Category Archives: Asian American

Betrayal

Betrayal

By Siah Giji, age 13, New York.

Betrayal, a word so bitter and cold
A stab in the back, a heart turned to stone
A trust once given, now broken and old
A bond once strong, now shattered and sold
The sting of betrayal, a wound so deep
A hurt so profound, it cannot sleep
The memories linger, the pain so real
A betrayal so cruel, it cannot heal
The world may move on, the pain may fade
But the memory of betrayal will never be made
A wound so deep, a scar so wide
A betrayal so profound, it cannot hide

By Siah Giji, high school freshman, New York, adds: “I am passionate about writing and determined to improve my skills. Despite English not being my first language, I’ve come a long way, and at just 13 years old, I’ve written a poem that reflects my growth. My first language that was taught to me by my parents is Malayalam and even though I do not know how to write in this language my family and I communicate using this language. 

My South Indian cultural background has deeply influenced my perspective and creativity. What’s important to me is embracing diversity, preserving cultural richness, and promoting inclusivity.

In crafting this poem on betrayal, my aim was to capture the raw emotions associated with a broken trust, specifically in the context of a betrayal of my trust by so many of my closest people. The poem delves into the complex layers of emotions and reflections that arise when those you hold closest prove to be unreliable. It’s a personal exploration of the feelings one goes through when faced with the harsh reality of trust shattered by those who were supposed to be the closest.”

I Have Two Names

I Have Two Names

By Joy (Peixin) Yin, grade 7, Mexico.

I have two names; a Chinese name and an American one. My Chinese name is Peixin (沛心) . It means “pure heart.” My American name is Joy. My parents named me that because they want me to be happy.

My Chinese name is the one that is official. It’s written all over my legal documents. On first days of school, when the teacher calls roll, I’m always last, because my last name is Yin (尹). But I always need to correct them, “I go by Joy, though.” Sometimes, the teacher forgets and keeps calling me Peixin. And sometimes, I hear laughs and giggles from my classmates. I feel guilty to say, that sometimes, I feel a bit ashamed for having a Chinese name. So, when someone asks me, “What’s your name?” I always tell them to call me Joy. When the substitute pauses while taking attendance, it’s always me. When I write my name on my computer or phone, it always gets autocorrected. It’s almost as if the universe hates my name.

My American name is what they call me. When my family moved to the U.S., my parents gave me my American name so it would be easier for people to remember me, and for it to not be awkward and embarrassing for me every time someone pronounced my Chinese name wrong. My American friends all know me as Joy. I feel connected to the name; I feel like it’s me. Yet, I always get reminded of my real name.

But after three years of living in my hometown in China again, my feelings towards my name have changed. In China, my classmates and teachers all called me Peixin (pronouncing it perfectly!), and I was normal for once. In school, I was able to improve my Mandarin as well (a hard process, but worth it!). During that time, I also felt more connected to my culture, and learned more about it, although I sort of missed my American name and identity.

By now, I’ve accepted the fact that both of my names are part of my identity. Different parts of it. And I’ve embraced my Chinese name more. Especially after I saw many Asians at my new international school use only their Asian names.

My two names are two parts of my identity—living together in harmony, forever and always.

Joy (Peixin) Yin, grade 7, Mexico. She adds: “Born in Wuhan, China, I have also lived in California for five years. I speak and write Mandarin Chinese and English but I am also trying my best to learn Mexican Spanish. I have never been a sports person. Instead, I’ve always loved reading and writing. I’m currently 13 years old, and attending an international school in Mexico City.”

Let it Have Meaning

Let it Have Meaning

Let it have meaning
When the thunder comes
Earth beating to the echoing drum of its beat
it will have meaning
the skies will alight
the rain will breathe life into the earth
and it will have meaning

When the fires light
Forests ravaged by the enraged flames
it will have meaning
the death will clear way for new growth
the ash will nourish the ground
and it will have meaning

When the darkness rears its head
Mind flooding with thoughts of escape
i can find no meaning
tears staining satin pillowcase
dread escaping, breathed in by those around me
there is no meaning

let sufferings occur
allow my soul and spirit to perish
my body crucified,
all i ask
let it have meaning

—Bansi Balar, age, 17, Texas. She adds: “While studying the poem ‘Dulce et Decorum Est,’ my history teacher said something that has stuck with me ever since. With what was likely little recognition of the profound impact his next few words would have, he noted that while prose may be the language of conveying meaning, poetry is the language of emotion. Typical speech is vital as the means through which humans communicate matters of rational significance; however, poetry is arguably even more vital as the means through which humans communicate grief, joy, rage, and all of the other things that cannot be truly understood through prose. My writing journey began with a creative writing class I took in my sophomore year, and was recently enriched by the Yale Young Writers Program I attended this summer. All in all, poetry is an outlet for me, and I have dedicated myself to it by writing in nearly any free time I get.”

It Never Rains in California

It Never Rains in California

By Jada Ying King, grade 11, California

 

“There is no chance of rain. Zero, zip, zilch. Don’t worry!”

—Jada King, White Stag patrol counselor (PC) to the Tunde patrol. Afternoon of June 22, 2022. Approximately… two hours away from regretting those words.

4:30 P.M.
Light cloud cover hung over the sky. To anyone anywhere except the dry valley that is Piney Creek, Monterey, that signified rain coming. But as I, my nine fellow PCs, and the rest of middle to southern California knew, it does not rain in California in the summer.

Confident in my knowledge, I turned back to look at my seven sweaty little lieges. “Faster we make it up this hill, faster you can get cooking!”

Immediately, all the boys perked up, picking up their pace with shouts of, “Aw yeah!” and “Great!”

We remained ignorant of the coming storm.

5:45 P.M.
“Don’t the clouds look pretty dark?”

Ethan, a particularly persnickety 13-year-old camper, pointed up to prove his point. “The sky’s weirdly yellow. And I think I heard a grumble.”

“Where are we?” I chuckled. But more seriously, I added, “I talked with Tim. He said, and I quote, ‘In the past thirty years, it hasn’t ever rained here in the summer.’ We’ll be fine.”

At that exact moment, a BOOM echoed through the valley below, followed by the quiet patter of raindrops. My heart rate rocketed—we youth counselors planned for basically every situation except rain.

Mind whirring, I barked, “Get out the tarps and take cover; stay low as much as possible! Cover your packs and the cooking equipment if you can.” I took a deep breath, telling myself to remain calm. I trained for these moments; I was the PC here. I had control over the situation. So maybe the second leg of our hike was going to be delayed. But once the rain died down, we’d head for our outpost.

Thunder filled the sky. I shivered again.

9:30 P.M.
The rain continued to pour, although the barrage of lightning had stopped earlier. Unfortunately by then, the sun had already set.

“You sure you’re good with going down first?” asked Ethan, PC of the Attila patrol. The adult staff had called an emergency PC meeting, and because the Tunde patrol was stationed the closest to the route to the outpost, I nominated myself as the forerunner.

I rolled my shoulders and shook out my dripping, stringy hair. Although I wore my water-resistant staff jacket, I was soaked to the bone and freezing cold after standing around in the downpour for half an hour. “Not a problem,” I said. “Plus, it’s only gonna get darker from here on out.”

I trudged up the hill to the Tunde patrol. “Pack up, guys, we’re going down to outpost!” I said, maintaining my energetic facade to lighten up the situation.

But when I brought my seven kids to the pitch-dark, rocky, near-vertical slope down to outpost, my fake cheer faltered. No, I told myself. I could not let myself fall to self-doubt in this sort of situation. Behind me, my patrol whispered uncertainties to each other.

I turned around, my heart running a million miles an hour. “Okay, kiddos. I bet this is going to be the most difficult night of your week.” Murmurs of agreement. “But hey, we’re going to make it down, we’re going to finish this hike, and we’re going to do this together. So get out your flashlights!”

The trip down the hill was terrifying, to say the least. Quite a few times, my shoes slid and skidded on the muddy rocks. I caught one of my kids from falling over once, and figuring out where their patrol site was in the dark and the rain was an entirely different challenge, even with flashlights.

But by 11 P.M., in the utter darkness of the Monterey wilds, in the biting wind and my sopping clothes, I managed to get my patrol in bed, free of injuries, and now with an exciting story to tell to their parents.

Of course, the fact that the staff site was overgrown with poison oak was something we never told our kids. Nor did we tell them that we youth staff only crawled into our sleeping bags at 2 A.M. because we looked for somewhere to sleep for two hours. We just magically showed up at our patrols the next morning with as much energy as we did before, ready to make more enchanting outdoor memories for them.

After all, as a PC, I was there to give them the experience of a lifetime. And isn’t it more fun at summer camp when your counselor’s always giving everything their 110 percent?

Author’s Note:
I am a Chinese-American 11th grader at Palo Alto High School who enjoys drawing, writing, and hiking—which is why in 2022, I served as a youth counselor for the White Stag Leadership Academy, an accredited outdoors summer program dedicated to enriching youth from the ages of 11 to 17 in outdoorsmanship and leadership.

Our program is entirely youth-led. From September to May, youth counselors train in first aid, outdoors skills, and effective leadership, as well as plan a full week of summer camp for incoming White Stag candidates. Unfortunately, the one thing we didn’t plan for was rain!

I hope that my true story can both inspire individuals to go outside and experience the great outdoors, but also not feel disappointed when nature rains on us. Sometimes the most inconvenient situations that the sky throws at us lead to the most inspiring personal growth—and the most entertaining stories!”

Jada Ying King, grade 11, California.

The Abscission of Perennial Petals

The Abscission of Perennial Petals

By Aniket Dewangen, grade 10, India.

 

The bougainvillea flowers whistled with the wind. Each of them withered away as two stayed by the coarse and flaky mahogany tree.

My childhood

The image of the god was pleasant and heartwarming. He held a brass flute adorned with a flower and a bead. The arched legs crossed against the drapery of the Dhoti1 and his lips touched the edge of the flute. His gaze was drawn downward to the majestic instrument. Its amygdaloid-like face and beaten-blue complexion were elegant and defined by a sharp jaw. A majestic peacock flower hung above the satiny hair at the crown of his head. The ace-shaped, indigo-colored splotch in the middle was covered by a flurry of green strands that flowed in a rhythm. The Lord Krishna stood there elegantly, displaying a natural aura of benevolence. Next to the defined blue edges was the goddess of devotion and tenderness, Radha. The two gods stood serenely in the centre of the ashram.2 The terracotta figures seemed to be emphasized in the minds of the people standing before me. Two Pandits3 walked towards the idols. They were wearing angharkas (a short coat-like scarf around the stomach). They marched around and began to proceed with the pooja.4 I looked back and scanned the long queue. The line’s shape curled almost like a racetrack. We all soon congregated, pushing forward to get a greater view of the two idols in the spotlight. I couldn’t see much. I just saw the shoulders of men who were agitated. My father, who limped through the crowd was in front. He had polio, and an orthotic device was attached to his legs. He began to walk in discomfort without any space left.

“Are you okay?” My father looked at me. He looked in agony, yet he powered through the line, which was like a Dandi march.5 Paa (father) was a kindhearted man, or at least I thought so, for the majority of my life. Soon the line began to compress, and I could sense the aroma of Rabri and Malpua.6 The glistening white substance dazzled with a pinch of cardamom on top. It was my favorite. My mother standing behind me kept her soft hands on my shoulders as we moved slowly through the long queue. The brass-plated bell rang at a fast tempo and the procession began. The chimes cut the air and rang through my ears. Soon I started to sense that we had come to the beginning of the line. My mother took me in her arms, and I could finally have a better view of the luminescent and vibrant colors. Both the terracotta figures were covered in tinsel. The pandits approached the idols and began to swerve a copper plate that contained an incandescent flame in one of the lamps. The intricate and mesmerizing designs on the bell and the plate were astonishing. The Pandits began to pour a white substance over lord Krishna. The idols were soaked in the thin badam milk.8 The low-pitched sound began to omit and amplify in the chamber. The Chappan Bhog9 had begun. The Chappan Bhog was a tradition during the festival of Janmashtami10 where the graceful gods were lavishly fed. The Pandits sang a harmonious tune and began to pour different things over the idols. I never understood why this happened. My mother told me that the gods were never fed, and this festival would fulfill them. The myriad of assorted foods made my mouth water.

“Now beta,11 ask for what you want most and fold your hands looking up at the terracotta idol,” my mother said in a haste. My hands joined together and pressed against the warm surface of my palms. I closed my eyes. The one wish and the one thing that I sought the most was barely even related to me. “Dear god, since you have had a wonderful meal, it wouldn’t be rude to ask you this small request. Please keep my parents happy, they seem to fight a lot. I want them to be happy and complement each other.” My eyes slowly opened and a hue of blue covered my vision. The voices that were once muffled began to ring in my ears. The same flame came close to me by the copper plate. The Pandit approached me. I leaned forward and raised my hands underneath the fire that rippled diagonally in the presence of oxygen. The Pandit then smiled and took a red-colored pigment mixed with water. He dipped his thumb in the color and put the tilak12 on the center of my forehead as I pulled my hair back. The Pandit took a few rice grains and stuck it at the same red line. Soon after, my focus quickly shifted from the pooja to the prasad.13 The prasad was a small token that was a blessing from the gods. Taking it from one hand was disrespectful, so I layered them both underneath. A green powder-like brittle was poured into my hand. It looked like earthy soil in my hand with other assorted colors sprouting. I dumped it all in my mouth, and the sweet powder dissolved.

We exited the ashram and my father smiled at me. I hugged them both, yet they had some repulsion against each other, like two magnetic poles. I noticed it instantly, but I didn’t understand what caused this tension.

Vexed – pandora’s box

I climbed up the staircase; drops of sweat poured down my body and made my hair oily. I removed my socks and speckles of grass rained down on the entrance mat. I realized a deafening noise was coming from the inside. The voice was stentorian, like the roar of a lion. I looked down at the marbled tiles aligned next to each other like a tessellation. I stepped inside, and the voice was even louder. In the kitchen, there were the sounds of a pressure cooker that emitted a blaze of steam and gas. In the other room was the sound of my mother, whose voice quickly changed from loud to timid. She began to pule and cry querulously. I quietly put my heavy bag in the room and decided not to make her aware of my arrival. I sat by the curb of my bed and silently listened to the conversation. They began to spit out insults in Hindi and the very blunt manner made me cover my ears. The walls became thin like paper, almost turning into the translucent matter. I pulled my kambal,14 over my head. I couldn’t bear to hear my mother sob and weep over the phone. Instantly I began to connect the pieces and realized who she was talking to.

I spent the entire day sitting on the bed. The call had stopped, and she had begun to snivel. I imagined her facial expression and the tone of his voice. “What could have made her cry so much?” I thought in my head as I concentrated on a single point on my cupboard. The scenarios flooded my brain. I began to become more and more anxious about finding out the mere truth. The teary-eyed face emerged from the aperture in the wall. She was perplexed and baffled by my sudden appearance and sat beside me.

“It will all be okay.” The vague statement did not assure me that she was doing fine. Instead, I began to get even more worried. As Maa left my room, I pulled out my drawer and began to nibble on a childhood snack. The packet of sweets besides my belongings would usually be saved after dinner. But at that moment I needed something to relieve the inexpressible pain. I put the hard candy, shaped like a mango in my mouth. The explosion of flavour tingled my mouth with a stiff numbness. The sour hard candy shifted its position from left to right in my mouth, coating it with the orange dye. I leaned on the headboard of the bed and didn’t do anything for the next few minutes.

Paa opened the door. I heard the creak and began to peek from the edge to see his face with a rictus. It emitted a smoldering look that was bold and quite masculine. He put his belongings by the sofa in the hall and called out my name. A sudden sense of anxiety penetrated my skull. I came out, put my hands behind my hips, and sat down on the greyish-white sofa. The conversation started normally and then was weighed down by emotions. I had not anticipated this moment, and I had begun to link the fact that money was a problem at home. Yet this was not even close to my prediction. Instead, I had learned of the disunion of the two pillars in my life. My world collapsed into a black void, and I sat there still in a vegetative manner for the next few minutes. The Pandora’s box had been opened, and I became enraged at this classified information which was unraveled.

The second petal beside the pinker one, began to hold on to the stem with a thread. Almost beginning to detach.

The contrasting white chair

It was PTM (Parent-Teacher Meeting) day. I walked by the person who made me ripe for the harvest. We both stepped inside the room where Mr. Girinath, my math teacher, welcomed us. He wore a checkered T-shirt and had a Vandyke beard with sleek metallic glasses. The three seats were next to each other. I wasn’t nervous about meeting my teachers, but I was bothered by one thing. It lingered in the back of my mind. My sore eyes were filled with gunk. While walking to the meeting, I was tired and pretended to be elated. The teacher began to lecture me about my poor attention span and my slipping grades in class. It didn’t matter to me. At that point, I just looked at the corresponding chair. The virgin white appalled me with its emptiness. I began to stare at it. My skin flaked like the scales of a viper. Soon my focus was disrupted by a concerned look on my mother’s face. She was quite upset with my academic performance. I was then continually lectured about my grades. I didn’t seem to care. I stepped out of the room. My attention was diverted to the other children. Their faces were lit up with ecstatic expressions. I noticed that both their pillars helped in upholding the integrity of their life. That one other pillar that was supposed to be upholding me had vanished. My mother’s sari15 revealed my face, and its fabric emitted a powerful aura. I was beholden to her and grateful because she raised me even when everything seemed to collapse. I hugged her tightly, grasping her back as a tear rolled down my cheeks.

            “I love you Maa,16” I murmured softly.

The mahogany tree stood there alone. The singular petal tarried in like an anchor.

By Aniket Dewangen, grade 10, India. He adds: “My roots have stemmed from the streets of Haryana, and I speak Hindi at home despite being born in the United states. Yet apart from this, I actively enjoy photography and art. I like capturing numerous moments, people and cultures through my Camera, and explore my artistic capabilities with the help of a brush and canvas. A large part of my childhood was seemingly rough and I went through many hardships, but my hobbies and passions made up and brought me relaxation even in distress. This all taught me one thing to stay stronger and push through anything that was to come my way.”

Foot Notes:

1 Dhoti: A white cloth garment with a border, worn in an Indian traditional manner

2 Ashram: A hermitage

3 Pandit: A Hindu scholar

4 pooja: A Hindu ritual of worshipping god

5 Dandi march: Mahatma Gandhi’s famous Salt March—nonviolent civil disobedience in 1930 during the British Colonial Indian rule

6 Rabri and Malpua: Traditional Indian sweet dish made with milk, sugar and condiments

7 Aarthi: A ritual ceremony of waving a lighted lamp during prayers

8 Badam : Almond

9 Chappan Bhog: Offering of 56 food items to Lord Krishna on his birthday (Janmashtami)

10 Janmashtami: Lord Krishna’s birthday festival, usually in August or September

11 Beta: Endearing term for son in the Hindi language

12 Tilak: A mark worn by Hindus on their forehead, especially during festivals

13 prasad: Food that is offered to gods

14 Kambal: A blanket or comforter

15 Sari: A traditional garment worn by women in India; it’s a long, colorful cloth decorated with various designs.

16. Maa: Mother.

 

Polly Bemis: A Pioneer Chinese Woman in the Northwest

Polly Bemis

Pioneer Chinese Woman in the Northwest

By Fanny Wong, New York

In 1872, on a pier in Portland, Oregon, an eighteen-year-old Chinese girl waited. She had been smuggled to America, far away from her village in China.

My father was so poor he sold me for two bags of seeds for the next planting!

The girl closed her eyes and saw the image of bamboo that grew near her old home.

I am like a bamboo. A bamboo bends in the wind. I will bend but not break.

“Gong Heng!” A Chinese man called out.

The girl’s eyes flew open.

“I’m taking you to your master in Warren, Idaho,” said the man.

For nine days, the man led the pack train of mules on mountainous trails to the mining town. For nine days, Gong Heng gazed in wonder at the majestic Northwest wilderness. It helped soothe her worries.

What’s going to happen to me?

In Warren, the mules plodded down a rutted street to a saloon. A stranger hoisted the girl from the mule and announced to the people around, “This is Polly.”

Gong Heng wondered who they were talking about. Soon, she realized that Polly was her new name in this strange new land.

I was born in the year of the ox. I am stubborn and hard working. I will survive and I will go home.

Polly’s owner was an old Chinese man.He put her to work in the saloon. Men came to gawk at the one Chinese girl in town, and stayed to drink and play cards. She served drinks, cleaned tables, and swept floors. Her presence made her master’s saloon different from the others in town, including the one next door, owned by kind Charlie Bemis.

Sometimes Charlie heard trouble brewing in her master’s saloon. He would march over to break up a fight and stay to talk to the cheerful young girl who worked so hard and always had a smile on her face.

Soon Polly, a fast learner, could understand and speak some English.

One night, Polly swept the saloon after the last customer had left. Something on the floor caught her eye. It glittered. It gleamed. It was a gold nugget. She slipped it into her pocket.

A miner must have dropped it when he paid for his drinks with gold dust or a nugget.I may find some more.

On rare nights, she did spy gold dust, flakes and even nuggets. Even though she knew it would take years to scrounge enough gold to buy her freedom, there was hope on the saloon floor.

Month after month passed. Polly was always doing something to save money to buy her freedom. Charlie taught her how to work with gold. Polly made trinkets out of nuggets and sold them. She learned to make bread, stew, sauerkraut, fruit preserves, and other foods the miners liked.

“I learn right along,” she said to Charlie, pointing to her head.

Then everything changed. Polly’s master died. The girl who had been sold for two bags of seeds was now a free woman.

What’s going to happen to me?

 Polly had a big decision to make.

Should I buy passage back to China with my money? A Chinese friend wrote letters for me but I haven’t received any answer from my parents. Have they forgotten me? Where do I belong?

Even though there was a lot of discrimination against Chinese people in America, life in China for a young woman from a poor family was even worse. Polly made up her mind to stay. But what would she do? Where would she live?

At that time, a Chinese person could not buy property. Charlie could, with Polly’s money. He bought a boarding house for her. Before long, Polly’s boarding house was a popular place for people who passed through or miners who stayed longer. She was a good listener to their tales of woe and troubles.

Soon, Polly had woes of her own. Mining towns were violent places. Charlie got shot in the cheek.

“Will he make it?” Polly’s voice shook.

“I’m sorry, Polly. I’ve done all I could,” the doctor said. “Just make him comfortable till the end.”

It was then that Polly realized Charlie meant more to her than just a friend.

“Charlie won’t die. You see, I take care of him.”

Week after week, Polly nursed Charlie back to health. She packed herbs over the wound. She made nutritious soups to help him get strong. With Charlie’s recovery, Polly gained respect from the community for her loyalty and nursing skill.

Everyone in Warren knew Polly. Women were few and they were generally not respected. But this Chinese woman was trustworthy, kind and cheerful.

Charlie and Polly were married after his recovery. Soon after, Charlie took her by boat eighteen miles up the Salmon River. The land Charlie wanted to buy at the bottom of the canyon was flat enough to make a homestead.

“Well, what do you think?” Charlie asked.

“I love this wild place,” Polly said. “Need hard work.”

With her blessing, Polly and Charlie became the first to settle by the Salmon River. They kept chickens, a dog, a cow, and a few horses. Using farming skills learned from her childhood in China, she nurtured the soil and coaxed cabbage, beans, corn, and fruit trees to grow strong and bountiful.

Polly hauled water from the river. She fed the animals. She chopped wood. Although life was not easy on this rugged patch of land, she was content. The babble of the river and the wildlife around her soothed her.

Charlie and Polly lived an isolated life until Peter Klinkhammer and Charlie Shepp settled across the river. The new neighbors became best friends. They took Polly’s produce as well as their own to Warren to sell and buy necessities, such as coffee, soap, thread and fishing gear.

She made friends with prospectors who passed her homestead. “I feed you a good meal.”

This five-foot tall Chinese pioneer, brown and wrinkled from the sun and age, became a folk legend. Journalists and visitors traveled to see this feisty woman who told them her improbable life story.

One day, in the summer of her 28th year on their homestead, Polly was fishing on the banks of the river.

Fire! She saw smoke licking out the upstairs window of the room where Charlie was bedridden. Her heart raced as fast as her feet to save Charlie.

“Hurry, Peter!” she shouted to her neighbor as he crossed the river on a boat. Peter and Polly carried Charlie down the stairs through the smoke.

After the fire, Charlie and Polly stayed with the neighbors. Sadly, Charlie died several months later. Lost in grief, Polly again wondered. What’s going to happen to me?

She closed her eyes and saw the image of the bamboo that grew in her village.

I am like a bamboo. A bamboo is strong and it bends in the wind. I will bend but not break!

“Can you build me a small cabin right where the old one was?” Polly asked her neighbors.

“American soil in my fingernails; here to stay.”

Polly’s neighbors built her a small cabin on the same spot of the burned home. She lived there alone for ten years, a pioneer to the end.

Polly had found her place in the world in the wilderness of the Northwest. A girl who was sold for two bags of seeds became a pioneer woman!

Author’s Note:

Gong Heng was born in China in 1853. Her farming family was rich enough that Gong Heng’s feet were bound. At that time, foot binding was still practiced in China. Women with small feet were thought be feminine. Girls as young as five or six, from well-to-do families, had bindings on their feet to prevent them from growing. It was a painful process and the feet became grossly deformed.

When Gong Heng’s family fell into hard times, her mother released the binding so the girl could help in farming. Her feet were already deformed and never grew to full size. As a result, her gait was an unusual rolling one.

During the late 19thcentury, many Chinese women were brought to the United States, mostly against their will. Gong Heng was one of them. When she was a young teenager, a prolonged drought ruined the harvests, and the countryside was overrun by bandits. In desperation, her family sold her to a group of bandits for two bags of seeds for the next planting. She was their slave until she was sold to a woman who smuggled her to the United States.

A Chinese man in Warren, Idaho, probably bought Gong Heng sight unseen through a middleman. Now known as Polly in Warren, she was very resourceful and hard working. She learned the cooking styles and customs of White folks. She was renowned for her kindness and nursing skills. To the White residents and miners of Warren, Polly was an eyeopener. They were accustomed to the poor Chinese miners who lived in shacks in another part of the town. Polly was feisty, cheerful and intelligent. Unlike the dancing girls in the saloons, she was a woman they respected.

Still, America didn’t seem like home to her until her husband, Charlie Bemis, bought a small piece of land by the Salmon River in 1922. It was there that Polly became a pioneer woman, living off the land and making it a home.

At the age of 80, Polly suffered a stroke. Her neighbors took her to a hospital in Grangeville 87 miles away. But she died and was buried in Grangeville. Fifty-four years later, her remains were exhumed and reburied next to her home on the Salmon River.

Polly never could become a citizen of the United States, even by marriage. In 1943, ten years after her death, the law that denied naturalization to Chinese immigrants was repealed.

At the time of her death, she was well-known in Idaho. Journalists wrote about her. Polly’s restored cabin is now listed in the National Register of Historic Places, and she was inducted into the Idaho Hall of Fame in 1996. Her belongings are displayed in the Idaho State Museum. Polly had become a legend.

Bibliography

Elsensohn, M. Alfreda, Idaho Chinese Lore, Idaho Corporation Of Benedictine Sisters Cottonwood, Idaho. 1993

Wegars, Priscilla, Polly Bemis, Caxton Press, Caldwell, Idaho. 2020

http://americansall.org/legacy-story-individual/polly-bemis (accessed 2-9-2021)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A City of Thieves

A City of Thieves

“What we call casual poetry—verses written on kitchen napkins, often forgotten—reminds us that poems are a natural part of human expression… or at least, they should be. My hope is to capture the antagonistic nature of humanity in the 21st century. How does one capture such corruption on paper? The ethics of industries and modern work culture are major topics of debate. What good is individualism if it leads to the downfall of one’s well-being? Each poem is a cry from humanity. The pieces explore the lives of various people and their environments. Both a billionaire oil company CEO and a burned-out office worker have a connection to their environments. My hope is to preserve the fleeting present. Each poem follows how industrial, political, and economic changes have influenced humanity as a whole. The poems are meant to bring attention to the peculiarities… or struggles of various people.”

—Suprya Sarkar, 16, Connecticut.

 

It is May and I’m still jobless.

I thought this city was meant to give birth to dreams.

What dreams, they can only devise schemes.

 

I would rent out a place

But penny tosses and angry bosses consume my day.

I wonder if they truly hold up to their promises of Agony… obliteration. 

 

The pencil taps

Or the ticking of my twelve-dollar watch

Has room for little patience in their world.

I fantasize about what to say.

 

Like a parakeet reciting words to catch bait,

I revise my questions.
For how many times,

Who is to say?

 

They close the door on the poor man in white.

Goddammit,

A university degree

And I’m just as broke as that streety?  

 

My friends from home don’t bother to pick up the Phone.

Ring, Ring, oh shoot,

My phone bill is laying on the floor.

 

Why bother trying to restore the old?

A long-neglected Porsche,

Yeah, I think that’s who I am.

 

What is all this brooding for?

I am writing home

As if even my own mother remembers my name.

Don’t worry they say,

“You’ll get your own place someday!”

—Suprya Sarkar, age 16, originally from Bangladesh, now lives in Connecticut.

Stand OUT

Stand OUT

Smart
Smarter
Smartest
That’s all they care about in this test
Your Creativity doesn’t matter
Your Hardwork doesn’t matter
the Blood sweat and tears you put in doesn’t matter
It’s all about the score in the end
This toxic cycle of making us believe
Believe this is what we have to do to fit in
Fit in with society
Fit in with the crowd
Fit into the jigsaw puzzle
When you’re your very own work of art
For how long does this go on
For how long does this cycle go on
This cycle of blending us all together as one
Until we’re broken and bleeding pieces
Working together in blurred masses
Towards a goal that was never ours
Stop
Make it all stop
Stop making us believe we’re jigsaw pieces
Stop making us believe that we’ve got no choice
No voice
That we cannot be a counterpoise
That we’re nothing more than a mere small voice
Stop making us believe we aren’t our own masterpieces
Stop making us believe that we’ve got to fit in
When we were born to stand out

Likhita Makam is a 15-year-old Indo-American high school student living in India. She has been published in youth newspapers and literary magazines. She’s an avid reader and is up for a poetry discussion at all times. She hopes to inspire people of all ages with her words.