Hiraeth

Leaving
I take a bite
of my noodles.
They lie,
limp in the bowl, along with some sad-looking bits of vegetable.
Mother stares.
I look at my food.
I continue to slurp
on the slightly cooling
noodle soup.
We are leaving China. Returning to the country I was born in.
Leaving behind my friends at the British International School of Shanghai
and my family relatives.
This is something I do not
want to do.
Alas, I have no choice.
My sisters laugh and giggle.
I join in.
How lovely it is,
to have two sisters your age,
to be a triplet.
It all seems easier with siblings around.
They are experiencing the same things.
Allison reads her book, Farenheit 451.
Angela munches on her chips, and plays Minecraft on mother’s phone.
I finish my noodles, disposing the container.
Mother leads us
to a row of metal benches,
where we sit and wait.
I take out my book, The Walled City,
and I read.
Time seems frozen; it is only potentially disrupted
by my occasional slurping
of iced tea.
Time unfreezes
when father sprints over
carrying a large suitcase
taking in huge gulps of air.
“Our flight is ready.”
I put my book back into my backpack
and follow the others on board.
Smiling flight attendants greet us.
The smiles, that seem so unreal.
I sit in my seat.
It is cold in here.
I shiver.
I put on my jacket
and continue to read.
Not long after,
the attendants begin to pass out food.
I take a ham and cheese wrap.
It tastes all right.
The wrap came with congee.
My eyes water, and I think of grandma.
She loved to make everybody congee.
After eating,
I begin to play games on the funky screen in front of me.
Plants vs. Zombies.
I always laugh when the zombies die.
I also watch movies.
A lot of Chinese movies.
I laugh at the funny parts.
I frown when the antagonists run free.
A hand taps me on the shoulder.
Mother.
“Sleep now.  Let your tired eyes rest from all that radiation.”
I turn off the screen.
I doze.
When I wake up,
the flight attendants are moving around again,
this time, they have drinks.
I ask for a cup of apple juice.
The cold, sweet taste lingers in my mouth,
after swallowing.
I would even compare it to nectar, the drink
of the gods.
I ask for another cup of apple juice.
I savor the taste.
I sleep again,
this time,
only for a short while.
Why, you may ask?
My sister Allison woke up
and tapped me on the shoulder.
She wanted to talk.
Mother shushes her from behind our seats.
“Shhhh!”
We hush,
giggling under our breath.
I decide to see what others are watching on their screens.
I see many things.
I actually saw a grown man watching Disney movies.
I tell this to my sisters,
and they laugh.
Father takes out a pack of rice crackers he bought.
“Share these with your sisters.”
I pat Allison and Angela awake.
“Snacktime,” I whisper.
Three eager hands help themselves,
dipping in and out of the bag.
Crunch. Crunch.
Soon, the bag is empty.
I stuff the empty bag into the trash bag
the flight attendants were holding around.
I start watching another movie.
Mother pats my hand.
“Rest your eyes.  Read a book.”
I take out Marcel Proust’s In Search Of Lost Time.
I flip to where I left off.
I read.
I do not understand this book.
Perhaps I am a lotus,
too innocent for the dark message
the book conveys.
In the story, the main character falls in love
with two girls who choose not to love him back.
He tries to force them into submission
but the first girl married someone else
and the second girl died
while falling off a horse
trying to escape the Alcatraz
that the main character made
for her sole use.
Pish, pish.
This story clearly has one moral: You cannot make somebody love you.
I wouldn’t even try.
The boys are all ugly, in my opinion.
Besides, I am too much of an idealist.
This may correlate with my constellation:
Pisces. The dreamer.
Mother is a Capricorn,
down to earth and friendly.
She likes to scold me
to not have my head
so high up in the clouds.
I want to be realistic, too…..
But dreaming is still a good thing to do
when you are bored.
My mind enjoys to wander
alongside clouds and angels
or plunge into the ocean
swimming with groups of fish.
It also like to think
about food.
Lots of food.
With all the books I read,
I’m surprised I haven’t written one of my own.
My mind settles back into my head,
and I drift off to sleep, yet again.
Dallas, Texas
How strange this place is,
after not seeing it in 4 years.
People bustle around,
murmuring in English
which sounded familiar but strange to me.
They say favorite.
I think: “favourite”.
They say elevator.
I think: “lift”.
The difference is so drastic
My mind temporarily suffers a sensory overload.
Father quickly leads us
along with our giant suitcases
to the parking lot.
We get into the rented car,
after putting all the suitcases in the trunk.
Father starts driving,
and we all fall asleep in the back
again.
When we arrive at our home in Plano
everything is dark.
The only sound I hear
is the chirping of crickets
and the tweedling
of night-birds.
Father opens our door
and the first thing I do
is to thrust out my mattress
on the carpet
in my room.
I also plop a fluffy pillow
on that mattress.
Lastly, I take out my stuffed animal toy Xing.
Xing is a monkey, the color of ripened wheat fields during harvest.
My zodiac sign is also a monkey.
Her name means “star” in Chinese, conveying what I would like to become. A star.
Her eyes are two large, black, pearl-like orbs,
sparkling and glittering at me.
She was given to me by my grandmother when I was four.
At that time, I was sick,
my forehead burning with fever.
My grandmother raced to the hospital:
in her arms, lay bags and bags of food and drink, and a stuffed animal monkey.
Xing.
She has been with me ever since.
Longer than I could remember, even though I have a photographic memory.
I got no sleep that night,
for have already slept sufficient amounts on the plane.
I stare at my ceiling,
painted with constellations,
untouched by anybody else,
ever since we left for China four years ago.
A Paradise Lost, and Found, I call it now.
Now I’m back, back to square one.
Back to where I came from.
The scent of night swirls next to me
and I can’t help but wonder
if China was the actual Paradise Lost.
The beautiful place that I called home.
And now it will be hard for me to go back.
I open one of my windows
and gaze at the night sky.
I observe the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper.
I also see Andromeda,
which is very weird, but nonetheless cool.
Andromeda was a Greek princess,
and she was put in chains in order to be offered
as a sacrifice to a sea monster which plagued her people.
However, she was saved by Perseus, the Greek hero who slew the Gorgon, the snake-haired demon-woman.
In real life,
I am Andromeda,
and my “new” country is the monster, the Gorgon...
attempting to swallow every sinew in me.
But unlike the story,
there will be no Perseus to come rescue me from my chains.
I am on my own, and I will have to learn to shed my child wings
for wings of courage and hope.
I will have to become the one and only Perseus.
Sleep actually comes, even if I don’t want it to.
IHOP
The next day we drive to a restaurant called IHOP.
I have never eaten there; the only reason I know of its existence
is from the advertisements it puts up on TV’s.
IHOP liked to put up lots of ads.
I saw a lot of pancakes.
And now,
I’m going to get a chance
to taste them.
We are seated at a booth,
the waitress smiling,
her bobby hair jumping
behind her head.
“Hello! My name is Louise, and I’ll be taking care of y’all today!”
Y’all. That is an extremely weird word.
I have never used it before.
It’s probably a Texan thing.
“What would you like to drink?”
I would’ve asked for apple juice,
but something in my mind clicks,
and I change my selection before words come out of my mouth.
“Cranberry juice, please, ma’am.”
She smiles at me.
“Sure!”
Angela orders orange juice.
Allison orders iced water.
Both my parents order coffee.
Louise takes our orders
and hurries off.
We sit there,
and I reach for Beowulf.
Before I can turn a page,
Louise comes
carrying a large serving tray.
“Here are your drinks!”
I accept my cranberry juice
and take a small sip.
The sweet-sour tangy flavor
leaves a unique aftertaste in my mouth.
Different from apple juice,
but not bad.
Nice Louise asks us if we are ready to order.
“Sure.” My mother replies, her voice steady but tired.
Louise takes mother’s order of a Veggie omelette, and father’s order of Vanilla Spice Pancakes.
She also takes my sisters’ orders of Allison’s turkey and avocado sandwich
plus Angela’s waffles and crispy chicken.
She makes her way toward me.
“What would you like to order, sweetie?”
I think carefully for three seconds.
“I’ll have Red Velvet pancakes.”
Louise’s face lights up with a smile.
“Good choice!”
I smile back,
sincere.
After Louise leaves
I chat with my sisters.
“Which school are we going to go to?”
“A private school?”
“A public school?”
“A girl-only school?”
Mother shushes us
and speaks.
“You girls will go to
whatever school we make you go to.”
We quiet down.
Really?
I was about to pout in protest
when Louise comes
with our food.
I take a bite of my pancakes as soon as they are placed on
the table.
I savor the rich sweetness
and I sip another mouthful of cranberry juice.
Despite trying to ignore it,
there is an emptiness in my stomach
and a dryness in my throat
that food and drink cannot quench.
I share part of my food with Angela
who gives me one waffle
and a chicken drumstick,
fried to a crispy, golden-brown perfection.
Allison didn’t want to share,
wolfing down her food hungrily
as I watched with jealousy.
Mother chews slowly,
like a dignified lady.
Father eats more like us:
Laughing and smiling,
while desperately trying to
maintain his dignity.
For a while,
the only thing I hear
is the sound of chewing mouths
and the clattering of fork and spoons
against plates.
I put down my fork and knife
and wait patiently
for my other family members
to finish their meal.
Angela finishes after me,
then Allison.
Father also finishes.
Mother finishes last.
Mother calls Louise over.
“Check, please.”
Louise smiles. “Yes ma’am!”
She comes back
with a leather folder-thing.
Mother puts her credit card in it
and scribbles random numbers on the recipt.
I wonder if she has a calculator in her head,
click-clacking from all the calculations
she has to do; not to mention that
she also has to count
that all three of her daughters
are by her side.
If one were to ever go missing
she would probably
have a huge panic attack.
Mother’s voice
snaps me out of my thoughts.
“Girls, time to go!”
We get up from our chairs
and leave IHOP
with our parents.
I feel overfilled and sleepy.
I nap when we get in the car.
I stay like this, until we return home
and Allison tickles me in the armpits
to wake me up.
I get up grouchily
but Mother allows us
to take a 30-minute nap.
We scramble into our sheets
and sleep.
School…..?
Today we all got up
earlier than usual.
Mother starts to prepare breakfast,
with us standing beside her,
helping with the food.
I wash and clean the vegetables
while Angela kneads dough.
Allison takes out jars and jars of herbs and spices
hands dipping in and out all at once.
It is not long
until the tantalizing smell of breakfast
fills the whole kitchen.
The warmth reminds me of my grandmother;
her hearty laugh, her gentle voice…..
Ever since mother was a little girl
Grandmother always taught her
how to cook.
“A decent woman should always know how to cook!”
All her recipes are passed down to mother
imprinted in her mind.
The dishes that sound strange but familiar at the same time.
Then, the sizzling of oil in a pan reminds me
that food is about ready.
Mother lays all the dishes on the clean, shiny table, on a tablecloth embroidered with peonies, grandmother’s favorite flower.
My heart trembles with nostalgia again
as I stare at the dishes, and recall their names.
You-tiao. A type of deep fried dough stick, usually eaten with soymilk.  My mother always adds a little dash of cinnamon and brown sugar.
Tang-You-Bing. A fried pancake filled with melting brown sugar, and(in my mother’s recipe), black sesame paste.
Dou-Bao. Steamed white flour buns filled with red bean paste.  They are cut slightly on the top with a knife; when they are steamed in the steam-cage, the bun blossoms, like a flower.
In addition to that, mother also made sesame-walnut honey soymilk,
an old recipe of my grandmother’s.
I bite my lip.
My memories of China,
They overwhelm me,
So many emotions conveyed,
Memories made,
Left behind.
I mentally steel myself and look at the food in front of me.
There is also assortments of sauteed vegetables,
the aroma filling the air.
I take the you-tiao and dip it into the soymilk.
I take a first bite.
No matter what happens,
the you-tiao always has that warm, crunchy texture.
The soymilk’s sweetness camouflages in with the crunch.
Perfect.
I help myself to one Tang-You-Bing, careful to savor the food
and not to wolf it down in a few bites.
The Dou-Bao look too beautiful to eat.  A small Bouvardia blossom
sits on the top,
picked by Allison’s deft, nimble hands.
I stare at this marvelous work of art
that took painstaking care
to create.
Mother tells me to eat the Dou-Bao.
I finish it in three bites.
Mother nods at us.
“Today, we will take you to the school that
you girls are going to go to.”
Great. I’m not looking forward to school,
but one never knows what to expect.
We get into the car
and Dad drives us to the school.
Schimelpfenig Middle School
The building is white, like snow.
The windows decorate the snowy structure
like dark, ornate butterflies.
However, my tongue clicks
and I pout
when I attempt to pronounce the school’s name.
Mother takes us
into an office.
There is a colorful poster
on the wooden door.
It reads
“The Counselor’s Office.”
The counselor is a kind lady,
who smiles with pearly white teeth.
She introduces herself as Mrs. Burks.
Even though she is kind
a voice in my mind
warns me not to
take her too kindly.
As Allison puts it, in her scholarly wording:
“Under the most kind, smiling, convincing appearance of a human,
there may lie a blackened heart of satanic evil
that contains no remorse.”
In other words,
Man is deceitful.
I shake her hand,
the ghost of a smile
passing my lips.
“Hello, Mrs. Burks. It is an honor to meet you.”
Mrs. Burks smiles at me
and I smile back
before looking at her hair
which is twisted into black, dark brown, and maroon braids
and tied into a bun
on her head.
A large ornamental bronze butterfly
pins to her bun, decorated with small amber gems.
shining in the light through the window.
I had not known
hair like this was possible, much less existing.
I compliment on her hair, and she smiles her too-good-to-be-true smile.
“Thank you, aren’t you sweet!”
I shudder at her words.
Could I believe her?
Something old and wise inside of me tells me, no.