The Fire Escape Teen Short Story Contest Winners

We meet the Abimbgolas at Dave’s Supermarket. Mom is trying to decide between 1% milk or 2% when she sees them out of the corner of her eye. Milton is a predominately white town so any black person sticks out like a sore thumb. With Nigerians it is even more so. We talk loudly with a heavy accent. Our skin is the color of dark chocolate, as opposed to the caramels and mochas of the African-American. And we tend to wear the most hideous American fashions, baggy black jeans, neon-colored t-shirts and red Nikes.

Mrs. Abimbgola is wheeling the shopping cart slowly down the Exotic Spices aisle, while her three little boys run after each other.

“Wait here,” Mom whispers to me and she dumps the plastic bottles of milk in my arms and runs off to meet Mrs. Abimbgola.

I scowl. I hate it when my mom gets like this. She feels like she has to make herself known to every single Nigerian she meets.

Mrs. Abimbgola’s eyes widen in surprise as Mom introduces herself. Her voice soars over the tinny supermarket music as she answers in her thick Nigerian accent, “Yes we are Nigerians. We moved here two months ago.” Several customers stop and stare. I feel my face burn. The two talk for several minutes. When Mom finally leaves, she has Mrs. Abimbgola’s address and phone number.

The next thing I know, it’s a Saturday afternoon and we’re driving to the Abimbgolas' apartment in the inner city. The back seat is piled high full of my old toys, balls, books and stuffed animals. I can’t understand why my mom is being so generous. It’s not typical Nigerian nature. If you see a beggar on the side of the road in Lagos, you walk past him and mind your own business. You never know if he might be a magician in disguise, planning to turn you into a pile of yams. I sigh. Because of this latest whim, I have to sacrifice a sleepover I have been planning to go to for months.

“Here we are.” Mom says and she parks the car.

“This is it?” I ask, surprised. I’ve been so busy fuming with anger that I haven’t noticed my surroundings. The building is a shabby duplex. The paint is peeling off; one of the windows has no screen. Part of the fence is missing. We enter the cement courtyard. The three little boys are playing soccer with an empty Budweiser beer can. I glance at Mom to see her reaction.

“Good afternoon boys,” she says, smiling.

The three boys stop playing and kneel. “Good afternoon, Ma,” they chorus. I know what my mom is thinking. How well trained these little boys are! Why can’t Fumilayo behave like them?

“Fumi, go get the box of toys from the car.” Mom says. She hands me the keys.

I carry the box into the courtyard. The boys watch, wide-eyed. You’d think they’d never seen toys before. As I place the box on the ground, I’m suddenly surrounded. At my nod, they dig their dirty hands into the box, pulling out Matchbox cars, G.I. Joes and brightly colored soccer balls. As they shout and exclaim in Yoruba, I look around at the rusting fence and the litter strewn about the street.

Meanwhile, Mom and Mrs. Abimbgola talk and talk and talk. Their voices reverberate off the courtyard walls. Mrs. Abimbgola forces us to stay for lunch. Lunch is genuine garri and beans bought from a busy Lagos marketplace.

After lunch, we say our goodbyes, get into the car and drive away. I’m silent on the way home. I stare at the raindrops that splash onto the glass, turning the world into a blur of shapes and colors. Mom’s chatting away, I barely hear her. Then, my ears perk up.

“What did you say?” I ask.

Mom stares at me. She’s surprised that I am listening.

“I said that they won the visa lottery.”

“The visa lottery?” I ask again. The image of a man in a tux announcing “the winning family” becomes poignant and then fades away.

Mom is still talking. “It’s tough for them here. Yemi says that they were better off in Nigeria. They had a house and a car. Now Olu, her husband, doesn’t have a job. He’s back in Kano trying to scrape up some money to support the family.” She shakes her head.

“But why did they move here, if they were better off in Nigeria?” I ask.

“Better education for the boys. The same reason we moved here.” Mom answers. “Remember Fumi, America is a land of opportunities. You’ve got to work hard. You can’t afford to slack off ...” And Mom goes off on one of her never-ending lectures about working hard and how success is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration and so on.

As she talks, I think back to what she said about the visa lottery. I think about the Abimbgolas’ decrepit apartment and of the little boys playing soccer with the empty beer can. Isn’t winning a lottery supposed to be a good thing?

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Second Prize Short Story 2006:
Lost and Found in Translation
by Mike, China/California, Age 15

Our tan minivan pulled into a parking lot facing the miniature church, and as I crawled out, I shot my mom a last, pitiful look that would perhaps invoke her sympathy. We made eye contact, but she turned away and latched onto my little sister in the back of the van. I was too late. My mother would not be moved by arguments, no matter how competent my little sister and I were at whining.

“Time to get out, Fei Fei! You’ll meet so many new friends here,” my mother cooed at my sister.

“Mom! I don’t want to go to Chinese school!” She writhed nimbly out of mother’s arms and huddled in the
far corner of the back seat.

“Yeah! Why do we even have to go?” I echoed indignantly.

Mother was caught between our pathetic arguments. She gazed at me with a stone face. It seemed that all the muscles in her face had suddenly died, so stern was the glare that she shot me. “We’ve been over this, Zhuang Zhuang. I thought that you were old enough to understand how important learning Chinese is,” she whispered. “And you, Fei Fei. You said that you were brave and willing to try new things.”

A guilty silence punctuated our resentful cries. Of course, deplore me for how immature I’m acting, how pathetic I am. I'm supposed to be the wise, elder brother.

We trudged towards the entrance of church. A woman stood in the path of the threshold, her hair tied in a
menacing bun, her eyes always squinting. “Hello! It’s your first time here?” she asked in Chinese. The lady looked at me and smiled a toothy smile as if she expected me to respond in fluid Chinese. My heart thumped in my chest.

“Yes. Where do we go?” my mother exchanged in Chinese. She pushed me forward.

I glared at her, feeling as though she was offering me to some beast. The woman directed my sister and I to our classes. My teacher was a young lady. Clipboard in hand, she began to pass out books while taking role. “Chen Zhuang Zhuang. Mike?” She looked around the room. My hand slithered up slowly. “Hello! Here’s your
book.”

I sighed in relief. At least she could speak English. Once she had taken role, she instructed everyone to come up to the board and write their Chinese name. After eleven people went, all of whom seemed proficient in Chinese, it was my turn. The teacher motioned me up, and I waddled nervously towards the whiteboard. She brandished an Expo marker and handed it to me. My throat stuck. I felt pinpricks of sweat tickle my ear.

The teacher queried in Chinese, “Do you know how to write your name?”

I felt the focus of everybody’s gaze burrow into my neck. I froze. The teacher asked the same thing again in English. I nodded slowly and raised the pen to the board. I drew a box and brought a long vertical line down
through it. Next to it, I wrote two characters that each looked like a pair of wings. I stood back, unsatisfied, and returned to my seat. At least I had written what I thought was my name.

The teacher stared at the board and frowned. Slowly, she took the marker and corrected the characters. “Chen Zhuang Zhuang,” she said slowly, like I was a preschooler, and wrote my name again on the board so that I would learn it. I blushed, endured the next horrific two hours of class, and came home humiliated.

Every Friday, I was forced to return to Chinese school. I vehemently refused to go, and yet, I somehow succumbed to the will of my determined parents for the next five years. Later, once I was in high school, some Caucasian friends of mine started taking Chinese lessons offered at local community college, just for fun. At first I was perplexed, but the summer vacation following that year enlightened me.

We went to China. “These are your roots,” my father said. “Open your eyes. Both your mom and I came from here.”

I opened my eyes. Beijing, capital of China, was an exotic place. That summer I breathed in a lush culture around me: parades at the huge Tiananmen Square, the Forbidden City’s rich history, and the stench of fried scorpion at the Donghuamen market. I loved my new experience. It wasn’t until after we arrived home that I fathomed that I’d been able to read and understand, almost flawlessly, every Chinese word spoken or inscribed in that city on the other side of the world.

Mike on life between cultures: The hardest thing about balancing two cultures is living up to expectations those two cultures place upon you. Because I am Chinese in heritage, my culture drives me to strive in school and achieve academically, yet in an American environment, other things are expected out of me, such as enjoying sports and attending social rituals. A balance must be achieved, but at a certain loss to each side; sometimes I try to identify too much with one culture without realizing that I am sacrificing my identity: I am one-half Chinese and one-half American, not one-third Chinese and two-thirds American or vice a versa. The best thing about being an immigrant, however, is this very issue: being able to identify with two different worlds. Therefore, my mind is more open to other cultures because I am a person of two.

"I'm concerned for you, Sara." Mr. Reed leaned back in his reclining leather chair. "College applications are just around the corner and you show no avid interest in your future. What can I do for you?" While I basked in silence, he gazed at me intently, searching for a logical answer behind these pools of dark brown mass.

I hated visits to the guidance counselor's office; I avoided them at all costs. It was only through threats and bribes could Mr. Reed bring me down here. Today, it was the large plate of brownies sitting on his desk.

He picked up my transcript and sighed. "If only you would take advantage of your talents. Your English teacher tells me all the time about your knack for writing. Have you ever thought of going into journalism?"

I shook my head as I forced back a heavy feeling at the back of my throat. "It's already been decided. I'm going to become a doctor," I informed him coldly. Sensing that he would extract nothing else from me today, he nodded his head in sad understanding and sent me back to class.

At night, I thought about what he said as I pulled out my notebook from its hiding spot under the bed. I wasn't denying that he was right--because he was. I knew that I was good at writing. I didn't need confirmation from anyone, not even Mrs. Doherty. When I wrote, it was as if I could forget all my problems and let myself pour into these pages. Nothing could touch me when I wrote. I could soar, higher and higher, further away from this place of entrapment.

Tonight, I made a foolish mistake. I let myself go too high. I became so entranced in my work that I completely lost track of time. At a quarter to midnight, my mother barged into my room.

"Mee-jin," I was always Mee-jin to her, not Sara, "how is your SAT studying going?" Her calm demeanor turned sour when she saw me sprawled out on my bed, no giant College Board book in sight.

"You stupid!" she yanked my notebook out from under me before I could stop her and began ripping apart the pages. "What did I tell you, Mee-jin? Tonight, you study for your SATs. Now you go behind my back to waste your time on this? " She angrily thrust the remains of the notebook into the trash bin. Still not satisfied, she ransacked my room for the next fifteen minutes, releasing her anger at anything that looked like writing. I watched her single-handedly destroy everything I had worked so hard on. Those works that she ruined, they weren't just meaningless scribbles, they were my hopes, my dreams, my aspirations. But now, they were just a thousand torn sheets of paper sitting in a pile.

But I didn't cry. I never cried in front of her. She could never know that she defeated me.

Whenever she got really upset, she transitioned into her broken, heavily accented English. "You know what? I work two shifts today. Why? For you. Everything for you." Disgusted by her attempt to rile guilty feelings within me, I turned my head away.

"Mee-jin," her tone softened. "You are everything to me. Did you know? You are my hero, Mee-jin. I know you are meant for greater things. But you know what you have to do to succeed." According to my mother, success was defined through money and social standing. In order to be successful, I had to become a doctor. In many ways, I was living my life for her. But she couldn't see that. She never could.

When she left, I closed the door behind her, turned off the lamp, and crawled into bed. I placed my headphones into my ears and blasted my ipod as I drifted off to sleep. Somewhere, in another world, I was flying, high above the clouds and into the sun.

Michelle on life between cultures: The hardest part about balancing two cultures for me is definitely dealing with parents. There are so many times when we don't connect or understand each other, but I can't blame them because they grew up in a totally different culture. It's hard enough being a teenager without having parents who've never shared the same experiences as me. The best thing about being an immigrant is having a strong sense of cultural identity. I know that I am American and I'm proud to be one, but I also stand tall as a Korean American.

The 2005 Fire Escape Contest's Short Story Winners

I stepped out of the car onto the unpaved driveway. It was made from hundreds of rocks and different color sands. My heels kicked up the dirt as I walked, lifting it up, mixing it together, and packing it back down. Yellow sand and brown soil all fused together homogeneously under my soles. These visits always made me stir, always made me a bit uneasy. I had trouble deciphering who I was, whether it be Japanese, Black, Filipino, or American.

My mother stepped out of the passenger seat onto the settling gravel. She was born and raised in the Philippines, and came to America as a young adult. My father opened the driver side door and set his feet down on the driveway. He was born in Okinawa, the son of a black American Air Force mechanic and a young Japanese girl named Eiko.

At the end of the driveway was my grandparents' house. It was an old place, one that hadn't changed outside of wear and weathering from the times my parents were my age. The front of the house was brown, and the walls were sided with different colors. It stood unchanging, unmoving despite its surroundings. As years past, the whole town had changed. What was once a neighborhood had become Americanized. Not with white houses, Cadillacs, and Golden Retrievers; but with garbage dumps, factories, and corporate buildings.

Inside, the house smelled old. The kitchen floor was speckled with dots of paint in all different colors, a design of my do-it-yourself grandpa. The fridge was a teal color, and had also sat in its place since it was brought in by the Sears delivery guys fifty years ago. The walls were covered in an eclectic arrangement of materials: green wallpaper, several layers of off-white paint, and copper tiles in different places.

At dinner we sat and ate a ham decorated with pineapples and cherries. Also on the table was white sticky rice, corn on the cob, and Diet Pepsi. In place of salt and pepper was soy sauce. My grandma cooked this for us every time we visited. My grandpa always said grace, garbling out a string of slurred words, out of which I could only decipher "Thank you" and "God."

In the living room there were quilts and dolls, character sketches done by a dead great-uncle, and an old 1950s TV. on which my father saw the march on Washington when he was eight. "Watch this, it's important," my grandpa told him. I slept with my parents on that same living room floor. The cracks of light that seeped through the doorway from the kitchen always reflected on the dozens of photographs on the wall, all black and white. They showed my grandparents when they were young, my dad growing up, and in color, me. Also shining in the thin rays of light were cabinets filled with little artifacts: dolls, bottles, plates, school degrees, toys.

This room was our history. It was filled with bits and pieces from all of us. I fell asleep lying shoulder to shoulder with my family, not realizing that the answer to my ethnic and cultural ambiguity was literally all around me: in those cabinets, those pictures, and in my family. My culture was in the kitchen on the plates. It was each footstep over that speckled floor. It was in the cabinets and on the shelves. It was as the gravel in the driveway: upheaving, clashing, mixing, and eventually settling and subsiding.

Charles on life between cultures: The most difficult thing about balancing cultures is figuring out exactly who you are and where you stand. Coming from several different cultures, it has been difficult to identify with one without becoming an outcast in another. The best thing about coming from several cultures is the heightened cultural/social awareness received from having multiple perspectives.

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Second Prize Short Story 2005:
Dog Tastes Great in America, Too
by Dewi, Singapore/Irvine, Age 18

"You're Chinese, Mei-Ling, right? Don't they eat dogs in China?" Rachel asked excitedly.

I gave an exasperated sigh, and was tempted to turn around and ignore her, but finally I gave in and managed a reluctant nod.

"See, I told you Jess! I knew it!" Rachel giggled that high nasal giggle of hers.

"Thanks," she said, turning quickly to Jessica which apparently was my signal to leave. There was no more need for me; I was only a curiosity, an encyclopedia into another culture, another world, which could be opened and closed at will.

I secretly hated myself for accepting my fate. I dreamed of being stronger, like the warrior women of old, standing up and saying exactly what I thought of Rachel and her petty assumptions and pert up-turned nose.

High school is a cruel world. Being an immigrant only makes it harder. I have to deal with the questions that the blonds don't have to answer. Do you eat dogs for breakfast? Why are your eyes so small? I see people snickering at my accent. I imagine them butchering the Chinese language and smother a snicker myself.

I went home and answered my mother's questions, an almost ritualistic interrogation now. "Did you have a good day at school? Did you meet new friends? Isn't America a wonderful place?"

I answer obediently, "Yes, yes, and yes," lying through my teeth.

She doesn't even notice. She is too busy happily cooking at the stove, the eager June Cleaver, a couple of generations too late. She believes that she is fulfilling the American dream in her crude act; I don't have the heart to tell her that she has got it all wrong. There is no American dream; it is all a vicious illusion.

I mope and sulk, knowing all along that nothing will come of it. I miss the smell of China, the mood and life of China. The suburbs here are so sterile, all clean identical houses lined up carefully pruned streets, so dead, in comparison.

Dad comes home around eight. He is a workaholic and a perfectionist, a dangerous combination. He doesn't say much of anything to anyone.

The night passes uneventfully. As always.

I get up for another day of school. In history class, we are learning about the ancient Chinese dynasties. The teacher keeps on asking me if I happen to know anything. I play dumb and shake my head.

At lunch I always sit in my own little corner in the cafeteria. I did try sitting with some other girls once but it was so horribly awkward; I just felt more comfortable alone. To my surprise, though, Janine, one of the girls I sat with, came along and plunked down her food on my table. "You mind?" she asks.

I shake my head. "History was so boring, though, wasn't it?" she continues. "And Mr. Gerald kept on asking you if you knew anything. Just because you're Chinese and everything. How embarrassing."

I laughed. "It wasn't that bad. Just slightly annoying."

"So, Miss Lai," Janine said, blinking widely, just as Mr. Gerald did."The Tang Dynasty, lasted about 300 years, isn't that right?"

Mr. Gerald was just walking by and cast a wary glance back. Janine quickly covered her mouth and we both cracked up hysterically.

"So..." I started, not wanting to be rude, but rushing on anyway, „what brings you to the outcast table?"

Janine looked surprised by my question. "C‚mon, Mei-Ling. You're not an outcast. No one's casting you out. You're the one who's isolating yourself."

I raised my voice to protest but she continued. "I saw that whole Rachel incident yesterday. Everyone did."

"Well, that makes me feel great," I muttered.

"It's more embarrassing for Rachel. We all knew she was stupid but really..."

"I don't what that makes me then."

Just don't think about that. Anyway, I see you watching, judging everyone from your little corner. You can't assume that just because Rachel is so narrow-minded that everyone else is as idiotic..."

I interrupted her. "I am not judging you guys on that. I'm not making any assumptions at all. I just happen to feel that—"

"That we Americans can't understand or appreciate your more Chinese sensibility. Or you‚re too good for us ignorant Americans. Which one is it?" Janine sighed. "Look, I'm just saying, give us a chance. You‚re as guilty as Rachel in believing the stereotypes."

I didn't know what to say. I muttered something under my breath about martyrs and flying pigs but I knew that Janine was serious.

"Just think about it. You're a good, decent person. Let other people see that in you." She winked at me slyly. "And besides — dog tastes great in America, too."

Dewi on life between cultures: The hardest thing about being an immigrant is knowing how deeply you should immerse yourself in the new culture you find yourself in — to what extent you should have allegiance to your "original" culture. Finding that balance is in itself a huge challenge because culture is an important part of identity and when the two cultures contradict... well, then you have quite a problem. You are put in a position where you have to choose. The best part of being an immigrant is that you are exposed to more than people who grow up where they are born, with a single culture. I know and have first-hand experience of backyard BBQs for Memorial Day, as well as the crazy festivities of Chinese New Year.

I never really understood the gap between American and Chinese culture until the day I went to school with my hands bright red. I was very young, and blissfully ignorant of the complications of conflicting perspectives.

"What happened?" My friends asked me.

I shrugged casually. "My dad beat me, of course."

They stopped and stared at me, mouths agape in utter surprise. I looked back at them, afraid of their strange attitudes and ready to defend myself.

“He beat you? What do you mean?”

By the time I finished describing how my father had beat me twenty five times on each palm with a bamboo stick for making careless mistakes on my addition worksheet, the shocked cry “Child abuse!” had risen.

“Maybe you should talk to someone,” Amelia suggested gently. “Your parents really shouldn’t beat you.”

Talk to someone? I thought. Why? She makes it sound like it’s a big deal to get beaten.

“Yeah, isn’t it illegal?” Someone else chirped intelligently.

Illegal! The word hit my childish instincts like a brick with its gravity. If I tell someone, daddy will get put in jail! I’ll never see him again!

“Umm… it’s OK,” I answer quickly. “I’m pretty much used to it.”

For the first and second grades, I had studied in Singapore, where almost all children were beaten at some point or another. The dreaded bamboo stick hung menacingly on hooks behind doors in the vast majority of homes, and shiny new ones were always present at the market. Parents who did not purchase a bamboo stick used the wooden handle of a sturdy feather duster; beating was a commonly accepted form of discipline that no one in Singapore questioned. When I arrived in the United States for third grade, however, I suddenly found myself solemnly pitied by my peers, who thought of my parents as terrifying, cruel monsters.

I was caught between two poles. On one hand, I certainly never enjoyed being beaten by my parents (especially my father, who hit me harder than my mother could ever bring herself to) and my classmates’ honeyed sympathy was intoxicating to delight in; but on the other hand, such talks almost always led to discussions about my parents being cold and heartless: something that I knew to be false. My parents loved me dearly, and — in the traditional Chinese perspective — discipline was simply an embodiment of their desire for me to improve. Furthermore, it hurt me to hear unpleasant remarks about them regardless of how much I hated their beatings, for in criticizing my family, my friends were also criticizing my Chinese background and the culture I had grown up with. I tried to help my Caucasian friends see that beating children was not necessarily wrong — simply a different way of thinking and living — but they never understood.

Indeed, how does one explain such a deeply rooted custom to people outside the circle? They can never grasp a Chinese view fully, and because they do not understand, they condemn. Over time, I learned to keep quiet about certain things that happened at home, telling stories only to friends of Asian backgrounds like me. This wise decision saved me much heartache.

My parents stopped beating me years and years ago; it’s been so long that I don’t even think of it anymore… and yet, every so often, the memories flood my mind, and along with the painful sensations of a stinging palm riddled by red marks comes my heart’s grimace that no matter how understanding people try to be, a different culture is a gap that can never be bridged completely. Bridges can be built, certainly, but they are rickety structures; one must be careful not to test the flimsy pieces of wood too often.

The 2004 Fire Escape Contest's Short Story Winners

The first thing Mrs. Sharma does after moving into apartment #402 of Briar Forest is to make acquaintance with the neighbors. She shuffles over with her jet-black bob haircut and long denim pinafore, first to the home on the left and then on the right. One outstretched hand carries a silver platter, lined with a paper towel drenched in oil, and some fried amorphous solids which seem to be the source of the leak. After knocking on the mahogany door of apartment #403, she waits on the shared balcony, fanning herself with a loose paper towel end.

Two toddlers peep out of the adjacent window, first surprised then excited at the sudden turn of events in their humid afternoon. Mrs. Sharma waves, smiles a betel-stained smile, and waves again—she likes to perform important actions in multiples of two, perhaps for security, or emphasis, or just old age.

The mahogany door opens a minute later, and a young woman in a pinstriped suit appears, a black cordless phone pressed to one ear and a cellphone pressed to the other. "No, the twins’ Summer Soccer Fun starts at two o’clock."

"No, it would be completely imprudent to keep Penguin waiting when they can withdraw their offer in an instant, and Scholastic doesn’t seem too keen." She turns her head a few degrees forward. "No, we don’t want to buy any of those today, thank you." She closes the door and continues her conversations.

The toddlers look disappointed. "Yes honey, I picked up their uniforms already. Ok. Ok, bye." "Yes, start off with that amount but see if you can make any negotiations by factoring in the minimum cost of printing it paperback with the new popularity of this ‘chick lit’ stuff. Update me on the meeting."

The (acquired-over-time) patience in Mrs. Sharma knocks again.

"Yes?" asks the flustered woman.

"Hell-O," she announces, pronouncing the word like Jell-O. "My name is Shipra Sharma, your new neighbor. I just moved into apartment #402 with my husband Pollob."

"Oh. Oh! Oh no, I’m so sorry about before," laughs the woman, shaking her head at her stupidity. "This is very embarrassing. I’m sorry. I was on the phone, and slightly stressed, and I didn’t realize, thought you were, and — I’m Tracy Haines, nice to meet you Ship-Rah." She extends a somewhat reluctant hand, and with the other adjusts a strap on her camisole.

"It is very nice to meet you also," says Mrs. Sharma, her English understandable if not perfect. "Here, I made some pakoras for you and your family."

"Excuse me?"

"Pakoras," she smiles, extending the tray. "It is an Indian snack: cauliflower and potato dipped in a flour batter and fried. Eat it while it is hot, and you can give it to your two kids. Even Americans can’t live on fruits all day." She laughs a throaty, secret laugh at these words, and then sniffs and puts away her mirth somewhere in the unexplored caverns of her nose and mouth. "Well, I hope to be seeing you again soon."

"Thanks, this is so sweet of you. Here, keep the platter." And Tracy scoops the food up in the Hefty towel and hands back the steel tray.

"Bye," says the busy mother and runs upstairs with her oily gift, stashing it in a lonesome corner of the fridge. Smiling, bemused, she thinks to herself, "How quaint!" Then, hastily relieving the black cordless of its' strident shrieks, she fixes her children some grapes.

Mrs. Sharma, now heading towards apartment #404 on the other side, does her thinking aloud. "A strange place this is. I have never returned to someone, or have never been returned, an empty plate." She shakes her jet-black head, then pauses, and shakes it again.

Amrapali on life between cultures: The biggest obstacle in balancing two cultures is making the realization that your country of origin and country of residence are not like oil and water-- they can indeed mix. It is easy to blend elements of both "worlds" (people, customs, etc). This fusion brings about an inner and outer peace not achieved by creating rigid mental barriers between cultures. (Although it is admittedly awkward when I'm forced to walk into Walmart or Subway after dance class, still wearing a salwar kameez.) Surely the best thing about being an immigrant is the freedom to pick and choose the practices and values from both worlds that suit your personal outlook on life. I can remember countless times when friends, after hearing stories about certain Indian festivals or seeing our ethnic dances and clothing, have commented, "I hate being white." Although they don't mean the words literally, and indeed they shouldn't, being an immigrant does have, in this country that celebrates diversity, a mysterious, exotic appeal -- this is quite flattering.

They say first impressions are usually the best. Usually, but not if you're at the age of innocence. Not if you still think that Power Rangers will once rule earth. The first time I laid eyes on the enormous skyscrapers coming from the Pittsburgh International Airport, I was in awe. Wow, so this is America, I thought. My cousins, like me, were glued to the window as if watching a full throttle action movie. As soon as the airplane wheels screeched to a halt, my vision and memories of Ukraine went blank. Everything from the tranquil wheat fields at my grand father's farm to the fresh smell of my mothers dirooni during dinnertime, were all substituted by the sharp cars and stingy faces on commercial boards.

The car was unexpectedly quiet when we were approaching Mckee's Rocks. We were still grasping the idea that we were in a totally different country thousands of miles away. My mom's eyes widened with confusion as our hostess drove us through the dusty deserted streets. Is there a war here? she blurted, not questioning the obscurity of her question. The hostess quickly burst into laughter. No, no, it's always isolated like this, she responded.

As the last shriek of the weary brake seized, we reached our temporary house. Nothing special about the duplex besides the tropical yard it was subdued in. Oak trees stiffly made their stance like ancient Greek columns. In the middle of the yard swayed a large pine tree, stubbornly covering the view of the other side of the territory. A narrow concrete road parallel to the building led to the entrance. The settling took less time then expected. I finished with all the expected helping of unpacking the luggage and crouched on the couch on the porch, resting with the setting sun. Not noticing that I had forgotten to see the other side of the yard earlier in the day, I unconsciously looked through the dust-spotted window and saw a light magnolia tree conversing with the pleasant wind. Its' branches seemed to reach out to something farther then the known. The mystique of its' figure fit harmonically into its' surroundings like a last puzzle piece. It suddenly excused itself from its' conversation and stared back at me. We made eye contact. My stomach sharply twisted, the way it would when I met a stranger. So calm in its notions, it greeted me to my new house. I met my first American friend.

Days flew. The summer's monotonous humidity covered the isolated streets. The more I got accustomed to my new habitat, the more I realized how much I really missed home. Sometimes during midday, I would rest comfortably under the magnolia, dreaming of a better place. As time progressed, the flowers on the magnolia began to bloom, opening to a new world, and things seemed to brighten up for me. At times my dad would invite his brother and Ukrainian friends. Steak smoke sizzled from the grill during the late evenings. At the pour of vodka the adult's laughter could be heard from across the street. My cousins and I took advantage of their misguided judgment and bribed our parents for money while they were still unconscious of their actions. The Magnolia would invitingly sway in the evening wind, laughing at our conduct. We accepted its' invitation; grabbing on to its' supportive branches, playing tag.

Swinging feverishly from one branch to another trying to catch the opponent, I somehow forgot that at this height I should be careful not to fall. Later it came to me that in the back of my mind I was in no doubt that the tree's parental hands would have caught me if anything would have happened. Laughter could be heard from both sides of the yard, the kids and adults both indulging in their own activities.

As the seasons altered so did my perception of life. It began to take a stance with school work. From the living room I often heard my parents screaming at each other and talk a lot about divorcing and moving out. Life in general became more serious. Sometimes I would look outside at the Magnolia's tranquil, consistent form, and recall memories of the peaceful fields where life was so good and blissful. I couldn't thank it enough for all that it brought. They say God sends guardian angels for everyone. For me he sent a Magnolia that nourished me through my youth with its' peaceful presence. It was a substitute for the childhood I would have had in Ukraine.

Orest on life between cultures: (The hardest thing is) probably adaptation to the new environment; knowing that your real home is waiting across the seas.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the school's 15th Annual Talent Show!” Mr. Lu the host cried. “Tonight, young performers from grades 4-6 will occupy the floor.”

Onwards, Mr. Lu read out the order of performers. “... fifth will be Mr. Kai Kang on flute accompanied by his friend Mr. William Mattson as vocalist in their piece, The Birdwakers!”

That was all Will and I cared for. Already, we were nervous as could be. All of a sudden, Will started to smile. The look of suppressed nervousness started to fade. Then, he leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Kai, I just had a recollection about the beginning of our friendship.”

That started me thinking, and soon, memories of our past surfaced. At the beginning of the school year, I was new to Angeles Elementary. I had no friends; the other fourth graders never saw me as one of them, mostly because I'm Chinese. William especially despised me, at every opportunity, he would taunt me. Other kids would then join in. My life at that point was at the kindest, miserable.

Music was the only refuge I could find. For when my hands hold the flute, and my lips parted to blow, all my worries evaporate. My heart reaches out to the music, letting it nourish the emotional wounds. My entire being would be fused with the sound, nothing I would know, nothing would I sense, but the music. Still, I was always alone. That is, until a fateful afternoon, when I carried my flute with me into the fields beyond my home. There, in the green, flat meadow, I stood facing the sinking sun. As a soft breeze played about my hair, I closed my eyes, and blew. The melody was sweet and soft, like a bird's. My grandfather used to go out in the morning and wake the birds with it. I felt myself carried away from the scene, floating towards the sunset. Then all of a sudden, a voice sang out along my melody. I turned and looked, William, tall and smiling, accompanied my song. Thus, began our friendship.

Afterwards, we discussed many topics. We grew to know more of each other, our families, our culture, William even tried learning Chinese. Each day, we would go out to the meadow and practice music. His deep, strong baritone matched perfectly my sweet tunes.

“Next up is Mr. Kai Kang and Mr. William Mattson.” Mr. Lu's voice interrupted my wondering thoughts. William and I stepped out from the curtains, and onto the stage. Again, the nervous tension in the air gripped me. However, the look of determination on Will's face encouraged me. We began, the pure, rich flute note trembled in the air, but then, Will's singing backed it up. The perfect synthesis of music began. The soft, sweet melody of the flute was lifted up by William's deep voice. The two sounds separated, making the music lively and cheerful, waking the birds. As we approached the centerpiece of the music, again the flute and the voice blended. Now, the notes were melancholy, but still with a beautiful tone to it. Finally, the music slowed and softened, as if luring birds back to sleep for the night. We bowed, to tremendous applause. The entire room thundered with it.

After a few other performers had returned to the back stage, the winners were announced. Third place went to Serenady for her piano piece. As second place was being announced, I prayed to God. Surely William had deserved a second place. Just then, Mr. Lu boomed out. “Second place goes to... Steven and his dish spinning!”

My heart sank. I turned and started walking towards the back exit. “What had gone wrong!” I thought, “We didn't even win second, after all that hard work.” There were tears of anger in my eyes. “Of course I'm just a China boy, how could I win? Nobody cares how good I am.” I told myself, as I retrieved my flute.

“I do,” a quiet voice said. It was William. “Here.” With that, he held out to me the first place medal. It glowed in his hand, beautiful, shining with pride and exhilaration. “We're waiting for you.” Mr. Lu came out of the shadows. Will and I carried the medal to the stage. We raised our arms, and the realization finally dawned on me. I stared out at the crowd as Mr. Lu pushed me in front of him. They were cheering. My classmates ran out and patted me on the back.

Mr. Lu took William's and my hands and raised them in the air once more. “To the Birdwakers!” he cried. “To the Birdwakers!” roared the crowd.

Kai on life between cultures: The hardest thing for me in balancing two cultures is finding friends and people that you can really trust. There's not that many discrimination acts anymore, (there still are a few) but normally if you look on any campus, you'll see that most people tends to stick to their own races. It's hard to really get to know someone in that environment. The best thing about being an immigrant is this feeling of success. Like if you climb Mount Everest, this intense feeling of victory just bursts forth. Knowing you can survive in different parts of the world toughens your resolve. It gives you a feeling of confidence nothing else can give you. Though it does hurt to leave friends behind.

Mama gripped my hand tightly in hers. Her hand was large compared to my five-year old one. It felt dry and calloused from all the menial chores she did when she was a little girl living in a rural part of China. Her long black hair was tied in a simple ponytail and a plain gold band encircled her left ring finger. She wore a shirt with frayed edges, worn from the constant washing and wearing. Her comfortable, loose pants were homemade.

Mama was a great seamstress. We had an old sewing machine at home where Mama would make clothes for my little brother and me. I had a nice little flower dress with white ruffles for special occasions, hanging up in the room I shared with my parents. We walked into the supermarket crowded with people on a Saturday shopping rush. Once a week, Mama brought about fifteen dollars to buy groceries. She only got the basics like rice, bread, meat and vegetables. She rarely bought candy or sweets, but when she did, it was such a delicious treat.

I remember I had once relished a lollipop for a whole month by having only a few licks a day.We walked through the aisles, with Mama picking up only the items on sale. Our cart looked sadly empty next to one cart which was crammed with boxes of food, soda, candy, and chips. I stared longingly at a box of fruit snacks. They had the shape of animals. I imagined playing with them and then eating the sweet things in my mouth.

Mama saw my look and said suddenly, "Since you have been so good, I'll get you a box. But you have to share it with your brother."

I was thrilled. I held the box of fruit snacks tightly in my hands as we walked to the cash register. I reluctantly let go of the box and watched it being scanned and then placed in a grocery bag.

A few minutes passed and I saw Mama holding the bills in her hand. She placed them on the counter and took out coins. She counted them and stared at her little cloth wallet. Then she blushed and looked at me sadly before stammering in English: "I ... I no want --." She pointed to the box of fruit snacks.

I remained silent. I will not cry in front of all these English people, I thought. I will try to be a good little girl.

The cashier was a plump woman with thick glasses. She looked at Mama with the coins in her hand and then looked at me with my crestfallen face. A Chinese mom and her Chinese daughter. And then -- she smiled. "You can have it for your daughter." The woman pointed at the fruit snacks with a smile. "I'll pay for it." She handed me the fruit snacks and winked.

I smiled back shyly.

Wearing a green salwar kameez, and her hair in a tight bun, 16 year-old Lila slowly walked down the stairs.

"Oh, look how beautiful she looks in traditional clothes." Mrs.Rao said, nudging her husband a bit too hard.

Lila rolled her eyes."Yes, yes of course," Mr.Rao grunted.

Today was the day Lila had been waiting for a long time even though she wouldn't admit it. Today was her first debut sitar performance.

"Come on Mom, We are going to be late!" Lila said. She remembered her sitar instructor, Mrs.Prashad, saying, "Now remember to be there precisely at 4 o' clock."

"Oh, pish-posh, you know Mrs. Prashad won't start without you," Mrs.Rao laughingly replied.

During the trip down there, Lila thought about the lousy excuse she had made when her friend, Danielle, had asked her if she wanted to hang out. "Ummm....I can't because I have 4 tests on Monday that I have to study for," she had said. Her mother had always told her to be proud of her culture, but this was much easier said then done.

Pulling into the parking lot of the Arts Center she recited all the notes she was going to play. "Hi, Lila, let's get ready for the performance." Mrs.Prakash said almost immediately when Lila walked in.

Slowly the curtains rose. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I am proud to present today one of my very accomplished students, Miss Lila Rao. This is Lila's debut performance," Mrs. Prakash said at the microphone.

With that Lila struck her first chord, she closed her eyes and the music became entrancing. Finishing her first piece Lila looked up. To her utter surprise, sitting in the first row was her best friend Danielle. "Oh no," Lila thought. "This can't be happening." She nervously started her next piece. Her eyes stayed on her friend. She missed a note, then another, and another. She missed a whole measure and stopped.

The crowd held their breath. Lila heard a solitary clap. It was Danielle. Then a few people joined in and soon the whole audience was clapping. Lila felt her face glow and started up the song again.

After the performance she was greeted by a crowd of people. "Great job Lila!" Mrs.Prakash said.

She spotted her mother and her friend in the distance. "How did you know?" Lila asked Danielle.

"Your mother called, and I couldn't miss this for anything. You were awesome," Danielle said, handing Lila a bouquet of flowers.

"Thanks," Lila said looking at her mother and friend, "To both of you."

Natasha on life between cultures: The hardest thing about balancing two cultures would probably have to be adjusting to new things around you, while still mantaining your heritage.The best thing would be knowing so much about two cultures and gaining experiences from both.