Burning Hearth in a Distant Land
by Alan Sheng | Grade 8 | Scholastic 2023 | Personal Essay & Memoir | Gold Key | American Voices Nominee
My foot goes down. My leg extends. My heart pounds. I dribble the soccer ball, juking out kids from all sides. Sweat pools in my ears and flies away with the wind, just as quick as it comes. A player rushes toward me and I swerve over the ball, then drive it away with the side of my right foot. I twist around and glimpse the white and black padded sphere soaring into the makeshift goal — it sneaks between a boy’s legs and pummels under a net, into a tree.
Some of the kids put their hands on their knees and pant, while others throw their heads back and laugh. The goalie’s face reddens, but then he cackles too. Kids surround me and a foreign language fills my ears.
“哇，太棒了！ 请加入我们的团队!” (Wow, that was great! Please, join our team!) one boy says.
“是的，是的，你真好！有你，我们将成为最好的!” (Yes, yes, you’re so good! With you, we’d be the best!) exclaims another, waving his hands above his head, limbs loose like a noodle.
“你看起来并不熟悉。你从哪里来?” (You don’t look familiar. Where are you from?) someone asks.
My dad lounges on a bench nearby, chatting with my grandma. I turn away from the crowd and race to him.
“Dad, I don’t know what they’re saying,” I complain. “Can we go back to Grandpa’s apartment now?”
The kids inch closer behind me, chattering in Chinese until my head swims and I collapse onto the bench.
“对不起，我儿子不会说太多中文。我们来自美国。不过，您可以和其他一些孩子一起玩!” (Sorry, my son can’t speak Chinese. We’re from America. You can play with some of the other kids, though!) my dad tells them.
They sigh and groan and murmur amongst themselves as they plod back to the playground, climbing a set of metal, towering stairs that seem to glower down at me. They push and yell and grunt while wrestling to the top, leaving me behind.
I watch the children go.
“What did you tell them?” I ask.
“I told them we were going to Grandpa’s,” Dad replies.
I shift around on the bench. Branches wave in front of my face, tickling my cheeks. I pull a piece of a leaf off and tear it apart, watching as the flakes drift to the ground. The two sticks of the makeshift goal tilt and drop onto the dirt, crashing. I cringe. Kids tumble down slides on the playground; I stumble to the side of the road. A car honks. A flock of chickens waddle by and honk back, flapping their wings as they shriek and squawk.
***
Monstrous stalks of wild wheat swarm over the vast countryside, leaping and dancing with the wind, whipping and beating at my skin, the breeze enveloping and shrouding the sky. Forested hills overlap each other in the distance, while wrestling branches and bursting roots decorate the path in front of me. One petal drifts into my open palm and I release it as it soars upwards into the air. I stand at the edge of a massive cliff that slopes down into a lush basin and watch the waves splash over the rocks, their stone-weathered surfaces beaten a thousand times by the water of a thousand years, gone and passed.
I turn back and smile at my country grandpa, my dad’s father. One of his fake silvery teeth pokes over his lip. He dons a wide straw hat and a faded tank top. Unlike my grandparents in the city, he possesses a strong country build and an ancient Mandarin accent. I trod back to him. He walks with me to Dad, his gait slow and heavy like an ox, a bundle of corn thrown over his shoulder, a small scythe held close to his waist. My dad spouts fast Chinese and hands Grandpa a damp cloth and a bottle of warm water.
“谢谢, ” (Thank you) Grandpa responds. He heads back to the porch of his old wooden house, reclining in the chair of his old wooden craft. He fingers the boards of his wooden work, the product of years of cutting and chopping, strutting and sawing, constructing and cropping. I remember my Dad telling me once, Everything in this house, he built with his own two hands. “看看這些小蟲子!” (Look at these little bugs!) Grandpa says, mouth breaking out into a wrinkled grin as he pokes some ladybugs, crawling and climbing on stalks of grain. Hard bumps and scars run over his skin, the stubble of a beard lining the edge of his jaw.
I nod. I smile. I shift and clench my teeth behind my closed lips.
He nods and smiles back.
“他-他们很漂亮. Th-they are very pretty,” I stutter.
We sit there together, saying nothing for a while. But when Grandpa falls asleep, I walk away and push open the door of the barn. Wrapped tufts of hay lie in massive stacks inside the creaky building. Mold creeps across the ceiling, maize collects against the walls, and mice chatter and scatter by my sneakers. In the corner, chickens cluck and waddle in a wooden coop. I remove a handful of grains and seeds, throwing them at their open mouths. Their beaks dip down and snap up the enticing seeds, their eyes trained on the food, ready to attack unmoving prey. I extend my hand to them, but they flop to the other side of the pen, turning away from my palm. As if to say I am not worth their time. One of the chickens even squints at me, then squawks. You don’t belong here. Go back to where you came from.
***
Inside my city grandpa’s (my mom’s father) apartment, my brother and cousin duel each other in a game of Chinese poker. I listen to them talk in perfect, unaccented Chinese. I mouth the words with my lips, but after a few seconds, I mess up and forget the letters. Beside the living room, my grandma stands in front of the kitchen, cooking up a storm: steamed, sticky rice, soy-soaked fermented noodles, fried cabbages, and roasted duck.
From the bedroom, my grandpa pokes his head out one of the doors. He beckons me inside with a hand.
“Look,” Grandpa says in accented English, “Mine.” He walks around the room, displaying each of the artifacts on his shelf. An old British coin. A French model of the Eiffel Tower. An amber fossil of a fern.
Unsure how to react, I smile, nod, then walk back to the living room and open the door to the balcony of the apartment. I shut the glass and plop down in a chair. The wind whistles and I smell street delicacies of sausage and fried bread, spices, and strong mead. Families chatter in Mandarin and walk through the park below. My mind thirsts to understand, but the sounds waft under my nose, taunting me, then drift away into the distance. A small boy and his grandpa hold hands and step together, jumping from stone to stone. I sigh and close my eyes.
Two strong hands plant on my shoulders. I lean back and crane my neck to find my Dad grinning down at me.
“Hey, man, what are you doing out here?” Dad says.
I sit still. “What was it like for you trying to learn English in America?”
“I see what’s going on,” Dad says, sitting down in the chair beside me. “Is this about not knowing how to speak Chinese? I keep telling you, it’s fine. Nobody loves you any less for that.”
I force a chuckle. “You wouldn’t know what it’s like.”
Dad snorts. “You’ve got to be kidding. If anyone understands what you’re going through, it’s me. Just think about it. I show up at a top university in the capital of China, some poor boy from a far-away countryside. My accent was totally different from the people at my college. It was even worse when I moved to America. Even adults would laugh at me behind my back. I was a foreigner. An outcast. And now? I have a happy family, a good home, and a good life!”
“Well, yeah, b–”
Dad hoists me up out of the chair as I squawk and squirm. He drags me back to Grandpa’s room and drops me down on the edge of the bed.
Grandpa laughs and watches me sit up and glance around.
“你想听故事吗?” (Do you want to hear a story?) Grandpa asks me, pressing his palm against the small of my back.
“I–, sure,” I tell him, and Dad translates the words into Chinese.
Grandpa smiles and closes his eyes.
“从前有一棵树…” (Once upon a time, there was a tree) he begins.
I close my eyes and listen as the words of two languages drift into my ears, Chinese from my grandpa and English from Dad until they begin to intertwine as one.
Tales of a seed, swept into an unknown land. Tales of a lone tree, faltering in the vicious wind. Tales of a vast forest, rising closer like an angry mob. Tales of a unwavering oak, surrounded by unfamiliarity, but standing strong amidst the storm.
***
When Dad, Grandpa, and I walk into the dining room, my Chinese relatives smile at me, pairs of chopsticks gleaming in their hands. Intricately woven napkins paired with shining utensils envelop the entire table. Seasoned, smoked duck. Steaming bowls of rice. Fresh, minty noodles. There’s even a boiled chicken, juicy and plump, inviting me to dig in. My grandma plants a kiss on my head as she spoons food into my bowl. My cousin pats me on the back. My brother laughs and twirls his chopsticks. Low lanterns hang over the table, their dim glow growing into a warm fire that wraps and embraces the hot food. Smoke swirls as my grandma leans in to blow it away, the smell of coconut milk and garlic wafting around the seats. I lock eyes with my dad and offer a lopsided grin.
I am no longer a lone tree, faltering in the wind. I may not be where I’m used to, but that really doesn’t matter. I have my family, and that’s all I need.
