These will burn his eyes!” A doctor came, and forced my eyes open, making

me face the bright lights, pouring medicine into my eyes. I still remember that feeling of burning

on my face and how the medicine itched; I couldn’t handle it so I fidgeted.

I saw the wedding; my eyes cleared up rather quickly, and I danced at the party and was a

part of the festivities. Many questioned what had happened and I left it to my mom to tell the

story.

Sometimes though, I think, what led me to touch those peppers? That pepper in my

pocket, it’s gone now, but I always remember it because I learned everything in life isn’t a game.

[Model #2]

I look back and I laugh, but it helps me stay aware, wherever I go. Even if I had the option to

take the events of that day back, I wouldn’t. Not many people can say they had a pepper accident

quite like mine. For me it was a sensation, a thrill, which I may never feel again and I’m not sure

if that’s for the better or for the worse.

Mandhir Singh (my father): Unknown Mistakes

My son Anmol came in to ask me about some time in my life that I regretted and he knew

what I was going to say, but I had to explain to him what happened. In my childhood, I was the

eldest of 3 brothers, and my father was always away on business, or some other things, and so

my only father figure was his younger brother, my chacha or uncle, Anokh. In 1982, Anokh

came to America. In 1985 he brought me there with him. And for about 15 years, we made all

the decisions, together. During 1995-1998 we brought out my parents, and my brothers, along

with our wives, who were also sisters. It was then that my father argued we could not all live

together and that we must separate from my uncle. I did not know much about my father, but I

knew to respect and listen to him so I sided with him and in my position everyone knows I was

right. I would not find out until later, that he was wrong.

It was hard to leave my uncle after all these years we had spent together, but my father

was my father and my uncle knew that. Now, 3 years later in around 2001, I had set up my

brothers with good jobs, and my wife and I bought a house that we 3 brothers and our parents

lived in. However my brothers started to drink, something I never did. We had Anmol, my older

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son, and he was about 4 years old. It was a time that I knew was coming. We had all settled our

lives, but my brothers felt the house wasn’t big enough for all of us. Around that time (with the

consent of my father whom I respected and took all the decisions from), we sent my mother to

her nephew’s wedding. My brothers used this as an excuse, saying I made all the decisions and I

should’ve asked them about their opinions (they needed something to argue about). In a stern

manner, I told them I didn’t feel it was necessary to get their approval, but I did from our father,

the technical head of our family (even though I took care of everything). I consulted who I

should have and that was the end of it. I felt that my father should have told them that we had

made this decision together. I was not at fault. They had no right to say this. I was the care-taker

of this new house, I bought it, I did the most work but more the problem was that they drank, and

slacked off. Since we all lived together, this affected me too. Over time, it became clear that they

definitely wanted to separate. They used this event as an excuse.

We had just recently gotten my youngest brother Kulwinder married. It is known that his

wife also plotted to be the head of the house and to not want to have to consult anyone, and

coming from a single family she didn’t know how to live in a joint family (us 3 brothers, our

wives, and our parents). One night, I remember in the living room Kulwinder stormed in, drunk,

and spoke “nonsense” to me. I can’t go into detail, but what he said to me was a series of words

that I will never forget. That was when I decided we were moving out. Even then, I wanted there

to be no further arguments or fights. I decided I didn’t want to live there anymore. Now, in 2002,

only a few months after Kulwinder’s marriage, my younger son, Bikram was about to be born.

At first, my father tried to stop this. He said, Kulwinder can move into the basement, I could take

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the first floor, and Binder can move into the 2nd floor. I refused, and the only way I would stay

was if my brother apologized. My mother tried to intervene, and she told my younger brother

soothingly (I was outside listening), to apologize to me, to not separate. She told him about how I

stepped in, to make sure he got married, and took care of him for so long. His reply, and I’ll

never forget “Mummi, Jo ho gaya, ho gaya, bas, hon ne me koch karna” meaning “Mom, what

has happened has happened, and I’m not going to do anything about it.” Alcohol changed him

into another person, and he was too poisoned to change back, admit his mistakes.

The last few days before we left, my two brothers argued with me alone, shouting things I

did not think they would dare say to me. What hurt me was that our father was in his bedroom,

drunk, sleeping, not stepping in to defend me when he knew I was right. Everyone except I was

drinking, and it was a shame. I asked my mom to come with me and at first she said yes, but

when we were leaving, she said that she couldn’t go without my father, and I couldn’t look back.

I walked away and went from this house on 111th street to 112th Street (even though this may

have been close in distance, the thinking of my parents and the thinking of my uncle and I

greatly differed), where I asked my uncle Anokh if we could live with him, until we fixed up my

other house, on 118th street, where we live now, and just 6 blocks away. He said yes, and

graciously accepted us. I’ll never forget that. Anmol got to play with his older cousins, who are

now very successful and great role models and figures in his life, and my brothers took the car,

the house, and I worked for my family and bought new cars and another home, by working and

sharing a cab and shifts as I currently do for 23 years with my uncle. In 2006, my brother Binder

moved to California.

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The problem was that my uncle Anokh and I got along well, and we prospered, and

shared decisions and everything else. My father felt that we would overturn him, take all the

property and any valuables/money. We didn’t, and we won’t. My uncle Anokh and I have

worked for everything we have and we are very close, always going to one another’s houses and

meeting, going places as a whole family, it’s how we are now known. I fulfilled my duties

towards my parents and my wife and I continue to do so, but my relationship with my parents is

not strong. All I hope now is that my children succeed and that is what I will live by. I don’t

think about these arguments anymore, but Anmol is asking me and so I told him the truth. When

my sons get older, and they are at a time like this, it will be up to me then, to keep them together,

and only time will tell if I am successful as a father, learning from the mistakes of my father.

[Model #3]

Anne Duncan: Negative Zero

I lie in bed, trying desperately to sleep. I think about my biology grade, the homework I

have not finished, the memoir I have not written, and it starts to get to me. My thoughts turn to

my brother. As I stare at my white painted ceiling the dancing shadows start to morph into the

face of an eighteen-year-old boy I’ve created in my mind. Then I remember: my brother is Zero.

I was five when we went to California to visit Grandma. I sat in our rental car, bouncing

in my seat, enjoying the air that came through my open window. Grandma’s house smelled of

mildew and old people, and it was good to get out. The breeze in California seemed fresher than

the breeze in New York. The air seemed lighter, even though it was filled with special clouds

that could touch the ground– smog, Mommy had called it. I could hear birds chirping in the big

green trees.

Mommy stopped the car. The air suddenly got so thick with tension it pushed me down

and made me stop bouncing. Mommy and Daddy got out, so my sister, Sarah, and I followed.

They led us to a gigantic wall with little plaques on it that loomed over me like an angry cloud.

The wall was so tall, even Daddy couldn’t reach the top. I was confused, and asked why we were

there. Mommy answered, “To visit Will.” It took me a moment. A terrible, embarrassing, much

too long moment of trying to access my undeveloped memory. Then I remembered: I would have

had a brother. How could I have forgotten? I mentally slapped myself.

Daddy used a long pole with a grabber on the end to lift pretty flowers up to Will’s

plaque. I love flowers, but didn’t say how pretty they are because they felt like sad flowers. I

couldn’t see his name on the wall, and wondered how they knew which was the right one.

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Mommy started to cry a little, then both Daddy and Mommy started saying prayers, and

mumbling things about heaven and God. I did not understand, and I was afraid to ask more

questions, so I started poking at the dust on the ground with my shiny Mary Janes. I looked at the

wall of names and wondered how so many people could all be dead at once.

We walked back to the car, and I sat still, trying very hard not to be happy, so my parents

had a chance to be okay. But the ocean looked so sparkly from that hill, and the sky was so blue

outside my window. How could I be sad?

Now nothing is left of Will, not even my memory. My brother is Zero. How can there be

negative zero? Such a number doesn’t exist. It didn’t make sense to my mathematical mind when

I was five, and it still makes me shake my head, as if that will make it all right. I still don’t

understand completely.

I lay in bed, remembering all that is lost from my memory. I picture his face, imagine his

personality, and fantasize about the protective older brother I never had. I feel a shiver run up

and down my spine, and I pretend it is Will, telling me everything will be okay. I roll over and

drift off to sleep.

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Dawson Dean: Wrinkles

I was young, maybe twenty-two or so, when my grandmother – my mother’s mother –

died. My mom went up to Seattle to say goodbye to her mother, and to see her for the last time

before she died. I remember thinking I don’t think I can ever do that. I never thought I could say

goodbye to my mom for the last time. I was young and had much to learn, including my own

strength.

I saw my mom as she was dying, much as she saw her mother. She was in the long-term

hospital in California where I had moved her from the hospital where she had been being treated.

I had flown out from Kentucky to say goodbye, but I kept telling her I would come back in a few

months, that I would see her again soon. She hugged me for the last time and she was holding

my hair as she kissed me and told me she loved me, and I should walk away and be happy.

As she told me that, I looked into her face, and saw the wrinkles and the wisdom. I knew

there were a million memories playing like a film behind her shadowy blue eyes. In that moment,

I realized that she knew she was dying. She knew she would never see me again. She knew this

was our last goodbye. I didn’t really realize that until the last moment that she knew she was

about to die. She was telling me goodbye. I stood up, turned, and faced her. She blew a kiss to

me and I blew a kiss back.

Then I left. I forced my feet to pick up, move forward, and slowly walk out of the room. I

forced myself down the hallway. Walk away and be happy. Her words were still ringing in my

ears. How could I be happy? Yet I managed to walk away. I somehow urged my legs to go down

the elevator. I pushed myself to walk out of the hospital and get in my car and drive away, under

the endlessly cloudy sky. Because I just had to.

Now I’m in medical school, and working harder than I ever have before in my life. The

work I do takes more strength than I ever knew I had. Every test I take, every night spent

studying instead of sleeping… I don’t know how I do it, but each time I just force myself to keep

going, and I always accomplish what I set out to do.

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Dan Jian: Chained

I attended three years of middle school in China. It was a long journey, filled with sweat

and tears. I resented the educational system there, because all you ever did was to study for tests,

rather than obtaining useful knowledge. Nevertheless, I constantly pushed myself to study and

constantly tried to be a top student, and this will was fueled by my competitive spirit. I soon

began to realize, this spirit could not be sustained forever.

At the time, I lived with my grandparents because my parents were busy and did not have

time to take care of me. One day I came home feeling exhausted and was very anxious because

the finals were coming up. I couldn’t get myself to function. The piles of worksheets and pieces

of paper on my desk only made things worse. I felt like I was tethered by chains of homework,

mediocre grades, and pressure. When my grandfather came into my room with a warm cup of

tea, he looked at me sympathetically, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to waste my

time. I looked at his face and felt a sense of guilt. My grandfather was well preserved and he was

energetic, but with every passing day, qi, vitality, faded from his face. I couldn’t help but think

that I had everything to do with it. I drank the cup of tea, and I could never forget that bitter taste.

Time flies, and before I knew it, it was time for dinner. I normally eat at a normal pace,

but on that particular day, I ate like I stole my food. The three of us were unusually quiet, and the

only sound I heard was the newsreader on television reading the news. My grandmother would

usually make announcements at the end of dinner, but on that day, she didn’t. At the end of my

meal, just after I decided to run back to my room, my grandfather told me that I should have a

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walk with him. He said it would help loosen my stress. I was reluctant at first but after seeing

and hearing how sincere my grandfather was when he asked me, I simply couldn’t say no.

My grandfather was a traditional southerner of China. He did not speak a lot and he was

very reserved. In my mind, this was because my grandmother always yelled and over-criticized

him. So it was his sixth sense to remember not to make her angry or have quarrels with her. With

me though, he talked freely, and I did so too. I didn’t like walking, but I felt relaxed and calmed.

My grandfather asked me:

“How is school right now? Are you having trouble?”

“Yeah,” I responded.

“Why? Do you seem to have trouble absorbing the material?” he proceeded.

“Yes, but I don’t feel like that’s my biggest problem. I’m worried about the exams

coming up. I don’t think I’m going to do well.”

There was a brief pause. I thought my grandfather may say things like telling me that I

ought to study more, but it never happened. Instead he said:

“Well, I’ve noticed you haven’t been getting enough sleep, so maybe you should sleep

earlier. Instead of spending enormous amount of time staying up, why not try getting up a bit

earlier and start off from there? You will be much more efficient and more importantly, you’ll

have the energy to make it through the rest of the day.”

I thought about what he said. Unlike many Chinese elders, my grandfather communicated

to me as if we’re people of the same generation. I thought about how he talked, how casual and

approachable he was. He always talked to me like this, speaking openly and stripping weight out

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of words.  Everything he said was true. I was working inefficiently and perhaps I had been

neglecting my health a bit, too.

That night, I didn’t study for very long. Instead, I concentrated on getting my homework

done. It occurred to me that I couldn’t be a top student in China, and even if I could, what price

will it cost me? I went to sleep relatively early, and I got up the following morning feeling like a

new man. I no longer felt tethered to chains. I wasn’t fueled by competitive spirit. Rather, I

began to think of learning as enrichment to life, and that the ultimate goal wasn’t to achieve high

rankings or grades; because while grades are important, they are not completely reflective of

one’s efforts or progress. The ultimate goal, for me, was to learn whatever I could absorb to my

mind and put up strong efforts. I didn’t want to cram something into my head and forget it the

next day. From then on, I learned to work more efficiently and I timed myself for tasks. My

grades also went up accordingly. That day was a milestone in my life, for it, quite simply, set me

free.

Yongpei Jian: One Millimeter Too Deep

I am aging fast, and not aging gracefully. My reactions are slower, I have less strength,

and my immunity is getting worse and worse. Despite these problems, I have a good vision,

compared to many others of my age. I have to thank my wife, Dexian, because without her, I

would probably have lost my vision.

Some 30 years ago, just after the Cultural Revolution ended, I resumed my job of being a

Chinese teacher. The Cultural Revolution discouraged business and education; during the time,

students mainly followed Mao’s instruction to abolish private property and use violence against

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what he called “capitalists.” Mao eventually lost power and passed away. The government

eventually recognized Mao’s mistakes and resumed normal education, agriculture, restored the

economy, and gradually introduced reforms. It was like the Great Depression in America. Many

people in my hometown Zunyi couldn’t find work while the luckier ones mostly made do with

selling vegetables at the market or becoming a food vendor. I was a teacher, getting regular

monthly salary and I had social benefits, so I was perhaps the luckiest of the bunch. However,

while the salary was enough for a living, it wasn’t enough to send my son Hong to college.

My wife knew this too, and she actively encouraged me. She supported me throughout

my teaching career and did her job of taking care of our son and our daughter. On the day that

Hong got his acceptance letter, she cried with pure joy and shared the news with our neighbors.

That afternoon my son briefly described his plans and what he wanted to major in in college.

However when she heard about the tuition for Wuhan University, she smiled with glee, but upon

closer examination I could see that she shook her chin violently. Before I had a chance to say

anything, my son got up, saying that he wanted to hang out with his buddies and share the joyful

news.

“Sure, go ahead! We’re proud of you,” I said.

Immediately after he stepped out of the apartment and closed the door, my wife

whispered in a voice so low that the sound of light breezes blowing seemed loud in comparison.

She did not want Hong to hear what she had to say.

“Lungerban-no? What can be done?”

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From the years I lived with Dexian, I knew that she wanted a positive answer even

though I couldn’t answer her question. I said something that I would later regret.

“I’ll find a part-time job to compensate our financial needs. You needn’t worry about me.

I know what to do, Fung-Laoshi.” Fung-Laoshi was the nickname I call her when I wanted her to

calm and relax. And she did for quite a long time.

I was good in calligraphy and I like working with my hands, so I became an engraver.

This was a profession that was special back in the day. It offered good pay for a relatively small

amount of work. It requires focus, concentration and precision. Your mind has to be locked onto

the surface, whether it is a sheet of metal or a stone slab.  And because of the strive-for-

perfection spirit in calligraphy, I cannot afford to make mistakes. I have to decide on things like

the deepness of the characters, the amount of ink, and many more. My boss tells me that his

standard for these carved boards and slabs is “One millimeter too deep, one board smashed.”

The following month, my vision started to get bad. Dexian discovered this when I played

Chinese chess with her. She lost a piece and told me to look for it. I couldn’t find it no matter

how hard I looked. After about an hour she put on her famous angry look and told me that the

chess piece was right under the sofa. I had no words to say.

After working for a while, my boss favored my boards over others’ because of my efforts

and devotion and told me to carve and engrave more boards. The workload increased so I had no

choice but to bring boards home and work on them from there.

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Then, one night, Dexian suddenly grabbed my board and smashed it. Although the board

didn’t break, it became useless because the placement of the ink was compromised. You could

imagine how angry I was, because I could not make anything out of her actions.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I exclaimed.

“Your eyes! Your vision is beginning to fail!” she responded.

I didn’t know what to say, because this was true, but I pressed on.

“So? I want to get the tuition for my son! This is the only way, Fung-Laoshi! How could

you not understand?”

I expected an answer, but instead my carving knife was snatched by her and it

unmistakably flew over the rooftop of our apartment. I was glad that Hong wasn’t around here to

see any of this nonsense.

“Your boss says ‘One millimeter too deep, one board smashed’ right? Well you’re far

beyond one millimeter too deep, and if you decide to continue, your vision will fail. Get tuition

out of your mind. Surely your eyes are worth more than that, don’t you think? And I don’t care

what you do to get tuition, this is forbidden by me, understand?”

I did not understand. I decided that she was crazy, how she pulled such a ridiculous thing

off was a miracle. Without money, nothing would be possible. However, for the sake of her

feelings and my vision, I quit my job soon afterwards. It was a harsh feeling, and I was

concerned with what would happen next.

It turned out that everything went on fine. Hong got a scholarship and that lessened our

burden. As time elapsed, China’s economy grew and the salary was raised. By the time my

[Model #4]

daughter Meng, who is younger than Hong, went to college, the financial burden was

virtually gone. Our living standards were up, for we could afford color television and a

refrigerator. Our neighbors were in the same boat as us, getting a higher quality of life and

acquiring what used to be “luxuries.” But all of these things can be taken with a grain of salt.

What really mattered was that my vision was kept well and it allowed me to do many things.

It was in these things that I did later on, like helping my grandson with his studying,

reading literature, playing Erhu-a popular string instrument, seeing Zunyi’s beauty etc. that I’ve

learned to value my eyes and protect my vision. I couldn’t thank Dexian more, and I felt a sense

of guilt about how I misunderstood her and not be grateful of her good intentions. I owe her in a

way that no one could understand.

By all means, I’m still protecting my vision. I want to see clearly because I want to see

my grandson Dan grow taller, speak fluent American English, and if possible, I want to see the

face of my great-grandson. And I believe my lesson is something my grandson can learn from.

Health is always the priority. If money is taken away, there are still chances of earning more.

However, if health is taken away, then the damage is irreversible and catastrophic. Do study

hard, but mind your health as well.