It took just three months to gain about twenty five pounds during the single year of 2003.  Then during a nine month pregnancy, I gained another thirty more pounds by the time I gave birth on April 19, 2004.  Between the years of 2003 and 2005, my five feet six inch frame transformed from a sexy one hundred forty five pounds to a dangerous two hundred twenty one pounds.

I have always struggled to appreciate the reflection in my mirror.  For some unfortunate reason, I had a mother who never saw me at my best.  Although boys saw me as a juicy bone they wanted to lick, my mother always complained that I was fat.  My grandfather always argued with his own daughter, “Your girl is just beautiful!  Why do you think she is fat?  Look at her!  She is beautiful.  Just let her be!”  My father just kept his mouth shut, but he mended my wounds by taking me for a long bike ride.  We took long, adventurous rides till I was thirteen.  And till this day, I wish they had lasted longer.

When I was ten years old in 1984, my mother enrolled me in a weight-loss prevention program in downtown Miami.  I had no say in the choice, and quite frankly; I was used to mother dictating my life.  The company made a profit from two areas: One, the young fit girls who wanted to become gymnastics champions; and second, older women who wanted to lose weight.  I was the only ten year old member in the group of older women.

On a daily basis, we were instructed to wear waist belts that were strapped against the wall and held by long rubber bands.  The waist belt shook violently for thirty minutes— I felt the need to vomit every time.  When the shacking ended at last and I removed the belt, I felt the vibration all over my body for hours!  Soon after, we were taken to a “SAUNA ROOM.”  The room contained four enclosed, upright tombs that only revealed the occupant’s head.  We were taken in to each tomb, the doors to each container were closed, and then we stood our ground for fifteen minutes until the fat dripped off our bodies.  The elder ladies joked about the steaming process, while I held back my tears.  I knew that the weight was never to come off with hot steam and I kept my mouth shut.

A year later, when I was eleven, I saw one of the gymnastics students practice flip routines through the main floor.  I thought she looked fantastic, but I also thought that I was surely capable of completing the same flips.  When she repeated the routines, I asked if it was okay if I could try it.  The girls were very kind to let me have a go at it.  I held my breath at the far corner of the room, and then blew breath out to relax.  I then concentrated.  I ran to make the three flips.  Bump, bump, flip…bump, bump, flip…and I stood up right at the end.  I opened my eyes and saw that all the girls held a stoned expression on their face.  Then I noticed as I looked around that girl after girl began to crack an honest smile.  Twelve girls looked at me and with their smiles; I felt the most reassuring gesture of friendship anyone had ever shown towards me.  One young girl of about the age of nine approached me and asked me if I had ever done gymnastics before.  When I responded no, she said; “I have no idea how you were able to learn that so fast.  That was amazing!”  All the girls asked me to do the same moves again.  I gladly accepted.  When I concluded my routine just the same as I had done before, my weight loss teacher approached.  One of the gymnasts informed her how great I was and the rest of the girls stepped in to encourage the comment.  The instructor informed the girls that “Her mother pays for Vivian to lose weight, not to make her a champion gymnast.”

“Miss piggy, get out of here!”  My older brother would yell at me every time I would even emerge into his space.  “Oink!”  He and his friends would call out to me just for fun.  “Hey, Vivi!  You are fat!”  And then he would laugh—my older brother was supposed to protect me.  Instead, he was always my worst bully.

“Vivi…you are fat!”  Even though boys would desperately run after me, and beg me to be their girl, I was still fat to my mother at age fifteen.  At age eighteen, I still needed to lose ten more pounds even though I had more boys chasing after me.  By age twenty, I had already met my future husband, and by the time I began to plan my wedding, I told her “DAMMIT….ENOUGH!”  I closed my door to her and the rest of my family, and soon my fixation about my weight took on a different life.

I began to eat my way out of depression.  Four months after I gave birth to my daughter in 2004, I was forty pounds overweight.  I felt tired all the time.  I was miserable.  I lived FAT for years!

2011:  I have lost forty-three pounds.  Why?  Because I finally realized that I have the power to be “ME,” And because the exercise classes I am taking are extremely challenging.  I lived under the scrutiny from my mother far too long.  For many years, I believed that I had no worth at all.  I actually thought many times, that others saw FAT in me and that was how it was going to be forever.  But now, I have finally given up trying to look beautiful for my mother.  Now?  I have finally begun to focus on how I feel, and what I think I should feel like when I see myself in the mirror.  And the reflection looking back at me now looks to be at peace and happy.

Book Cover by Honi Werner

When we first meet Hassan, we immediately fall in love with the loving and caring Hazara boy that lives during the peaceful early years of the1970’s in Afghanistan.  Unfortunately, being born into the Hazara race in Afghanistan means that by human law, that person will be forced into servitude.  Being forced into servitude means that the Hazara individual will never be able to earn an education, and many grow up to be illiterate.  Hassan is the son of Ali, a quiet and peaceful man who serves Baba, the narrator’s father in The Kite Runner.  Amir, the narrator, never meets his mother who dies giving birth to him.  As a result, he is constantly seeking for his father’s approval and attention.  Hassan’s cruel mother leaves him and his father Ali soon after she gives birth to the boy who is born with a harelip.  We learn that Hassan looks up to Amir, and he worships his friendship.  Amir’s first word was Baba, Hassan’s first word was Amir.  Although Amir plays with Hassan and reads to him, he is often cruel to the child Hassan.  He doesn’t mean to belittle Hassan, but he does so in a very selfish manner that breaks our hearts.

In the first few chapters, we are taken to an incredible Kite flying tournament in Afghanistan during a winter day.  It is during this most important day of Amir’s life, when he witnesses a horrific crime against Hassan.  It is this event that ultimately molds Amir’s future and that of Hassan’s.  Their lives will never be the same, and it is Amir’s determination to forget the event soon after he moves to America.  Eventually, the past catches up with him when he is all grown up living in San Francisco.  He must return to Afghanistan.  It is during this trip, that Amir comes to grip with what happened in the past and to Hassan.  He is also given the opportunity to be good again.  He must, however, come to terms with a new revelation that eventually, will place him in terrible danger.  Evidently, Amir is not concerned with his own well-being any longer, and therefore he begins a dangerous journey towards redemption and mending his past mistakes.

The story between Amir, Hassan, Baba, Ali, and others, is part of a general conflict that brings Afghanistan into despair.  With the invasion of Russian troops in the 1980’s to the take-over of the Taliban, Afghanistan is no longer the peaceful place that it once was when Amir and Hassan were boys.  The streets are bare, dusty, and rigid.  The people are no longer hopeful for the future, more children are left parentless, and the freedoms that they enjoyed are no longer a part of their lives.  When Amir returns to Afghanistan as a grown man, he notices men and children roam the streets in agony.  The people of Afghanistan in 2001 not only suffer from bodily discomforts, but their spirit has been murdered.  It is during this dangerous year, that Amir must choose a new path for he and his wife who is back home in San Fransisco.

A riveting, painful story to read, but The Kite Runner lives up to its hype.  Hossein takes us through an unforgettable story with vivid images that pierce our eyes as we read.  The characters’ voices, especially that of Hassan’s, are pure and honest.  From the moment we begin to read, we are not able to put the book down because of the meticulous plot and its narrative.  We see life in Afghanistan through the narrator’s eyes, and we immediately realize that that was Khaled Hossein’s purpose.  Some might think he wrote the book to entertain, but his true calling was to spark a spirit in us that will lead to an immediate rescue of the tormented children in Afghanistan.

Stockett’s novel has several voices. And each voice gives us a new perspective on life during the early 1960’s. We hear the voices of African American women detailing what it is like to work for White women in the South, and their excruciating moments just to get by one more day. They give us the heartbreaking details on how they live as they raise the white children in a White Southern home. They show us the love they feel for each child such as a birth mother should feel.

We meet a white woman named Skeeter, who in her own search for the truth; is compelled to try to make things right in Mississippi. She is haunted by the secret her parents keep from her on why their own “HELP” named Constantine left her family before she returned from college. Constantine was a strong and sweet woman who raised Skeeter, but no one will tell her why Constantine left. And she is forced to find Constantine’s truth in her own dangerous manner.

The voices in this book remind us why Lincoln sacrificed his life, and why both Kennedy’s and King’s blood were shed. Although we may think that times have changed, there is much to be done. Stockett’s book is a reminder that we need to walk in others shoes in order to understand why we need to make a change. And to me, change means having to understand history—and the fact that we need to delete the Confederate Flag in order for our wonderful country to thrive.
Wonderful book! Everyone should read it NOW!

He was thirteen-years-old, two years my elder. We loved our excursions to the river that neighbored our community because we escaped the lunacy of what the world offered us. Michael’s parents didn’t care to have him around much, and I didn’t care to be near my parents. Michael and I humorously discussed at times that we should trade places, but I joked that I didn’t have the heart to send him off to live with my crazy, racist, and stubborn parents.

I was up early one Spring Sunday morning eating a bowl of cereal as I watched “The Smurfs.” Suddenly, I heard a tap coming from the sliding door that led to my opened back yard.   I was a bit annoyed that someone interrupted the episode when Gargamel captured Smurfette. I looked around the corner and saw Michael grinning as he waved hello. “He never comes on Sundays,” I thought to myself. He stepped back as he saw me make my way to the sliding door.
“Hey, what’s up,” I said.
Michael was tall with short black hair. He was somewhat of a gentle giant but he was childishly handsome. He tended to walk with a purpose as if his destination depended on his presence. Other kids in the neighborhood respected him, and he had very few enemies. Although he wasn’t a great student at school due to a minor learning disability, his teachers liked him.
“You wanna go riding?” He asked. His bike parked right outside.
“Hum, yea, sure, okay,” I responded.

I ran upstairs to my parents’ room, and as Mama stretched her body on her bed, I asked her for permission. I was surprised when she allowed me to go riding on a Sunday—on Sundays we always attended church. South Americans, especially in our Chilean culture, are devoted Catholics who never miss a Sunday mass. Even with her short black hair and small stature, Mother was a strikingly good-looking woman who was worn out from scrubbing sinks and toilets. Her hands and feet constantly caused her discomfort, and her twelve-hour workday nearly wore her out. She, like my father, worked the same excruciating hours since our arrival to The United States on September of 1980.

I excitedly ran to my room, opened the closet door, found my soccer shorts, and slipped them on. When I took off my shirt, terror overcame me as I noticed that my chest had grown two slightly visible bumps. I’d seen the bumps gradually appearing over time, but now they were even more noticeable. “Oh my God!” I screamed. I looked up towards the mirror, looked down, toward the mirror, looked down. “Ah!” My grandfather, who’s bedroom was next to mine, ran into my room and asked, “Are you okay?”
“No, look at me!” I pointed to my chest.

My grandfather smiled and asked me to please quickly cover up. I shockingly did so, but the terror did not escape my body. I was innocently trembling as if I just stepped out of warm water and out into a cold breeze. As I stood in front of the door sized mirror, I began to ask myself why I had caught “this” disease. Surely I washed my hands often, I made sure I took a bath everyday, and I mot certainly devotedly prayed to God every night. For a long time as a child, I only wore a pair of shorts at the beach. My parents felt extremely uncomfortable with my choice, but they never prevented me from doing so. Granddaddy never made a fuss about it, but now, he was. “Why?” I asked him.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “you are growing up now. See…when girls grow up they-“ He kept gently chatting about how girls grew up to be women, and how men did certain things, and babies came out…and so on. His voice, although I allowed him to conclude his speech, sounded like an old radio trying to avoid static noise. As I began to put on my sneakers, I noticed that Grandpa had a saddened look upon his face. The gaze in his eyes and his demeanor portrayed a sense of painful loss, and I couldn’t contain the urge to give him a big kiss on the cheek. “Well, I have to go now,” I said. And I never looked back to check on him as I exited the room.

When I reached Michael, he was feeding chunks of our bread to the neighborhood ducks. He looked at me, gave me a weird penetrating smile, bit his lower lip, and cleaned the crumbs off his hands against his shorts. He nervously said, “I hope you don’t get angry, but I got some of your bread to feed them. I was bored.”

“It’s okay. Let’s go now.” As we began to jump on our bikes, I tried to analyze why Michael looked at me that way? His eyes peeped at me in a most uncomfortable way and it nearly gave me the sensation to slap him across the face. I also realized that for the very first time in my short life, I had something physical to hide—something forbidden, as my grandfather advised me.

The day was exceptional for a ride. The air was crisp, the sun was welcoming, and the breeze cooled us. As the smell of fresh oak and pine permeated my brain, I quickly returned to a happy state and suggested a race towards the river. Michael declined the race and said that he would rather just take a slow ride there. “What? He never said no to a race,” I thought to myself. We always raced, because we were always so competitive.

The short trip to the river was silent, and all I could hear was the noise that our tires made as they rolled through the pavement of the road. When we arrived to our spot, we found the two terror twins from the neighborhood paddling on a canoe. I quickly shot them a piercing stare that immediately sent them paddling away. The twins, Timmy and Chad were blond, had blue eyes with long faces, and both were extremely thin. They were always suspended from school due to poor and deviant behavior, and they spend most of the time causing trouble around the neighborhood. Since I landed a brutal blow to Timmy’s face one summer, however; they were terrified of me, and they always ran the opposite direction when they saw me coming. Michael jumped off his bike and walked towards the bank of the river. He squatted and began to stare at the clear water. The pine trees whistled in the breeze and the smell of dampness blended in with the smell of the Flowers that were nested in between the brushes .

I walked up next to him and said as I pointed towards the water, “Look tadpoles!”
“Let me see.”
“They are so weird,” I said.
“To think that those tiny things will turn into frogs some day,” He responded.
“What?”
“Those little tadpoles,” he said, “Will turn into frogs one day.”

I remember dreadfully thinking that the little tadpoles were going to unwillingly transform into slimy frogs. They would have to hop to get around as frogs, when as tadpoles; they were free to float and swim through the clear waters of the river. Against their will, the tadpoles were going to turn into frogs—ugly bumpy frogs.

Michael quickly changed his mood and asked, “Vivian, do you like me?” Vivian? He never called me by my name! “Viv” That’s what he called me. I walked over to a bush and yanked a dangling branch. I walked towards him, then around and faced his back. “Off course I like you, we have a great time together. You’re my best friend.”

“That’s not what I mean,” He replied as is eyes still focused on the tadpoles. “I mean, you ever would, I mean, would I think, oh….would I be able to, ah, kiss you?” I became annoyed and apathetic to his feelings not because I was shy, but due to the abrupt interruption of my childhood. My palms began to sweat, and I felt the erratic beats of my heart pumping in the center of my throat. Without warning, a frog leaped from one rock to another at the foot of the bank, and in anger; I threw the branch at the toad missing it only by inches. Frightened, the frog hopped off the rock and disappeared among the bushes that encircled the bank.

“I have to go now,” I spoke after a brief silence. Michael didn’t say a word as I jumped on my bicycle and I raced away from the river. I stopped a few yards away and turned back. Amazingly, Michael remained in the same position I left him—squatted down staring at the water. I frantically raced against the wind, and the intensity of sun almost choked me. As I peddled my way home, one single mental picture played in my brain. It was a vivid image of my bicycle wheels running over the frog and the only visible body parts left were its tiny, little, slimy legs.

When I arrived home, I slowly took a warm shower, and I tried to scrub off the bumps with soap, but they were still there when I began to get dressed. I soon heard a knock on my door. I heard grandpa’s voice, “Can I come in?”
“Yeah,” I answered.
“I got something for you,” He said as he took out something from a shopping bag. “It’s a bra.” He nervously placed it on my chest and said, “See, girls use it once their bodies begin to change. Put it on.”
“No! I want to be a tadpole!” I screamed and began to cry.
“What’s this about?” He asked.
“I don’t want to change, I don’t want Michael to kiss me, and I want these bumps to go away!”

My sweet grandfather explained that all girls went through this change and that I should be proud that it was happening to me at such a young age. He said that I was beautiful and special, and that some day, I would love to have all the Michael’s of the world kiss me. He said that even tough I felt strange, that I would always be his little, beautiful, adventurous baby.

He gave me a kiss, stood up, walked out of my room and closed the door behind him. I walked over to the door-sized mirror, and I tried on the bra. I sourly looked in the mirror for minutes. In an almost peculiar manner, I stared at my long shiny black hair, my long lashes and brown eyes; and then back to my chest. “Well,” I spoke to myself, “At least they’ll be covered.” I continued to stare at the new image reflected on my mirror, and I inquisitively thought about how women did those things with men! “I hope Michael doesn’t want to do that to me! I wonder how long it’s gonna take for the tadpoles to turn into frogs? Ugh…poor frogs, they can’t wear a bra.”

Granddaddy passed away two years after I envisioned murdering the frog. His death was a horrific loss in my life—even more painful than the passing of my childhood. He was an angel to me as he continuously guided me through the most challenging moments of my childhood. Even though I needed the presence of my grandfather as I continued to face life’s hurdles; while still living in Miami, I always made room in my busy schedule to visit the tadpoles in the river. And I recalled the magnificent, innocent adventures I experienced as a child.

Bad Neighbors Ruin Our Pursuit of Happiness

We are all familiar with the alienable rights bestowed to us by the Declaration of Independence.  One right that we all strive to achieve is “the pursuit of happiness.”  We look for the best job, the best schools for our children, and the best neighborhoods to settle into a peaceful life.  Although my husband and I have ardently attempted to maintain a peaceful life; our past and present neighbors, either consciously or unconsciously, have tried to disrupt our pursuit to happiness.  The more we experience the horrors from our neighbors, the more I think Robert Frost what right when he said, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

We moved to our home in 2003 when the home market was thriving, and when the opportunity to purchase a new home jumped at us, we immediately found a nice pre-built corner home that fit our needs just right.  When we moved into our beautiful home, the neighborhood was not yet completed.  There was at least 20% left to complete the Deed Restricted neighborhood. We were newlyweds, and eager to make friends and begin a family of our own.

Our daughter was born the following year—it was a perfect spring that welcomed our very fist child.  Two months after our daughter was born, new neighbors moved in behind us.  At first, they seemed quiet and reserved.  A family of three with a father, a stepmother, and his son appeared to be friendly until the father, John, decided to allow his brown lab to roam around our yard.  This bothered me a bit, but I never spoke to him about my discomfort.  Until one bright sunny day during the summer, I noticed his dog was digging a whole outside our bay window.  I realized that his dog was freely declaring our yard as his own space, and I became furious.  My husband asked him to please keep his dog away from our lawn and that is when all our problems with our neighbors escaladed.

Our back yard became a walk-through for not just neighborhood kids but for adults as well.  We had not asked for a perimeter fence at the time of the building of our home never thinking we would need one.  It seemed that everyone thought that our back yard was a right-a-way to the other side of the neighborhood, and after numerous arguments with the freely-trespassing individuals and our neighbor’s dog digging wholes all over our yard, we decided to build a perimeter fence.

Soon after we build the fence, our neighbors, who we thought to be quiet and reserved, decided to allow their friends to park their vehicles on our yard.  My husband knocked at his door and repeatedly asked him not to park vehicles on our grass.  By the seventh time I found a car parked freely on our yard, I called a tow company and had their car removed.  Twenty minutes later, I heard banging on my windows, cursing and racial remarks, “Those fucking Mexicans!  You come out here and get my car back you fucking Mexican!”  Needless to say, neither my husband nor I are Mexican (Not that it matters!)  A call to the sheriff’s office banned them from approaching our home and during the end of 2007, their home foreclosed and they finally left the neighborhood.

During 2008, a new breed of disrespectful neighbors moved in next door to us.  A man in his mid fifties and his son who seemed to be in his early twenties moved in during the summer.  At first, we never heard a noise coming from next door, until one day it abruptly occurred.  The son and his friends began to hang out outside the front of his home smoking weed and drinking alcohol.  While my daughter slept in her room that was separated by about four yards from the son’s bedroom, he would climb in and out of his window drunk.  He began to chat with people who visited his window on a regular basis (To do what? Why would anyone have visitors at his or her bedroom window late at night?  You can figure that out.)  Over the months, their loudness continued and their screams and drunken behavior woke my daughter from her sleep several nights.

On a Friday morning last year, I awoke at 7AM to loud laughter and cursing coming from our neighbor’s back yard.  I peeked through the window from our guest room and noticed a large group of youngsters congregated in their backyard drinking beer.  I couldn’t believe my eyes!  They were drinking alcohol at 7AM in the morning?  I also noticed that there were several party goers that did not look to be of legal drinking age, so I decided to make a call to the police.  As the police car made its way passed the home, kids began to run in all directions.  Only three were able to flee the area while the rest were quarantined inside the home.  Two kids emerged along four police officers and took a ride in their squad car.

Across the street, we now have a pervert.  It is an unfortunate situation for the only female friend I have in the neighborhood who happens to live next door to the disgusting human being.  The man, a step father of two and father of one six-year-old girl, masturbates while watching women live on chat.  He drinks beer with one hand and masturbates with the other without any regard to close his blinds and make his living private.  When his wife travels out of state, he decides to have cyber-sex almost everyday.  When my friend brought this to their attention, the wife began to call my friend a peeping-tom.  This off course made us all laugh since her pervert of a husband is overweight and extremely unappealing.

And…just last night, my husband and I had a sleepless night when the pervert’s right door neighbors decided to throw a happy party that eventually took a dangerous turn for the worse.  I mentioned to my husband around 10PM that the mother of two teenagers was not around again.  We are not sure what the mother does for a living, but these kids are always drinking alcohol and smoking pot—one day I warned them I would call the police if they did not move inside the house to smoke weed.

The party continued passed 2AM the next morning and soon after I heard screams coming from the street.  When I looked out my kitchen window, I noticed there were about twenty young teens running after one young man who was screaming at the top of his lungs.  He seemed to be having a violent outburst as he swung his arm at a girl and took off his shirt as if ready to attack.  I told my husband to call the police.  When the police drove by, all the lights in their house turned off and the inhabitants avoided opening the door to the knocking of two police officers who arrived at the scene.  They knocked about seven times until a light finally turned on inside and the young girl who lived at the house met the officers outside.

I believe these kids pretended to be sleeping and that nothing had occurred, but they were not very bright.  There was evidence of a wild party all over the front of the home—including a smashed beer bottle on the floor.  A trail of booze could be followed from the wall onto the floor.  There were bottles all over their front lawn and cigarette buds everywhere.

Needless to say, I am afraid I have to inform the mother of what is going on in her house when she is not there.  I am afraid that she will become not be supportive and call me a liar.  However, I am fed up with the neighbors in our community who insist on ignoring the peace of others.  I am also fed up with the fact that we pay an association fee every other month for what purpose?  The community’s association never takes care of violent community members and every time I ask for their assistance, they tell me that I should take care of the problem myself or call the police.

I wish I was able to build a ten feet tall perimeter fence that encircles our home.  I will even build a fort if I had the money!  However, why do I have to think about such extremes measures just to live in peace?  We don’t bother anyone.  We don’t make noise.  We don’t park our vehicles on other people’s property.  We don’t throw loud and dangerous parties, and we never—never—never…disturb anyone’s happiness.  I wish I was able to build a very tall fence that would keep the junk off our lives.

Cover design by Roberto De Vico De Cumptich

Our lives, somehow, will eventually make a full circle.  We may be married, have a career, and have our own children to raise.  Our memories, however, will always bring us back to that one moment in our past; our childhood, that in someway added a footprint to the shaping of our character.  Adeline Yen Mah’s Falling Leaves: The Memoir of an Unwanted Chinese Daughter, is a wonderfully crafted book detailing recollections about her upbringing in a rigid family household in Communist China while allowing the reader to be enchanted by Chinese culture.  In a simple yet mesmerizing narrative, Yen Mah gives us a detailed story about gender roles, and the importance of being tenderly nurtured as a child. 

Reliving the Past

Yen Mah’s title derives from a Chinese aphorism that reads, “Falling leaves return to their roots.”  She states in the prologue, “My roots were from a Shanghai family headed by my affluent father and his beautiful wife, set against a background of treaty ports carved into foreign concessions, and the collision of East and West played out within and without my very own home.”(3)¹ We are given an insightful flashback as she is sitting in an office with her estranged family awaiting the reading of her father’s last will and testament.  While she gives us a sense that she is utterly uncomfortable, we begin to feel that Yen Mah does not have a positive relationship with her older siblings and her stepmother Niang.  Unfortunately, we understand immediately that her story will not be a joyful one, and we must take a journey back to where her roots began in Shanghai, China to grasp why she feels so uncomfortable during the reading.

 Yen Mah’s own mother passes away while she gives birth to her youngest daughter.  Immediately, Yen Mah’s father distances himself from the child because he blames her for his wife’s death.  Her siblings are abusive towards her, and she is constantly shunned by the family.  A heart-breaking example is when she has to fearfully walk home alone from first grade class because not one person in her family remembers to pick her up from school.  In addition, we hope that her family will begin to show signs affection when Yen Mah shows high intellect at school, but instead, we only feel disappointment as we see her to continue to endure painful abandonment not only by her stepmother, but also from her very own father.  We do, however, cheer for her triumph till the very end of the memoir.

Chinese Culture

Throughout her memoir, Yen Mah gives the reader a brief yet intensive history lesson about the Chinese cultural facets beginning in 1842.  During the early 1840’s, “Britain, France, and the United States of America staked out foreign settlements within the city” of Shanghai. (5)¹ The Westernization of the city gave way to corruption and a loss of Cultural assimilation within its people.  In addition, Yen Mah’s own father struggled for many years to become successful, and although he triumphed in the business world for many years, the Cultural Revolution between the years of 1965 and 1968 had a profound negative impact in her entire family. 

 Another brilliant aspect in Yen Mah’s beautiful memoir is her use of her native language.  She is meticulous on showing her readers how to pronounce each sentence and phrase as we look deep into her family’s history, “At the age of twenty-six, Grand Aunt’s third elder brother, my Ye Ye (grandfather) entered into an arranged marriage through a mei-po (professional female marriage broker).  My fifteen-year-old grandmother came from an eminently suitable Shanghai family.  Theirs was a men dang hu dui (as the appropriate door fits the frame of correct house) marriage.” (10)¹  In addition, we are given the gift of learning Chinese aphorism as we are given glimpses of her ancestors’ arranged lives.

It is shocking to learn that Chinese women up to the nineteenth century were forced to have their feet bound.  Foot binding was done as the women’s were “wrapped tightly with a long, narrow cloth bandage,” that forced “the four lateral toes under the soles so that only the big toe protruded.  This bandage was tightened daily for a number of years, squeezing the toes painfully inwards and permanently arresting the foot’s growth in order to achieve the tiny feet so prized by Chinese men.” (11)¹  Although foot-binding was considered a symbol of women’s “subservience and of their family’s wealth,” Yen Mah explains that the woman she looked up to, her Grand Aunt, refused to submit to such a painful act.  And in spite of this refusal, her Great Aunt became a very successful woman during her early life.

 Gender Roles

 Yen Mah reveals to us that “Confucius had professed that ‘only ignorant women were virtuous.’”(14)¹ The Chinese culture during her time growing up in China lived up to that profession.  Women were not allowed to hold prestigious positions in businesses, and they were treated with the lowest form of disrespect for centuries.  In addition, we meet Yen Mah’s stepmother soon after her own mother dies giving birth to Yen Mah.  Her stepmother, who she and her siblings call Niang, is a manipulative, uncaring woman who makes it her mission to isolate Yen Mah from her family.  Niang in some way represents the social injustices that many women suffered during Yen Mah’s lifetime.  While men were allowed to exercise their manhood freely in many ways, women were shunned and forced to abide by the roles that men had established for them. 

Unhappy Childhood leads to Excellent Writing      

As we have seen in many memoirs such as Angela’s Ashes and I know why the Caged Bird sings, others suffering gives life to true writing.  Why is it that we are so absorbed reading about an individual’s struggle to survive through a heart-wrenching abuse?  It is because we believe the writer’s story, and in some way, we begin to relive our own unhappy moments from childhood.  Yen Mah decided to share her experiences to give us strength.  Through her painful memories, we are able to gather our own insecurities, place them on the table, and only then can we begin to decipher on how to perfect our future.  As Yen Mah stated herself, “I read somewhere that an unhappy childhood is a writer’s whole capital.  If that is so, then I am rich indeed.”(2)²  In addition, we gain full access to her account thanks to the excellent recollections about her painful childhood.

1.  Yen Mah, Adeline.  Falling Leaves: The Memoir of an Unwanted Chinese Girl.  New York:   Broadway Books, 1997.

 2.  www.randomhouse.com/resources/rgg.html.  Reading Group Guide.  Random House, 1997.    

Cover design: Joe Montgomery

 

     As children, some of us have felt the need to find an adventurous tale that would leave a fantastic footnote in our youth.  Somehow, we needed that sense of wonder that separated us from adults.  Whether it was a trip to an unknown area, to a mysterious investigation about our new neighbors next door, we needed the adventure in our lives.  In Alan Bradley’s delightful novel, The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie; however, we find ourselves trotting along with an amazing eleven-year-old girl who is on a quest to solve a gruesome murder.  Far from what we ever imagined to experience ourselves, Bradley’s heroine, Flavia de Luce, decides to gather the clues that will eventually lead to the unveiling of the truth.  Bradley’s debut novel is a 1950’s mystery-tale, written in a meticulous first person narrative that deals with the unscrambling of secrets and the solution of a crime.  In The Sweetness of the Bottom of the Pie, Bradley shows a marvelous capacity to depict the narrator’s intelligent and determined voice, and his portrayal of the setting is faultless. 

The Delightful Flavia de Luce

     Even though we see Flavia de Luce riding in her bicycle that she named Gladys, we quickly learn that she is not an average eleven-year-old girl who lives in a town in England.  Her relationship to her two sisters, Ophelia and Daphne is sour, and unfortunately, she does not have a positive female role model due to her mother’s death when she was very young.  On her won, Ms. De Luce enjoys passing time by working on her latest experiments in her very own chemistry lab.  Flavia tells us that once she and her bicycle Gladys “had ridden all morning to look for an inn where Richard Mead was said to have stayed a single night in 1747.  Richard (or Dick, as I sometimes referred to him) was the author of A Mechanical Account of Poisons in Several Essays.  Published in 1702, it was the first book on the subject in the English language, a first edition of which was the pride of my chemical library.  In my bedroom portrait gallery, I kept his likeness stuck to the looking-glass alongside those of” several noteworthy men.(130)¹      

     Flavia is extremely bright, and she quickly realizes that she must investigate the clues left behind in order to free her father from a murder charge.  She is self-reliant and self-motivated with a fearless approach to seek the true villain of a slain man just outside the garden to her home.  At the beginning of chapter twenty, we get a glimpse of Flavia’s dazzling notes about the possible perpetrators of the murder.  She pedantically lists the names of thirteen individuals, their motive and probable scenarios.    

     Flavia’s personality reminds us about the memorable, fictitious, heroic Huckleberry Finn in Mark Twain’s classic novel, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  Both Huck and Flavia are spirited children who expect the world to obey certain rules, but when those rules change, they are both thrown off course.  Huck and Flavia, however; remain loyal to those they love, and they are valiant against injustice.  We can almost hear Huck in Flavia’s authentic voice when she says, “I was me.  I was Flavia.  And I loved myself, even if no one else did.”(74)¹ 

Setting

     The De Luce family lives at the Buckshaw Estate.  Flavia is intrinsically mesmerized by the beauty of the third century Georgian house when she says, “As I climbed over the last stile and Buckshaw came into view across the field, it almost took my breath away.  It was from this angle and at this time of day that I loved it most.  As I approached from the west, the mellow old stone glowed like saffron in the late afternoon sun, well settled into the landscape like a complacent mother hen squatting on her eggs, with the Union Jack stretching itself contentedly overhead.”(105)³  Through a masterful use of simile, Bradley clearly reveals to us a magnificent portrait of the estate and its surroundings.

     In addition, Bradley describes a well-structured picture of the interior of the house, “Buckshaw possessed two grand staircases, each one winding down in a sinuous mirror image of the other, from the first floor, coming to earth just short of the black painted line that divided the checker-tiled foyer.  My staircase, from the ‘tar,’ or east wing, terminated in that great echoing painted hall beyond which, over against the west wing, was the firearm museum, and behind it, Father’s study.”(24)¹  Moreover, In an almost fairy-like voice; we hear Flavia speak about the dreamlike view of Buckshaw’s garden, “As I stepped outside, I saw that the silver light of dawn had transformed the garden into a magic glade, its shadows darkened by the thin band of day beyond the walls.  Sparkling dew lay upon everything, and I should not have been at all surprised if a unicorn had stepped from behind a rosebush and tried to put its head in my lap.”(27)¹

     As we continue to witness Flavia’s travels with Gladys, we are given a glimpse of Buckshaw’s many surroundings.  Bradley’s flawless personification of the near by school gives its edifices and its environment and almost human-like existence.  “Greyminster School lay dozing in the sun, as if it were dreaming of past glories.  The place was precisely as I imagined it: magnificent old stone buildings, tidy green lawns running down to the lazy river, and vast, empty playing fields that seemed to give off silent echoes of cricket matches whose players were long dead.”(225)¹  The historical echoes of the school are part of an important layer of Flavia’s acceptance of what is sacred in her life. She enjoys the splendor of the natural world and she embraces its beauty. 

A Delightful Pie

     Flavia de Luce unmistakably reminds us that “Unless some sweetness at the bottom lie, who cares for all the crinkling of the pie!”  The quote, by William King form The Art of Cookery (1708), was undoubtedly the inspiration behind Alan Bradley’s title.  Flavia may not be a dazzling flower in the outside, but she clearly possesses a bountiful spirit that delights even the most pungent weed in the novel.  Her sisters are fixated in looking beautiful, but their bitter personality revolts us.  Flavia’s father may live in a grandeur estate, but in the end, he is completely broke. Each character, including the guilty murderer, is exposed in an unmerciful manner.  Bradley’s message lectures us that as long as we taste the delightfulness in our lives, we won’t mind each bitter layer of the pie; and we will be rewarded with a blissful, unforgettable end.

Note:  Don’t forget to pick up a copy of The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie and the second Flavia de Luce mystery The Weed that Strings the Hangman’s Bag (available now in your local bookstores or online).  BRACE YOUSELVES!  According to Bradley, there will be five Flavia de Luce mystery series in total.

1.  Bradley, Alan.  The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie.  New York:  Bantam Books, 2010.

The Emperor’s Children by Claire Messud

     Ernest Hemmingway once wrote, ““I write one page of masterpiece to ninety-one pages of shit.  I try to put the shit in the wastebasket.” (134) ¹ Claire Messud should have thrown out most of her impressive words in many sections of The Emperor’s Children.  In addition, it seems that Messud’s target reader in the novel is that of an educated individual.  Either taught by a higher institution or self-taught, the reader must force himself or herself to appreciate Messud’s extensive sentences.  On the other hand, we must be patient as we take the voyage through each intricate paragraph, because we witness each character’s shocking, ironic revelation about human existence in a precarious world. although Messud’s narrative is somewhat of an exhausting journey to its climax, her use of indirect and direct characterization introduces the reader to a variety of complex yet interesting individuals who make New York their home.  We view each character’s actions and dialogue through a lens as they passionately strive for self-ratification and self-fulfillment in competitive New York City—a city that Messud clearly depicts through detailed narrative.

 Style

     The sixty-seven chapters in The Emperor’s Children are wisely positioned within monthly parts that begin with March of 2001.  “Darlings! Welcome! And you must be Danielle?” (3) ² Messud’s opening sentence in the first chapter of part one (March) is a simple and clear question that introduces the reader to the novel’s first character, Danielle.  However, as we read the third and final sentence of the first paragraph, we also get a bit of a sour taste of Messud’s complex and extensive style when she introduces a supporting character; Lucy Leverett.  A host of a dinner party in Australia, Lucy welcomes Danielle and her friends.  Lucy’s “… dangling fan earrings clanked at her neck as she leaned in to kiss each of them, Danielle too, and although she held her cigarette, in its mother-of-pearl holder, at arm’s length, it’s smoke wafted between them and brought tears to Danielle’s eyes.” (3) ² Messud’s characterization is precise, yet the exhausting description on how Lucy holds her cigarette completely takes the reader by surprise; and we are forced to check back and see if we missed a detail.  Another example of Messud’s intricate sentences is when we get a glimpse of Julius’s inner doubts. A self conscious homosexual, Julius, Messud tells us as he thinks about his relationship to his lover David that “… aware, too, of his propensity to brood, too visibly to succumb to his interior demons and to freight each conversation, each outing, each sexual interaction, with greater import than could rationally be found in it—aware of all these failings they were, he was consciously striving, in this instance, to be Natasha rather than Pierre, to remain a sparkling, light-handed companion behind whose mercurial liveliness he had to trust David could discern, when he was ready, the makings of a devoted partner.” (111) ² 

 Setting

     Those who have been to New York City and have walked its streets can appreciate Messud’s outlined view of the City.  Even readers, who have never been to New York, can certainly feel as if walking alongside Messud’s characters in The Emperor’s Children.  The reader is taken on a journey to a meticulous place and time through the architecture, smells, sounds, and people who walk the city streets.  We can visit Central Park and people-watch through Frederick’s eyes (a young man in his twenties, who decides to move to the city from a small town).  Messud describes his first visit to Central Park, “He marveled silently at the shapes in which New Yorkers came, skinny driven men and women, in work clothes or clinging sportsgear, their veins popping along their rigid necks or at their tiny, taut calves…” (147) ²  We travel to the subway as Frederick takes his first ride through the deep tunnels, “The train, or the air-conditioning, he wasn’t sure which, gave a rising gnatlike whine as they accelerated, and at speed they rattled and bumped like a fairground spin…” (152) ² Through Messud’s articulate imagery of the city, we view each character’s daily routine as they make their way through a massive yet beloved city.

 Characterization

     Each character in The Emperor’s Children has a unique and complex story.  We are aware of each character’s strengths and weaknesses through Messud’s thoroughly structured indirect and direct clues about their fears and passions.  The reader quickly learns that each character strives to succeed and to be accepted in the most popular circles though their confessions and their conversation with others.  Messud’s successful depiction about each character, however; derives from the descriptive narrative of each character’s thoughts and actions.  Messud is a true genius who has given us the privilege to meet these amazing individuals, and makes us cheer and sob for them through every page.

     Danielle Minkoff is an intelligent television producer who in her early thirties has yet to find the special someone in her life at the beginning of the novel.  She does, however, fall for a man who is much older than her and soon realizes that the married man will never be a one woman man.  Mariana Thwaite, Danielle’s best friend, is a gorgeous woman who we find at first has yet to find her place in the world.  She is overshadowed by the immense popularity and success of her father, until she meets a man who persuades her to professionally detach herself from her father.  Mariana, we find though her words and her actions, is somewhat of a dreamer who feels that life owes her a break.  Murray Thwaite, Mariana’s father, is a writer who worked diligently as a young man to make a name for himself in the literary world.  He is absorbed in his daily work and he continuously gives his input about writing and hard work to those around him.  Murray is a vivacious man who accepts his life whether he believes he is a charlatan or not.  His wife, Annabel Thwaite, is a sweet and caring woman who is constantly concerned for her daughter’s happiness and the well-being of a young man she counsels.  The reader can see through her words just how much of a caring person she is in spite of her husband’s infidelities.  When we first meet Ludovic Seeley in the fist chapter, we are introduced to a handsome, very opinionated Australian who decides to move to New York and take the literary world by storm.  Once in New York, he is obsessed with his strenuous work to launch his new magazine, The Monitor.  Although he marries Mariana, just months after meeting her; Ludo, as he likes to be called, remains betrothed to his work and success. 

     One of the most interesting characters in The Emperor’s Children is Julius Clarke.  A gay man in New York City, he finds solace only in excitement.  He goes through great lengths to make sure that he lives a dangerous life even if he knows it will eventually lead to disaster.  Julius is eventually employed by David Cohen, who is a successful professional.  They both form a strong bond which begins to bore Julius at last.  Their relationship takes a dangerous turn when Julius makes a terrible, deceitful decision and he is soon faced with David’s violently, jealous response.

          And then there is Bootie.  Frederick Tubbs is an intelligent college dropout who is constantly nagged by his mother Judy to return to school.  Although Judy loves her son, she fails to understand that Bootie, her nickname for her son, has an agenda of his own.  Bootie is an avid reader who thinks that college is boring and a waste of time.  He would rather read from his classic novels than to sit through a college course.  He feels that self-reliance will give him the power to succeed and become an apprentice to his uncle Murray Thwaite.  Bootie believes that only he has the power to be the man he wants to become, and through a naïve yet simplistic way, he decides to jump into a world that soon turns its back on him.  He is obsessed in becoming the Murray Thwaite of his time; and he fails to responsibly and humbly practice his own work once in New York.  In the end, Bootie reaches a dramatic realization that he needs to become a solid rock before he can actually make ripples in the water. 

      Fortune’s Fools

     Even though we strive to reach a point of fulfillment in our lives, we are not truly prepared to what the world has in store fore us.  Claire Messud’s novel The Emperor’s Children reminds us just how unstable our lives can become when we least expect it.  We can plan our future for many years, but what that future holds for us is entirely up to fate.  Even though Messud’s narrative is a bit exhausting at times, her book reveals a truthful glimpse about our destiny in a somewhat surprising world.  We learn to respect each character as if we truly know them in person, and in the end we suffer through their sense of fragility and loss.  The reader is forced to witness, through strong narrative, each character’s sense of indulgence and then to their astonishing realization that fortune outlines their future.  Eventually, each character must learn to perilously adapt to a new plan that a higher power bestows on them in a New York minute. 

 1.  Phillips, Larry W., ed.  Ernest Hemingway: On Writing.  New York: Scribber, 1983.   

 2.  Messud, Claire.  The Emperor’s Children.  New York:  Vintage Books, 2006.

     Mark Twain once wrote, *“In the course of my experiments I convinced myself that among the animals man is the only one that harbors insults and injuries, broods over them, waits till a chance offers, then takes revenge.  The passion of revenge is unknown to the higher animals.”  The more I experience life, the more I see this statement as a fact of a human condition.  I would like to believe this to be a learned trait, but I believe that a human being is capable of breaking away from negative ideals learned within a family or a culture.  As a member of this category via family values, I chose to depart from the apathetic indulgence in my household. 

     I could not and would not agree to turn my back on my African-America friends.  I could not and would not turn my back on my cousin who happened to be gay.  Therefore, I refused to inflict my loved ones with the intolerance and hatred shown by so many of my family members and our community.  As a teenager, I decided that I would become a member of the tolerant group.  I would never look down at anyone and judge them based on their gender, race, age, and sexual orientation.  I would tolerate.

     I have snapshots from my childhood of my parents either deliberately or unconsciously rolling up the car windows when ever a black person was spotted near by.  I can still hear my father make fun of the black race by saying, “What is the difference between a monkey and a black man? The monkey is smatter.”  Whenever we watched the news on television and there happen to be a story on a black suspect caught by the police, my mother would say, “It had to be a ‘nigger.’”  As a child, I didn’t know any better and I would repeat these words to my friends and hurt many feeling along the way.  I was taught to say these things at home, and I didn’t know how hurtful they were until I reached high school.

     I was a talented teen.  I was in choir and I was a member of the Thespian Troop in High School.  A diverse school, Braddock was built and completed in 1990, and I became a member of its first graduating class of 1992.  The majority of the student population was Hispanic, but there were pockets of a variety of cultures within our campus. 

     In the tenth grade, my very first partner in my drama class happened to be African-American and we grew very close until he moved away our senior year in high school.  His name was Patrick and I remember him as a buoyant individual with an educational curiosity.  He asked me questions about my Hispanic culture, and I asked him questions about his African-American heritage.  His ancestors were slaves removed from their land, and separately sold to different plantation owners.  His last name, Smith, was passed down from the slave owners.  He told me the story of his great, great, great grandmother and how she suffered to see her children sold.  She was stripped from her own identity and became an American slave against her will.  She remarried, had a child, and when slavery ended, her husband was tortured and killed by the Ku Klux Klan (KKK).  He showed me a black and white picture that was salvaged by his family; his great, great, great, grandmother wore a long bright dress, her five year old child barefoot and thin, big round eyes, leaned against his mother.  All I imagined as I looked at picture was the hardship that these two had faced and what more they had to endure.          

     One day, we decided to go to the movies on a date.  We had grown much closer and we decided to become more than friends.  We gave each other a kiss as the movie commenced, and soon after, a kid from our school interrupts our viewing with a question, “What are you doing with this nigger?”  Patrick ignored him, but I didn’t.  I stood up to give him a piece of my mind but Patrick pulled me down and said, “Leave it alone.  I’ve heard that before.”  The bully walked away and I never saw him again.  I couldn’t help but think that he had learned to speak that way at home.  However, I also knew that like me, the bully had control on whether he would break away from that entity.  He had the power to become a member of the tolerant group, but he chose not to.  He chose intolerance.

     When I was ten, my two cousins and I spent a lot of time together.  The best times I can recall were the moments we spent at the beach.  My cousin Karen was the same age as me, and Connie was two years younger.  We had a blast every summer when our families had family picnics and celebrations at Crandon Park in Key Biscayne, Florida.  Not only did we enjoy the beach waters, but we also enjoyed the great cooking.  We truly had great times.

     My cousin Connie was different from Karen.  Connie never played with dolls, she never cared to play with other girls, she hated dresses, and she couldn’t stand to have long hair.  She never called herself a girl, and we made fun of her by calling her Cornie the boy.  We knew that she was different, but it was never revealed until we later became adults that my cousin, Karen’s sister, was born gay.  I can never recall a moment when Connie said, “I think I will be gay for the rest of my life!”  I have known Connie to be the same person ever since I saw her for the first time when I was six years of age.  She was a boy trapped in a girl’s body.  When I became an adult, I decided not to judge Connie or the gay community, because I had witnessed with my own eyes that Homosexuality was not a choice for my cousin.  You must walk in someone else’s shoes in order to understand what they are all about.  I decided to tolerate homosexuality and leave the judging to god.

     When Connie was about eighteen, she confessed to her parents that she was gay.  Their response was violent and unacceptable.  Her father beat her and her mother turned the other way.  Connie was forced out of her home, but she bettered her life by earning a degree from college.  She moved away from her parents only to have them move near her later in her life because they missed their daughter.  Her sister however, who had become a Mormon, tried to pray the homosexuality out of Connie.  This of course, became a continuing event that caused my cousin to separate ties with her only sister Karen.  This separation caused me to think about the number of “Connies” who face this issue everyday only because so many are quick to judge and have no intention to tolerate. 

      I find it hard to believe that people wake up one morning and say, “I think I will be gay from now on.  I don’t care if all of society mocks homosexuality and sometimes gay people are murdered due to disapproval.  I know I can die, but I will always be gay from now on.”  The story of Mathew Shepard is carved in my heart for ever.  Some individuals may say, “Where do we draw a line if we begin to tolerate homosexuals?”  I say, remember when white supremacists said, “If we give the Niggers freedom, they are going to wanna work, own land and marry our women!”  No where in the constitution does it say that we are allowed to keep individuals from reaching happiness.  Off course, we have to adhere to the law and make sure we are all productive members of society, but who are we to keep others from reaching their own happiness.

     We cannot thrive as humans if we are not able to live in harmony.  We will be extinct from the earth if we do not learn to respect everyone’s God-given right to pursue happiness.  It is our duty as humans, to become the highest animal and allow the rest of the animal kingdom to view our species with admiration.  If we cannot tolerate and live in harmony our race will perish and leave no man behind.  All human beings will become a damned animal if we refuse to tolerate and coexist.            

   * Letters from the Earth: The Damned Human Race by Mark Twain

     Everyone is pointing fingers on who brought upon this economic tsunami, but I don’t think the American people really care about that!  What we need is action!  We need to send a message to these greedy corporations that we do matter!  We need a band aid that will stop the bleeding!  We don’t need a psychologist assuring us that as we watch the DOW, things will get better.  You know when things will get better?  When AIG bails me out by promoting ethical standards during a time of crisis!  AIG and other bailed out companies need to delete their thought bubble on “how to make more profit,” and they need to start thinking about the future of our country.  The stability of the middle class and the poor is the only way to get the country moving, and the abuse of power needs to end!

Go get them congress!  Bail us out!  Click below and send a message!

 http://www.thepetitionsite.com/