My Own Label
It seemed to me that I had two different identities when I was in fifth grade. Outside of school, I was a reasonably happy kid who enjoyed spending time with my friends, reading or listening to rock music. When I was in class, however, I turned into a very different Denise, one who was on guard all the time, and one who wanted nothing more than to get through the day without being teased.
To my classmates I was strange, because I wasn’t just like them. The most obvious thing they focused on was that I didn’t wear the same designer clothes as they did. Designer clothes were beyond my family’s reach. My mother was a single parent, and she worked long hours to support our small household. As far as love and attention were concerned, I was rich beyond all imagination. I was supported and cared for. The only thing that my classmates cared for was fashion, though, and there, I was poor.
I never knew if my classmates would torment (戏弄) me in class, but on the bus I could count on it. My trips to and from school were the horrific, painful bookends to stressful days. One girl made a point of running over to my seat every morning to see what I was wearing, and then returned to her friends to laugh about it. I shrank into myself and stared out the window.
I was the smallest girl in my class. One of my classmates’ mothers noticed, and offered me a beautiful skirt that her daughter had outgrown. I wore it happily, thrilled to have a cool item of clothing for once. When I outgrew the skirt, my mother bought me a new one of my own, one without a label. When my classmate saw it, she shouted on purpose, “Oh, that’s not my skirt, is it? Where did you get this one, Denise? The poorhouse?” My classmates burst into laughter, and I slipped away, my eyes locked on the ground. I stopped wearing the skirt.
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After fifth grade ended, over the summer, I spent a month at a day camp.
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With the love and support of my new friends, I became more confident.
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What my father wore really embarrassed me. I wanted him to dress like a doctor or a lawyer, but on those muggy mornings when he rose before dawn to fry eggs for my mother and me, he always dressed like my father.
We lived in South Texas, and my father worked as a repairman. He liked shirts that snapped more than those that buttoned, and kept his pencils, cigars, glasses, wrenches and screwdrivers in his breast pocket. His boots were those with steel toes that made them difficult to pull off his feet, which I sometimes helped him with when he returned from repairing cars — his job that also shamed me.
I blamed the way he dressed for my social failures. When boys bullied me, I thought they’d seen my father wearing his cowboy hat but no shirt while walking our dog. I felt that girls laughed at me because they’d glimpsed him mowing the grass in cut-off jeans and black boots. The girls’ families paid men to beautify their lawns, while their fathers travelled in the bay wearing lemon-yellow sweaters and expensive sandals.
My father only bought two suits in his life. He preferred clothes that allowed him the freedom to move under cars. But the day before my parents’ twentieth anniversary, he and I went to Sears, and he tried on suits all afternoon. With each one, he stepped to the mirror, smiled and nodded, then asked about the price and reached for another. He probably tried ten suits before we drove to a discount store and bought one that saved him the bother of approaching a fitting room.
Later, he wore the same suit for my eighth-grade award banquet, but I wished he’d stayed home. After the ceremony, he praised my award and my character while changing into a faded red sweatsuit. He was stepping into the garage to wash a load of laundry when I asked what later struck me as cruel and wrong. “Why,” I asked, “don’t you dress ‘nice’, like my friends fathers?”
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He held me with his sad, shocked eyes and searched for an answer.
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In the following days, my father proved to me that there are things more important than what one wears.
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The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read beneath a willow tree. It must be as sick, for the branches were kind of yellow and dry. I was a deserted girl. Endless quarrels with my parents had left me nowhere to go but this desolate (荒无人烟的) corner of the park. As I sat on the bench, things that happened recently began to flash through. Days seemed months to me recently. No cozy home to stay. No happy memories about my life. No considerate family members to talk to. Even the book I was reading was no fun. Not content with life, I had a good reason to frown, for the world was intended to drag me down.
And if that were not enough to ruin my day, a young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play. He stood right in front of me with his head tilted (倾斜) down and said with great excitement, “Look what I found!” In his hand was a flower. What a pitiful sight, its petals (花瓣) were all worn—not enough rain, or too little light. He must have picked the flower from somewhere shady and sunless, just like where I was staying these days. I couldn’t help being self-pitying. Wanting him to take his dead flower away and go off to play, I faked a smile and then looked away. “Why couldn’t everyone just leave me be!” I thought to myself, upset and gloomy.
But instead of leaving, he sat next to me and placed the flower to his nose and declared loudly with certainty, “It sure smells pretty and it must be beautiful, too. That’s why I picked it; here, it is for you.” The “weed” before me was dying or dead, not vibrant with colors, orange, yellow or red—anyone having eyes can see that clearly! But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I reached for the flower, and replied, “Just what I need.” Strangely, instead of placing the flower in my hand, he held it in mid-air without any reason or plan.
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Casting a curious glance at the boy’s eyes, I was hugely shocked.
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“I had to make a change,” I thought to myself.
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At eleven years old, my main concern was money. On my bedroom floor, I arranged the change from my money box to see what I had. I wished it’d multiply before my eyes, but of course it didn’t. To have more money, I decided to work for my grandmother.
After school, my grandmother drove to pick me up. About an hour later, we arrived at the pick-up kitchen and got dozens of little shiny silver trays (托盘). After our load was arranged in the backseat, my grandmother drove us to our first stop: a small white house. I took a meal and a small box of milk from the back and walked beside my grandmother to the door. She opened it and said, “Mrs. Hershel, we’ve brought you some lunch.” The reply came, “Come on in.”
I nearly jumped when I glanced over to see a tiny old woman in the corner looking at me. She sat in a rocking chair and had many wrinkles. When I approached her, she smiled at me, with no teeth. My grandmother guided me inside to place the lunch on her kitchen table. The house smelled bad.
The next stop was much the same and the next. The houses varied in size and shape, but the same wrinkly people waited for their meals. Each person smiled at me and thanked me as I hurried to get out of there. I was sweaty and tired, and my clothes had captured the bad smell of the food and old houses.
At the end of the day, I guessed it was obvious to my grandmother that I wasn’t very comfortable about the job anymore. “You don’t have to help me,” she said. “I understand if the job isn’t what you want to do.” I swallowed hard, wandering what to say. “For many of the people we deliver lunch to, this is their only meal of the day. Many of them are alone,” my grandmother continued. Seeing my eyes widen, my grandmother smiled, “But a kind word and a smile go a long way.”
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When we arrived home, my grandmother handed me the money I’d earned.
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The next morning, I saw each person with all their wrinkles and the houses a little differently.
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Merchant Tovel loved attention. Knowing that people would listen if he had news to share, he went around his village making up stories about the local rabbi (犹太教神职人员).
“He mixes dairy and meat!” said Tovel.
The townspeople shook their heads, for they all knew that dairy and meat must not be mixed in the course of any meal.
“And he sneaks (偷拿) food on Yom Kippur,” added Tovel.
“Not Yom Kippur!” cried the townspeople.
For not only is Yom Kippur the most important fasting day of the year, but it is also the holiest Jewish holiday.
Later, alone in his home, the talebearer felt bad about what he had done. His stories about the rabbi had spread quickly. “I will go to the rabbi and beg him for forgiveness,” he decided. Then all would be well again.
The next morning, he went to the temple and knocked on the door. “Rabbi,” he called, “it is merchant Tovel, coming to see you about an important matter.”
“Come in, Tovel,” the rabbi said warmly, opening the door.
In a matter of moments, Tovel told the rabbi all the things he had said. Then he asked, “What can I do to make things right?”
The rabbi thought for a moment, then told him, “You must take a feather pillow (枕头), cut it open, and feed the feathers to the wind.”
Tovel thought that the rabbi’s suggestion was strange, but the task seemed simple enough. And if it would take away the guilt he felt, then why not do it? Tovel thanked the rabbi and quickly left the temple. At home, the talebearer grabbed a feather pillow, waited for the afternoon winds to pick up, then climbed to the top of a hill. There, he cut open the pillow and watched the feathers float far and wide across the land. Satisfied, Tovel returned to tell the rabbi of his deed. “Now go and gather those feathers,” the rabbi commanded.
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“But they are everywhere!” Tovel cried. “How will I get them all?”
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Feeling disappointed, Tovel returned to tell the rabbi about the feathers he couldn’t collect.
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I looked around the crowded waiting room at the hospital and sighed. Would the doctor be able to see my eight-year-old son next? I tried steadying the ice pack(冰袋) over his forehead, but it was no use. I couldn’t stop shaking. The wound in his forehead was deep, but at least blood wasn’t pouring from it anymore.
His face was full of tears, he seemed really brave for his age. I handed him the ice pack, and he covered his forehead with it. He was doing a much better job than I had. We were at the hospital because another child had thrown a rock at Luke during class break as he was running around the corner. His teacher called me, and when I arrived, I found him in her lap. His teacher was caring for his wound, trying to keep him calm. She felt terrible about what had happened, but I knew none of it was her fault.
Lulse received four stitches (缝和) and didn’t cry once throughout the whole treatment. For the next two days, his eye was swollen shut and black and blue. I felt like I’d had a mini nervous breakdown. Every time I tried to sleep or tend to housework, horrible thoughts crept into my mind. Fear had taken over, and then the fear turned to anger. I was angry with the child who’d thrown the rock. I just couldn’t shake it. What was she thinking? She should’ve known better.
Luke’s headmaster and teacher called me that evening to see how he was feeling and told me Katie, the girl, felt terrible. I wanted to stand up for my son, do the right thing, protect him.
The next day, Luke’s teacher stopped by to see how he was feeling and dropped off a get-well card that Katie had made. Luke and I read it several times, and I couldn’t help but feel a little choked up. It was a sincere apology.
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I wanted this to be a teachable moment for Luke.
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Later, Luke’s teacher told us Katie was relieved after reading our letter.
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Broken Shells
It was a warm summer afternoon at the Jersey shore. My four-year-old son and I just loved walking along the beach just before dinner. With a bucket in hand, we’d hit the sand and start our adventure.
I remember the days not so long ago when a trip to the beach was just unbearable for my little boy. My son, Will, was diagnosed with ASD (孤独症). His sensitivities to sights, sounds, and touches would prevent us from enjoying everyday activities. The beach is now one of his favorite places to visit.
Presently, we are able to walk along the edge of the water almost daily in the summer months, looking for seashells to fill our bucket. On this particular day, there didn’t seem to be too many shells washed up on the shore. Will began picking up whatever shells he saw lying in the sand. After a while, I looked into the bucket and saw nothing but broken shells. “Will,” I said, “all of these shells are broken and no good.” “You need to find shells like this,” I continued, as I held up a perfectly shaped shell. Will gave me a puzzled look and continued on his way, gathering whatever shells he saw and dropping them into the bucket.
I continued my search for some time, and again, I stopped, but this time I asked in a firm voice, “Will, why do you insist on filling our bucket with shells that are broken?” He looked up at me and replied, “Mom, there are more shells on the beach that are broken than there are perfect ones that you are searching for. We’ll get the bucket filled faster with the broken ones.” True, I thought, but who wanted a bucketful of broken shells? Will stared at me as if he knew what I was thinking. “Mom, these shells are broken. but they are still beautiful.” he added. Just then he began commenting on different shells’ uniqueness. “It has the color purple on it. Mom, none of yours have purple on them. It reminds me of a clown (小丑). This one is like the sun, and these ones are like butterfly wings,” he said with such pride.
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Touched by what he said, I realized changes are to be made to our shell trip.
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Back home with great joy, we agreed to make more shell trips and build a “broken shell garden”.
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I was creating a picture book for my dad’s birthday about our family’s fruit store. I worked hard making pictures of big apples, peaches, plums, and oranges. Every time I messed up, I started all over again, so the floor under the kitchen table was covered with half-finished drawings.
“Dad’s going to love this,” Mom said as she looked over my shoulder.
I zipped through the cleaning and moved those waste papers from the floor to the recycling bin as fast as possible. Just as I was about to get back to the birthday book. my friend Mareya showed up and invited me to go play in the park. It’s freezing outside, not good for a walk. But Mareya insisted that it’s the perfect weather for not getting overheated. That’s a cool thing about Mareya. She had this way of looking on the bright side of pretty much anything.
So, after checking with my mom, we put Mareya’s guitar inside and headed to the park. But as soon as we arrived there, the sky filled with giant gray clouds and rain started pouring down. We laughed as we headed back home, dripping wet. Mareya was right about one thing. We definitely didn’t get overheated!
We were just arriving at the driveway and that’s when my heart pretty much stopped. Right there, in front of the recycling bin, were pieces of soaking-wet papers. And not just any papers…
I ran to rescue my birthday book drawings. But it was too late. As I picked up my once-perfect pictures, they were a wet, useless mess!
My drawings were gone forever! The cats had jumped up and knocked papers off the table. Then after being played with by the naughty cats, they ended up in the rain water. What could I do without the present for dad? I was in despair.
“We can do something...” said Mareya.
“What?” I sniffled.
“Remember those paper pumpkins we made in third-grade art class?” she said. “And we covered balloons with wet paper and flour to make paper pumpkins.”
Having no better alternative, we decided to give it a try though we were not sure whether this mess could work.
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My mom was very understanding, preparing balloons and flour for us.
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Finally we got the present ready — a big basket of paper fruit.
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“I have to be home earlier than all my friends,” my teenage son, Jordan, said. “I’ m seventeen years old, and I still have a curfew(宵禁). Legally, I’m practically an adult.”
“You’re not an adult,” I said. “You’re still in high school.” “None of my friends had a curfew. You don’t trust me.” “It’s not about trust,” I said. “It’s about wanting what’s best for you. I want to protect you.” “Protect me from what? Having fun?”
I sighed. How could I make Jordan see that I only wanted the best for him? I decided to go for a walk. I opened the front door and nearly stepped on him: a small black cat with a white-tipped tail. “Hi, Meatball,” I said, scooping him into my arms. “Are you ready to come back inside?”
Meatball usually seemed happy enough to come in the house, but after an hour or two, he sat by the door, meowing to go back outside. “Why won’t he just stay in with us all the time?” Nathan asked. “Because he’s used to living outside,” I said.
Jordan’s curfew had become an ongoing discussion that rarely ended well for either of us. I decided to ignore his comment. Thankfully, he didn’t say anything else.
One night in January, temperatures were usually low. Meatball stood at the door, meowing to go outside. “It’ s too cold out there, Bud,” I said. “You’ll freeze.” He stared at me and meowed again. “Mom’s not being mean to you,” Nathan told the cat. “She’s just trying to keep you from turning into a frozen Meatball.” We both laughed at his joke.
The next morning, I couldn’t find Meatball. Jordan said, “I let him out last night.” It took me several minutes to find him curled in a tiny ball beneath my husband’s car. I picked him up, unsure if he was alive or dead. While I called the vet, Jordan warmed towels in the dryer and wrapped them around Meatball.
“I’m sorry, Buddy,” I heard him say over and over again. “Mom was right. Even though you didn’t want to, I should have made you stay inside where it was safe.”
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As I drove to the vet’s office, Jordan sat in the back, holding Meatball inside his coat for warmth.
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On the drive home, Jordan surprisingly apologized to me.
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“Okay, so, where do we go and play football?” Nora asked Emily. “Hmm, maybe we should play in my garden. Come on!” Emily led the way to her garden.
“I go first!” Nora said as she kicked the ball towards Emily.
“Is that all you got? Watch me, the champion, kick the ball!” For a second, Emily ran like the wind to the ball and kicked it so hard that it flew into the neighbor’s house.
There was a loud sound.
“Uh oh ... what did you do?” Nora spoke, feeling afraid.
“I ... I do not know. Oh no! I think I broke my neighbor’s window,” Emily cried as she ran across her garden and hid behind a tree and Nora disappeared into the air.
Fear was written all over Emily’s face. She saw the neighbor, Mr. Mason, pick up the pieces of glass. There was anger on his face. Emily ran away as fast as she could into a nearby park. She dared not return home anytime soon.
The sun was setting and Emily returned home, keeping her eyes wide open for the neighbor.
What if Mr. Mason was at her house? What if he knew it was her? Her heart was shaking as she cautiously (小心翼翼地) arrived home.
Her mother saw the sweat on her face. She knew her daughter had done something wrong.
“Emily, are you okay? Is something wrong? I can help you solve your problems, my dear,” Mother said.
Emily held her mother’s hands and her eyes were wet with tears. “Mama, I did something bad, but it was unintentional. I broke Mr. Mason’s window by hitting the football so hard.”
Mother listened to Emily patiently and she did not press further, although she was not pleased that Emily did not say sorry to Mr. Mason immediately. Then Mother held a pencil and began writing on a piece of white paper.
Mother wrote a sentence on the paper and then she erased it and wrote something again.
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“Do you know why pencils have erasers?” Mother asked.
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Emily walked up to the neighbor’s front door with weak legs.
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