Third Prize 2007 Short Story Contest
Dandelions in the Wind by Kate, Korea/Canada, Age 13

Sometimes I find myself thinking about the past. I look at scrapbooks and photo albums, pointing at people and places I remember. Being an only child, most of the pictures are centered on me; some have pictures of me grinning like the Cheshire cat, some have me crying. The pictures are organized by date, with notes written in my mum's neat, small printing, and in the glossy photos, I see myself as who I am. The photos show me in my sad moments, in my happy moments, my quiet moments and my loud moments.

But at least a full two pages of most of the scrapbooks we have are centered on me, sitting in a field of grass in my aunt's backyard, blowing dandelion seeds away. Now I look at the pictures and remember. In most of the dandelion pictures, I'm not even looking at the camera -- I'm concentrating.

I can't actually remember much of this myself anymore. But I do remember how, every spring, for two weeks or so, my parents and I would go to my aunt‚s house in the countryside to visit, and I would sit in the backyard, silently blowing the dandelion seeds away and watching them dance over the wind. I would be captivated by it, seeds floating over the wind and off somewhere else, to find somewhere else to grow.

And I remember something else. The year I turned 5, we were visiting my aunt again, and I came inside, pretending I was an explorer venturing over a new land, tiptoeing silently as not to alarm the beasts, and I heard my parents and my aunt talking. They were talking about something called "Canada ... Toronto ... moving," and I just sat there listening, my ears pressed to the wall, sensing that it wasn‚t a good time to interrupt.

That fall, we moved to the strange and different place called Canada. Everything was new to me, all the tall strangers speaking the Canadian language. I could no longer read the signs on walls; I could no longer ask a kind looking lady in a store where the washroom was. Eventually, I started kindergarten, making Canadian friends and slowly learning English.

My aunt sent letters to me. She wrote them in Korean, because she wanted me to never forget‚. She reminded me how I was like a dandelion seed; flying away from everything I knew to find a new place to grow. She said I would "experience hard times, but it will build you up and strengthen you, and you will be a beautiful flower in full bloom." She told me to "never forget who you really are, because you are a wonderful mix of Korean and Canadian." And she told me, " You are who you are, and don't deny it. It might be hard, and I might not know, but stay true to yourself even when it is hard."

Those little letters kept me going. I rarely replied, but she knew how important they were. They still do come in neat white envelopes, almost once every month. Eight years have passed since I first got off the airplane in Toronto, but I‚m just as much Korean as I was then. And sometimes it's hard for me to decide exactly what I am. So when I can't figure myself out, I make use of my aunt's words of advice -- and I stick to them.

So now, I look out of my window, seeing spots of white covering the grass outside. Every time I see those dandelions, I remember many things. I remember being with my aunt, even before I could read and write, and blowing the seeds away together to find new homes. I remember living in Korea, and I remember that there are still some things that haven‚t changed ˆ like dandelions. I remember saying goodbye at the airport, saying goodbye to my grandparents and my aunt and uncle, and how hard it was to say goodbye, even though I, as a little child, did not know it.

I tell myself that I am like a dandelion. I tell myself that I am like a dandelion when I am up, late at night, and my parents are talking, with worry in their voices, about money. I tell myself that I am like a dandelion when my mum is lecturing me about how I am not grateful about what I do have, in English broken like the bottles that troublesome teens leave behind at the park. I tell myself I am like a dandelion when I am home alone, and Mum is working the night shift at a grocery store and Dad is still not home from work.

Yes, I am like a dandelion, growing roots in a place that was once foreign, a place that is now my home.