fires in the tree

zoe chao

树高千丈，落叶归根

The tree may grow thousands of meters tall, but its leaves will always fall at its roots

Zoe Chao in her creative writing capstone, “Far From the Tree”, published by The Peddie School is an exploration of identity and family through the lens of race, ethnicity, gender and culture, taking the readers on a journey through the branches of her family tree–both intact and broken. The capstone is centered around the Chinese idiom “树高千丈，落叶归根” which translates to “the tree may grow thousands of meters tall, but its leaves will always fall at its roots.” The capstone is based in truth, but written in fiction, allowing readers to peek into the lives of various members of Zoe’s family like snow globes on a shelf at a safe distance. Poetry and prose are both used to grow her tree, with a variety of genres ranging from horror to satire to showcase the dynamic of the family. She will utilize the intimate emotions connected to family to appeal to a general audience. The author’s overall purpose is to explore her roots within this family tree as an ultimate lens in finding her place in the world.

June 2023, The Peddie School, Creative Writing Signature Experience

Table of Contents

roots 根

Dear 太奶奶

Mei Jen

西瓜甜不甜?

Pearl

branches 枝

Yours

Venus Fly Trap

The Fire in Our House

leaves 叶

autumn 秋  September 

winter 冬  Prometheus 

spring 春  Spring Mother

summer 夏  To Summer

roots

根

Dear 太奶奶,

I miss you every day.

I’m Zoe, 趙真 (Chao Jen), the first grandchild of the Chao family, daughter of Tian Shian’s eldest son. I’m seventeen years old now, which means you’ve been gone for eighteen. Oh, how I’ve missed you! I’ve been trying to write this letter for a few years now, hoping to cross the divine bridge that divides us with these few words. I’ve never met you in person, but it feels as though our souls are intertwined. I’ve felt your love, extending its arms like the golden rays of the sun enveloping me in a warm embrace. I grew up hearing whispers of your generosity, recollections of your beauty, and traces of your elegance, but all my fingers can hold onto is a washed-out portrait of you. 

I regret not being able to deliver this in Chinese – I hope there’s a translator in heaven. My broken Mandarin will never fill the abyss between me and my heritage, me and you. I’ve spent my entire life in your homes, in the domain of our culture, yet I still stutter through a sentence. I was born in Shanghai, raised in Shanghai until the age of fourteen, and the words that escape from my mouth sound like the clatter of chopsticks on a broken plate. I pride myself on being related to you but when we meet – can we actually communicate? 

Often, I feel the gaze of our family’s disappointment, boring into my back. You’re Chinese, they say, why can’t you speak it? So I run, concealing myself in the depths of a different language, a different culture. Foreign to my language. Foreign to my culture. Foreign to my family. Foreign, as if the tiny Mandarin characters engraved in my heart have become dots and lines that will never connect. To erase these broken bonds from my mind, I distance myself from home and seek refuge from my own betrayal in the U.S., a country that I grew up boasting on my passport, doused in red, white, and blue. But I’m not this American culture I’ve assimilated into either. I’m marginalized, pushed to the side by this new land because of the yellow pigment of my skin and the red blood that runs through my veins. Our blood. Our skin is spat on, our phenotypes mocked, the ground painted with our blood. It's the land of the free, they say. But when will we ever be truly free?

I’m disconnected again. 

Home is not Shanghai, where I grew up. Not Taiwan, where I am ethnically from. Not the US, where our family has immigrated in the past 50 years. Home is where the heart is. My heart is across the Earth, 8000 miles away. But my heart is breaking. Without your presence, our family is falling apart. We were perfectly placed jenga tiles, balancing, depending on each other to stand, until one was knocked awry and all of us came tumbling down. Maybe we were destined to fall in the first place, without your smile to guide us. I’m trying my best to mend our family, to take your place, and to rebuild the lost connections. But I’m running out of time. 爷爷, your son, Tian Shian, is getting older by the minute – his fingers tremble more than the strings on a plucked guitar, his words repeat themselves over and over again, his eyes gloss over like marbles. But his hands are full of warmth, still. 

I used to stare at your portrait, sitting slightly above the Buddha in our household shrine, wishing that I met you. But in a way, I have. I’ve met your son, my grandfather, the most arduous and compassionate human to exist, carrying your spirit of generosity, filling every heart around him with a bundle of gold. He dedicates everything to our family and beyond. His service to the community has inspired and encouraged me to do acts of charity like the cookie sale. Founded in 2011 by my six-year-old self and Grandpa, our charity bakes thousands of cookies every New Year’s Eve and sells them on the streets of Taipei to fund the education of impoverished children in rural Taiwan, neglected by their own families. We pour your love into each batter, bringing joy to each benevolent donor through a bite of our chocolate chip cookies. It’s 2022 now, 11 years since our founding. Our fundraiser developed from a small stand in front of our house into an online store. We've sent multiple kids to college abroad; we even created an entire class program under our family name. We are giving these kids an opportunity to pursue their dreams by making a home for them, just as you have for us.


You left in 2004, and I came in 2005. The resurrected part of you will always burn in me. No matter how far I go, I will always return home. You are my home, and I know you’ll stay with me forever.

I’ll see you in a hundred. 

Love,

Zoe

Mei Jen

宣 Hsuan

First, she was a Hsuan. Spending her juvenescence working the tender fields plowed between jade mountains and cerulean waters, Mei Jen grew up in Zhu Ji, sipping a glass full of sunshine in the depths of poverty. Her house, a skeleton of compacted earth and broken branches, often winced as it sheltered her family of eight. She was one of six siblings born into that destitute household, unable to afford middle school, let alone achieve higher education. Her younger siblings, however, managed to attend college after immigrating to the Pearl of the Orient, Shanghai, eventually finding their calling in textiles and similar trades. Her closest brother, H.C. Hsuan, often brought her gifts and stories from the East, building their bond one visit at a time. 

In the midst of civil war, H.C. prospered from the undergarment industry, trading with nearby places like Taiwan or Hong Kong. In 1940, he was enlisted by the army in the fatal job of making uniforms for soldiers. Prior to the military assignment, all of his employees had evacuated the factory. He depended on his family, Mei Jen included, and other farmers from his village to meticulously craft uniforms. If he failed to produce the order by the time the soldiers returned, he would have been shot. But just as he was successful in achieving his wealth, he escaped death with the help of his family. 

When Mei Jen reached adolescence, she was bound by marriage to a man she despised. He was more desirable on paper – had money, a house, but never had her love. H.C., witnessing his sister’s misery, paid handsome fees to terminate the marriage and set his sister free. He revitalized her smile. In return, Mei Jen stayed at his house, taking care of his children, undertaking household chores, and even working at his shop in Shanghai. She found familiarity in her new home, nothing fleeting but time itself. 

赵 Chao

Fateful coincidence, 缘分, her family will call it. In the vivace tempo of the city, they happened to come from the same pastoral village. By chance, he was business partners with her brother, H.C. And he happened to come into the shop that day, finding her at the counter sewing buttons. 

Shanghai was the city of magic, 魔城, a pearl in a sea of sand. The supernatural forces that bound their ankles with red thread struck in the hazy mist of the metropolis. They were married six years later and had one son, Chao Tian Shian. Like branches of a beech tree, their small family became closely intertwined with H.C. ’s. 

Soon, whispers of the KMT retreat flooded the city, dreams of escaping persecution hanging above the modest family’s head. And in 1948, the fateful retreat occurred. When H.C. was on a business trip, his family and Mei Jen’s were evacuated by Nationalist generals onto a ferry heading south, torn away from their home in Shanghai, their home in Zhu Ji. Devastated, after returning to a hollowed home, H.C. chased his family by train. And when the train was bombed, he pursued on foot. His feet stung at every contact with the robust surface but the hopes of reuniting with his family kept him sprinting. At last, he boarded the ferry, sailing to a new life, with a set of new opportunities and challenges in Taiwan.

美 Mei

美, there was a certain beauty in their escape. The dilapidated state of Taiwan was no different from her home in Zhu Ji. The worn-out blocks of cement people inhabited held no ground against the seismic activity that shook the island every so often. Mei Jen set up her home on Nanjing East Road, blocks away from the wealthy but down the street from H.C. and his family. Though her house was modest in size, her weekly parties were grandiose yet elegant. Melodies from traditional Beijing opera singers drowned the walls as new friends indulged themselves in opulent servings of homemade food and engaged in intense rounds of Mahjong. The air was saturated with shrills and giggles, the shuffling of ceramic mahjong tiles, and murmurs of secrets concealed in red wraps. The round echo of the gong covered the low voices of the men in suits. Zhu Ji and Shanghai were in the past, across the strait. You couldn’t hear their cries underneath the music, now. 

When Mei Jen entered the room in her brightest qipao and a warm smile hugging her face, the room fell quiet, the silence magnified by her presence. Despite her small frame, she was the lion, the head of the house. Her footsteps pounded against the floor. Her cheeks were always powdered pink, her lips ruby red, and when she opened her mouth, her voice roared.

贞 Jen

贞 takes on the meaning of virtuous, chaste, and loyal. Mei Jen was the confidant of many of her acquaintances, the epitome of loyalty. Her lavish parties may seem superficial on the surface, an affair of elegance, but it was those parties that enticed more people into the embrace of her friendship. She had kind eyes and a big heart, always putting others first. During dinner, she would serve the biggest, most appealing pieces to her guests and leave the meager portions for herself. Her trustworthy disposition made her friends family and when they stepped through the entrance of her house, they were home.

Within her own home, Mei Jen raised her son, Tian Shian, with extra precaution. He was born prematurely at 3 lbs and needed shots every day to survive. She brought him to health within a few years and he took after her, becoming more generous than she was. Not only did she care for Tian Shian and H.C. ’s children, but she also extended her love and hospitality to include another child – a second son. She adopted Tian Bao into the family after Tian Bao’s biological family was unable to care for him. He was her son, and she loved him and spoiled him as such. Her pure generosity was like gold, heavy and desirable. Blood doesn’t matter – when you step into her domain of love, you are home. In this manner, Mei Jen’s legacy was embedded in the hearts of her descendants.

西瓜甜不甜?

I wonder what 外婆 thinks

when she slaps the watermelon,

her fingers cracking the skin of the fruit.

I wonder what she listens for

what echo, what reverberating sound

tells her that the center of the fruit matches

the color of her rubies.


I wonder what she looks for

which stripes – thick? green? pale?

what telltale sign that the fruit has

 ripened and blistered in the sun.

I wonder how she knows

that this one is sweet, that this ending is happy

not sour, not blended into sandy water 

to be drunk by reluctant souls.

I wonder if she knows

that every bite of this fruit

every sip of the fruit

is a reminder of her, for me,

to smile because the 西瓜 is, 

and always will be

甜

Pearl

On Mondays, from around two in the afternoon to ten at night, her apartment in Taipei was filled to the brim with sounds. In the living room, both mahjong tables were crammed with the Monday group – ladies in their seventies (or nineties) covering their age behind bb cream that left white casts across their faces – swishing the tiles across the table as their jade and gold and acrylic nails clacked against the ceramic. In the dining room, musicians lined the bay windows of the apartment, each holding their erhu or jinghu or pipa or gong, plucking and strumming and tapping, making a cacophony of music, the type you heard prerecorded playing in the background of some restaurant back home, back in China. 

In the middle of the room, she stood, at five foot six, but she seemed taller than that. Her posture was perfect, up to her own standards, the ones she demanded that you follow, adding a few inches to her height. Her chin was always slightly tucked, yet higher than yours, hands folded neatly in front of her, resting in a prayer position, hoping, praying for something. Her clothes were never gaudy, like the ladies playing mahjong, but they spoke of poise and wealth – like she was better than you, and all the gold in the world couldn’t save you from that. But she did wear jade – on her neck, on her ears, on her wrists – but they were subtle, meant for you to notice but not draw attention. Those were heirlooms, charms meant to last centuries, and you made it your goal to inherit those same pieces of jade. Her mouth gaped open as notes shot through the entire room. Her voice bounced off the pillars, the tv, even pinging off your head as you felt its vibration pulsating through your veins.

She was perfect as one can be, but you’ll always remember her bimonthly trips to China. You always thought she was there to visit you and your sister, and spend time with your parents. Extended family should fly overseas every other month to see each other, you thought, but you only saw your California grandma once a year. So you started your investigation. You asked your mom where she was, and all mom said was at your neighbor’s playing mahjong, at your neighbor’s oil painting, or in the basement level of the building with her Shanghai opera friends. You followed her around, camping outside the guest room, only to find more high pitch riffs and wavering falsettos. So you snooped and waited for someone to slip up, and they did. You found bags of traditional Chinese medicine, mixtures of herbs, exotic plants, and ground ailments, tucked into the back of the fridge in an unappealing plastic bag. You heard whispers of “doctor” and “prescription” and “pain.” And slowly your suspicions were confirmed.

It happened once before – the cancer made her bones brittle and her hair fall out. The chemo bound her to the hospital bed, but you were not allowed to see her. You can’t remember the exact details, you were too young, but you knew her skin skulked in, retreating back into its fragile structure until all that was left were lines and shadows of someone you used to know. Your grandpa, her husband, gave up his favorite food in the world, pork (bacon, specifically), as a sacrifice, a prayer for her to heal. And she did.

But now that the sickness has relapsed, and you know the hair on her head is fake, you can’t help but look at her and see how her posture erases the once feeble body in the hospital bed, how the notes in her voice puncture through the room, demanding to be heard, how the discipline in her steps mimic the regimen of her recovery, how the makeup, how the wig, cover all the scars of the past, allowing her to step into this new light. So all you can do is clap – after the gong and the erhus and jinghus and pipas finish their music and her voice ceases to sound – her mouth pressing into a thin, cherry-red smile; your hands meeting in prayer every other millisecond.

branches

枝

Yours

She was always there. Sometimes when you slept, sometimes when you were awake, fading in and out of the shadows of the walls. On select occasions, you catch glimpses of her gown, scraps of that chantilly lace floating behind her. Every breath she takes, silent, but cold against your neck. Whether you saw her or not, she was always there.

She had been wandering these halls for years, searching for, wailing for, something. Sometimes she visited the children’s room, patting the walls down for bombs and sweeping the floors for landmines – she didn’t want something to blow them apart. Her son is nearing fifteen, her daughter ten, today. They’ve certainly grown, as her son is presently taller than her and her daughter is noticing that the bumps in her chest have started to grow, debuting a face of bewilderment and saline drops. She wanted to hold her daughter, tell her that it is okay, for she is becoming a woman! A glorious, beautiful, caged woman. Sometimes she picked up their undergarments, a stray waistcoat or pantalette or corset (that awful prison!) that the maid failed to collect, from the dusted hardwood floor of this manor. 

She curled up next to him, loving the way her breath feels on his cheeks. Oh, how his cheeks turn red as a rose or pale as a ghost! Sometimes she’ll wrap herself around him, limbs tucked around, in between and underneath his frigid body – an eternal dance alone. And sometimes, she’ll talk to him, ask him to take her back, to forgive her, to take her back. For the children, she would whisper, but the children were now far beyond her reach. In those times, he would curl away towards his side of the bed, shielding himself from the weight, perhaps weightlessness, of her words and the itchiness of that chantilly lace gown.

Of course the children had known. They were always keen on these types of things. Scandal, gossip, love and hate, the children knew it all. Perhaps they heard it from the maids, perhaps they witnessed it themselves, but they knew. They most certainly knew. 

Sometimes she heard the children whisper in their beds at night, talking to the wall, talking to each other, talking to her. They spoke of loss, of solitude, of love, of revenge. And sometimes the next morning or at the eve of dawn, they would embrace him, in a manner she never experienced and never will experience, arms entangled under the thick of his blanket, sobbing into his torso. She so desired to drape her own arms around the three of them, but the chantilly lace might leave a rash on their skin and it was too late anyways.

Sometimes she heard another voice, silvery, like the spoon she used for tea, singing from the corners of the manor. She drifted towards the voice, without fail every time, following it to its end. Every time she reached a nook or cranny where the voice was loudest, the voice ceased to sound, only echoes of its presence remained ringing in her head. Sometimes she saw the voice, another, the other woman. She loved him more than the other woman, more than herself, more than anything. But when she thought of that woman, when she heard that voice, when she saw her, she saw them – twisting away in her marriage sheets in her marriage bed. She flew into a fury that made her invisible to all those she loved – that same one she spun into as she faded in and out of the shadows of the wall.


She was always there – in the halls, in the children’s chambers, in the bed, in your ear, in your head. Sometimes you saw her, sometimes you didn’t. But you felt her presence, prancing down the halls, practicing her vows, whispering to the children, biting your ear, reminding you of treason. She kept singing, and you hear, I’m yours.

Venus Fly Trap

She’s a Venus

he knew it

but he still wanted a taste. 

That body, that hair, those tits!

dizzied him like cough syrup

dripping over his coarse body. 

His wife was across the border,

the taste of her 

lingering 

like soured milk. 

But she’s here 

her ambrosia sweeter than honey

enticing him in to take 

sip 

after 

sip

bottle 

after 

bottle. 

The kids would be fine

he thought

a little therapy never hurt anybody. 

So he bit into Persephone’s fruit

and her walls began to cave

enclosing him

trapping him 

in this pool of thirst. 

Then she snapped.

Drunk from the blood of lust

The Fire in Our House

This November night was horrid. The air was wrung of all moisture, hanging dust particles in mid-air. Gusts of wind hurled themselves against the two-story home, making the windows shiver, putting the entire house into a hypothermic state. Bits of peeling white paint flew from the siding, torn away by the wind’s rage, revealing the bare wooden boards underneath. Pieces of debris charged against the front door, swept up in the wind’s embrace, demanding to enter. The night engulfed the house in obscurities, and only a single flame lit the home within. 

It started in the dining room on the candle of Mary Jane’s birthday cake. The single blue flame of the candle illuminated the dark room in the style of a vignette, fading at the edges. Mary and Joe hovered over Mary Jane, her grandmother, Wai Po, sat next to them and Mary Kate, her sister, was pushed out of the frame and into the darkness. You could barely see the family photos sitting behind them as they all sang “Happy Birthday” to Mary Jane. But they were all there. You see, this was a rare occurrence for this particular household – Mary forgot to charge her computer, temporarily halting her responses to the 493 unopened emails flooding her mailbox, thereby placing her attention on her youngest child; Joe wasn’t holding a beer, which was an accomplishment in itself (his face, however, was visibly red); Wai Po was downstairs, a first since she moved in (she never quite approved of Joe, a white man with a white name); and even Mary Kate made an appearance. Mary Kate, who now goes by “MK”, was going through a phase seemingly brought on by the oncoming adolescent age, appearing exclusively in the shadows. Joe and Mary initially were puzzled over the shift in her temperament, arguing whether it was teen angst or their sub-par parenting, but came to a consensus, an infrequent occasion, that it was most definitely the former. And like most people in their life, they eventually forgot about her.

Mary Jane, most of all, was not in the mood for her birthday. The only festive thing she wore was her birthday suit, and even that wasn’t very much. The brand new two-year-old was surly – her fists curled up on the table, ready to punch, as she glared right at the flame. 

“Blow it out, Mary Jane!” Mary urged, pointing to the candle.

“I’m two!” Mary Jane protested in reply. She looked at the lonely candle on her cake.

“Yes, you are two,” Mary sighed, “now blow out the candle.”

Mary Jane turned to face her mother and stared right into her eyes. She raised her fists and slammed them against the table, “I’m two!”

“Stop doing that,” Mary said, grabbing onto Mary Jane’s wrists. Mary Jane twisted and pulled her hands free of her mother’s grasp, her wrists now stained with red. Still feeling misunderstood, Mary Jane grabbed the cake, frosting and all, and shoved it into her mouth. The candle, still lit, slid off the top of the cake and fell onto the tablecloth.

Mary gasped and instinctively reached her hand out and slapped Mary Jane on the wrists, pouring red on red, unleashing a beast of wailing.

“Mary! Don’t hit her!” Joe snatched Mary’s hands. Mary Jane, despite the tears, was still very much devouring the cake. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Mary replied, rubbing her hands together. They were red, but you couldn’t see them in the dark.

“你为啥对他对不起？孩子皮必须惩罚!” Wai Po exclaimed, pouring gas over the flames.

“I know, Ma. I know.”

“She’s only two!” Joe spat over the flames. 

“I’m two!” Mary Jane exclaimed, through her frosted mouth.

“Mom, the candle–” MK stood from her darkness, gently tapping her mother’s arm from behind. Mary shoved MK’s hand back. MK stumbled.

“This is not China, you know,” Joe started, “you can’t just–” 

“EVERYONE STOP TALKING,” Mary screamed, her red hands tearing at her hair. 

Joe tilted his body to see MK behind Mary. “MK, don't interrupt your mother while she’s speaking.” He straightened up again, his chin a little higher, his back a little straighter. 

“–the tablecloth’s on fire,” MK finished, her voice consumed by the fire but not by the ears of Joe and Mary. Surely enough, the tablecloth was on fire. MK caught the eyes of her grandmother, grinning at the development of this spark. 

“You can’t slap a child, Mary,” Joe explained, “that’s what we call abuse.”

“It’s cultural!” Mary’s hands went up, as did the flames.

“We’re. In. America,” he said, his voice mimicking the tonality of Mary Jane’s daycare teacher. The room felt warmer.

“Don’t talk to me like that!”

“我就跟你说不要娶个老外,” Wai Po scuffed, her eyes pinned to the flame.

“Mom, stop!” 

Wai Po’s “I told you so” had been playing in Mary’s mind on repeat like a broken stereo with the pause button jammed.

“Duh-woo-aye-boo-chee,” Joe clapped his hands together in front of his chest and bent his torso forward, hinging at his hips, facing Wai Po who was already halfway up the stairs. Wai Po’s eyes flickered over his curved back and she scoffed, heading up the stairs with fire in her eyes. Mary thrust her hands out and jerked Joe back into a standing posture. 

“You know Mary, filial piety is very important in your culture. It is frowned upon to talk back to your elders. I suggest bowing–” 

“Don’t talk to me about my own culture.” A glow of orange slipped into her glazy black eyes. A giggle escaped from Mary Jane's lips. Mary looked down at her but the heat seeped into her eye sockets, sizzling each tear. “Take her away, Mary Kate.” 

“It’s MK.” MK bent down to pick up Mary Jane from the burning table. “Hot,” Mary Jane said.

“Hot,” MK agreed, her breath hitching at the weight of the toddler. She walked into the kitchen. “Don’t move Janey,” MK said as she plopped Mary Jane on the kitchen counter.

“I’m two,” Mary Jane whispered.

“I know.” MK rubbed Mary Jane’s nose before filling the bucket of water she took to the dining room where her parents were still deep in argument. The room was feverish; the fire swelled up most of the table. Beads of MK’s sweat trickled down the side of her head, as the water raged within the bucket, sloshing side to side like tidal waves. Her once full-ish arms had shrunk, all skin and bones, a skeleton of what once was. She hoisted the bucket higher and tried to control the flow of the water so that her parents wouldn’t notice her, but the weight won against her arms, and sploshed across the table in a hefty motion. Half of the fire was extinguished, but the other half persisted. A glass half full, a glass half empty. 

“Shit. Mary Kate!” Mary stared at her shirt, vigorously rubbing at the droplets of water that flew from MK’s bucket.

“Sorry.” 

The flame in Mary’s eyes flickered, blazing violently. She turned sharply and marched upstairs, leaving MK, Joe, and the lovely little fire. 

“It’s getting a little hot in here. ” Joe pinched his shirt forward and flicked it back, trailing behind Mary. MK and her bucket made their way into the kitchen.

When MK returned to the dining room to put out the other half of the fire, Wai Po was waiting. A tiffany blue box, the size that can fit a nice pair of shoes, rested on the scorched half of the table. MK scuffled over to the burning half and began to pour water over the blaze. The fire began to wither.

“Stop!” Wai Po stared intently into MK’s eyes. MK’s hands obeyed Wai Po’s voice, pausing mid-dump, the water still sloshing from the bucket onto the table. Wai Po carefully removed the top of the box, revealing carefully curated memorabilia in the form of old photographs, foreign currencies, letters, contracts, bills, birth certificates, passports, and jewelry. One by one, she fed the paper documents into the tiny flame, watching the paper incinerate – crumpling up as a black shadow washes over. They slowly disintegrate into brittle ash, floating gracefully towards the edges of the room. Water collected at the brim of her eyes, stung by the flames. She flung a teddy bear into the fire, watching each limb melt into the blaze. When she pulled out the last item – a gilded wedding ring adorned with diamonds – turned to MK. 

“Come,” she motioned MK to her side. She grabbed MK’s hand and rolled open her fist. Wai Po gingerly placed the ring in MK’s palm, folding her fingers over it, sealing the gift. MK found her eyes and she nodded. 

“I will meet you in another time,” Wai Po said, turning and leaving the flames behind. The smoke detectors began to sing.

MK turned her heel and sprinted up the stairs, grabbing the backpack, the one that has been packed since fourth grade when Mary got a new job and Joe lost his. The smell of smoke was nauseating, a forbidden cologne. She threw over a sweatshirt and scurried down the hall to Mary Jane’s room. The muffled screaming of her parents in the next room reverberated through the walls. But if they separated, MK would have to choose a parent and neither was even near being an intelligible, eligible choice. She couldn’t leave Mary Jane either.

Maybe they were perfect together in this burning house.

MK snatched a few diapers, a change of clothes, a book, and a toy. She could always buy more with Wai Po’s ring. She ran into her parent’s room. The bed sheets were tangled and the pillows gripped the edge of the bed. Joe and Mary stood on each side, their bodies lifeless, their mouths animated.  

“Stop putting words in my mouth!”

“What words? That’s what you said!”

“You’re an alcoholic.”

“And you’re a fucking narc.” Joe held her gaze.

“Fuck you.” 

MK ran to the desk, snatching her mother’s computer and keys. She squat down, typed in 0-8-1-3-8-6 into the safe. Joe’s birthday, that alcohol-soaked egoist. She grabbed her and Mary Jane’s passports, birth certificates, and a wad of cash. 

“Do you smell smoke?” Mary asked, failing to see her daughter rummaging through their things. MK pressed her lips into a curled line and zipped up her bag. Joe sniffed the air, looking towards the door. His nose crinkled up as it flared open and shut. 

“Shit, the house is on fire.” Joe beelined towards the safe as MK slipped out. “Where is our cash?”

“Where the fuck is my laptop?” Mary screamed, her voice echoing down the hallway MK just sprinted down. The heat expanded on MK's skin, molecules pressing against the small hairs on her limbs, squeezing out drops of slimy liquid. When MK looked back, the silhouettes of Joe and Mary morphed into dark, shapeless figures against the blazing orange conflagration.

This November night was horrid. The air was wrung of all moisture, fire raging into the night sky. Gusts of wind hurled themselves against the skeleton of the house, making the flames twirl and skip, interlocked in an eternal waltz. The fire devoured pieces of debris flowing through the wind. The night engulfed the house in obscurities, and only a single flame burned through the home. 

“You know what Janey?” MK said to Mary Jane who was sitting on her lap as they watched their house burn. 

 “Sometimes I wish they didn’t know me.” Mary Jane giggled, twisting Wai Po’s ring in her small hands.

“But fuck, sometimes I wish they did.”

“Fud,” Mary Jane repeated.

MK squeezed her eyes close, “Janey don’t say that. Bad word.”

“I’m two,” Mary Jane said again, her eyes wide open.

leaves

叶

September

The minute you were born, that night in September, I was set aflame. I never wanted to share my stuffed animals or my pink mini kitchenette or my room or my bed, let alone my parents. So I started the fire. When you came home to us, when you became one of us, I did it. I lit the matches and kindled the fire, feeding it with charcoal and timber. 

I danced with flames in my eyes, darting around you, throwing tantrums and burning up, trying to throw them at you. At first, you were scorched (you were only one or two). But then, you learned how to play with fire and fought back. I remember the bruise you gave me because you took my red silly straw and claimed it yours. You knew I was overly possessive, like a mad, male dog, marking my territory over every item I touched, so you took my land and peed all over it. And when I reached to snatch the straw from your six year old hands, you kicked back. I got a bruise – I remember because I showed Mom my bruise as proof that you hit me. Then we both got hit. 

And gradually, my fire seared through my hands and punctured through my heart, the flames changing their color to protect you. Remember that time when you were eight, on the bus, when you wanted to lie on my lap so that you could talk to those girls sitting in the seat across from us? I said no, and I pushed you off my lap. So you lit the fire that neither the bus monitor, nor anyone on the bus, could extinguish. I didn’t mind you lying on my lap, but I didn’t want you to talk to those girls because they were bad influences on you and I didn’t want you to become like them. But you and your big hot head fought me instead, me who was protecting you, me who loved you. Our hair, our arms, entangled in an eternal blaze, our smoke visible from miles away. On my right forearm, slightly below my wrist, there is a pink scar, marks of your ever-sharp talons eight years ago. It was that day that I knew I was no longer a pretender – that the fire burning all along was ringing with my love, love for you. 

I never got coal in my stocking, but you did, on Christmas morning when you were ten. I woke up to a brand new Casio watch and you got a piece of blackened coal. I used Santa’s hatred of you to fuel my flame for the entire year, up until the Christmas after, and you were never on Santa’s naughty list again. 

And soon, you began to throw fires for me, our flames interlocking, this time for my protection. Though you sometimes still pushed me under the bus and stomped on the gas, we became one. Our fires chased the clouds away and we danced amongst the flames of our fire, the one I started and you fed, stealing the night away. Our fire reflected in the surfaces of the stars, giving them a brighter light as they illuminated our bond, reminding us we were invincible, that no one could stop us. 

When you and Mom were fighting and I hid in the other room with Dad, I meant to come find you and comfort you, make sure that you were okay. But my cowardice smothered my flame – I have no excuse for it – and I let the fire fizzle out and you burn alone. Sorry for not getting there sooner; sorry for extinguishing our flame. But I need you to understand that I promise to support all your golden dreams and listen to your blue talk. I give you the light of the stars and chase the clouds away.

Our fire is beyond what burns for the eyes. It’s beneath the earth, scorching through the mantle, the Earth’s crust then the Earth’s core. It’s in the wind, spreading town to town, consuming everything in its path, dancing with the currents of the air. It’s in our blood and it’s in our soul. It’s in you and me. 

So when I ask you this question, I hope you can respond. Do you remember that night in September?

This piece samples from “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire.


Prometheus

You were born in the winter so you’ll always remember the cold. I know that because I know you. You who were there for me every step of the way. My first steps on the floor. My first steps on the carpet. My first steps on grass. My first steps in the water. My first steps on foreign soil – though I don’t know how foreign anything is anymore. My first steps on the putting green. My first steps on the basketball court. My first steps away from you (those were the hardest to take).

You don’t know it but walking away from you, on that red cobblestone of that one September, was the first time I felt truly alone. The night before, I ran to you crying, even though we already said our goodbyes, tears streaming down my cheek until all I could taste was salt. I couldn’t leave your side so I stayed curled, my fourteen year old self unable to peel away from her father. You didn’t know it but I looked back, like the kid you made watch too many Adam Sandler movies, just to see you walk away, to see if you had any tears on your face like me. 

Autumn turned to winter as the excitement blew and settled like leaves on the ground and I was all alone and stepping onto a new court for the first time. But you weren’t there – you were back home, some 7000 miles away. That year, I averaged a minute a game, but I knew you were watching from afar, huddling in the dark of dawn on your 2nd generation iPad, watching 35 minutes of some other person’s daughter, just to watch your daughter for a minute. The first time I stepped into a varsity game, my senior friend started a chant for me, and you posted it on Facebook the next day, with tears streaming down your laughing face. You wanted to see what you had molded – if all the shooting and dribbling drills and Steph Curry Masterclasses and summer programs had worked – if all the hours you spent on the sideline telling me to use my legs or jump higher or hold my follow through were worth it. If I could survive on my own on the floor. And as my first season came to a close, I was pushed back into your arms for one more year.

That year, when I was home, you took me to my basketball practice three times a week, the same way you did when I was twelve, watching from the sidelines with your arms crossed. You took me to the emergency room because my lungs broke down. So you bought me inhalers and a huge oxygen tank, to carry everywhere, even though the lack of oxygen was not the problem. You gave me air. 

My steps away from you the second time hurt more. You couldn’t see it, because my back was turned, but when I walked into the security lane in the summer of 2021, my tears wouldn’t stop flowing. I thought I would be flagged for high body temperature. In the fall, I stepped onto the same court as my freshman self, but three games in, my spinal disc herniated, and I was on the sidelines, arms crossed, like you. In December, we went to TopGolf, a fake golfing range for pre-adolescent entertainment, and I wasn’t allowed to play. I never cried more in my life than at that TopGolf. You played golf, you took me to play golf, and we played tournaments together. You let me flip off that man (I didn’t) when I was eight because he swore at me for hitting the ball onto his fairway, across a line of trees. I was injured and I missed you and I wouldn’t see you for another year and a half. I finished the season that way, on the verge of tears, with reminders of you staring down, telling me to be there and play through my spirit.

This year, I was finally healing. I had a long pregame routine, because of my back and my knees (from fourth grade when you took me to the doctor and I was diagnosed with Osgood Schlatter Disease which you bought countless knee braces for), and I got a chance to play. I scored seven in my first game and you watched all of my minutes, texting me to cut, to cherry pick, to drive, to shoot. You were there, in the stands, far, far away. And then I sprained my ankle, falling off a few steps after a poor physics quiz, and I lost my chance to play. Nature went on and I healed and then I played a little bit, nothing significant like the first time. You were coming to see me, for my senior night, to watch me play for the first time in highschool, but the night before you came, I stepped on someone’s foot in practice and heard a string of cracks. I was on the hardwood floor, sobbing, because I didn’t want to disappoint you because you were finally here and I was out. 

My season is over, and I am still injured. I got to play a fraction of what you were promised, slim to none, in front of you – I know you were disappointed. I felt it too. You were the one who built me, who patched me up and fixed me, who gave me life and air and made me who I am today. You gave me my shot and told me to take it. But after that final game, all I could do was sob all over again into your arms because I missed you so much and I was sorry that I never delivered what you truly wanted. All I can do now is to pray that the next time I see you, you’ll give me a hug and tell me how much you love me and that it's okay that you’ll never see me play because you just wanted to see me instead. I wanted you to see me take another step on the court, not in crutches, not in warmups, but to play but that’ll never happen again, not the type you’ll want to watch. But I hope you’re there, I hope you’re here, with me, every step of the way.

Spring Mother

When you brought me into your world, I was a seed, 

small and ready to grow.

You fed me water, gave me

land and soaked me in your light. 

And I began to sprout.

My back stretched into a tender green stem,

arching, shooting petals, 

jewels from your treasure chest.

But with flowers, come weeds and you

plucked them out, bare hands, my nutrients

 rich, nurtured by your everlasting love.

Winter’s kiss, melts under your breath,

my stalk frosty, but not frozen.

Sometimes the jewels fall out and my back wilts 

away from you, reluctant of your warmth. 

Sometimes I float away, plucked in another pot,

separated from you. Alone. 

But I always remember, because my roots won’t forget,

Your land, your water, your sun. You

Mother, 

my roots are with you.

To Summer

cure me of these winter 

azul, bleu, ao, lan

hues that frost my carolina

pink like the sunset that Friday

in Kardamyli when I chased you 

to the place where the land meets the sea

like Icarus when he soared into the skies 

of gray when he fell into the seas 

of death.

wash me, bathe me, soak me in your

ultraviolet, let me wear your

bronze like a medal

that shows my mettle that marks me 

third, but a conductor of

heat like emotions because you shouldn’t

meddle and taunt me 

with your absence.

roast me in the fire like a 

marshmallow and burn me

until my edges are charcoal, sandwich me 

between the stars and the waves, with love 

as rich as Ghirardelli's intense dark–sweet 

with grains of sodium chloride, highly reactive apart 

but held by the strongest bond, 

like us.

shower me with seaspray 

and a descendant of condensation 

which covers the land

in droplets of dew that melt

o’er my hibernation and wake me 

from my slumber.

exploit the dryness of californian

winters to rekindle the hearth, and wrap my heart

in harnesses to protect it,

like a perfect harmony,

from being harvested by harpies and set me aflame,

watch as the leaves float into the

blue and the branches crisp,

burning from the roots up.

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Ms. Wood and Ms. Rogers for guiding me through the Creative Writing Signature Experience these past two years, to Mr. Edwards for helping develop my voice at Peddie, and to all my English teachers at Peddie. Thank you to Ms. Nazli for introducing me to the art of the pen and to Mr. Errico for teaching me how to paint with that pen. Thank you to Abdeel Caruso at Iowa Young Writers’ Studio and Professors P.T. McNiff and Amber Foster at the University of Southern California for helping me find my style as a writer these past few summers. 

And to Grace, Seo, Riley, Michael, Mike, and Storm – thank you for being on this journey with me. In these past two years, I’ve grown and learned so much from all of you. We came in scared of the seniors and now we are those not-as-scary seniors. Thank you for making me a better writer and person, and for making me smile profusely every time we’re together. I’m so grateful to call you my friends.

Thank you to my friends who I owe my experience at Peddie to. You are my summer.

And most importantly, thank you to my family. Not only did I milk our stories for this project, but I also wrote this capstone for you all. Thank you to 太奶奶, 外婆, and 奶奶 for being the strongest women I know – I hope to be just as powerful as you are. Thank you Mom for reading through all my worst pieces and giving me advice (despite my stubbornness) to improve each piece. Thank you Dad for always being there for me, no matter the circumstance. Thank you Chase for being my best friend (and allowing me to be your favorite). Thank you Reia for being my human best friend. I don’t know what I would do without you. I love you.