Scholastic art and writing awards of southwestern paint
A mind built for fairy tales, after all, is a mind built for melodrama.
Nyc scholastic art and writing awards 2019
Two stories of red and gold, a remarkable size for a neighborhood so crammed that most things were tiny by necessity and everything oozed out at the edges. He just wanted to see the turtles. Because I was sixteen I had not really spoken to my parents, really spoken, in weeks or maybe even years. Today, Mathematics is not simply a guiding hand through numerical problems on paper. He was, at the time—and remains—a boy with eyes bigger than himself. Pungent, spiky fruits and bulbous vegetables leaked from the grocers onto the street, piled high in every stand; buddhas plated with fake gold crept from store shelves onto stoops; and paper lanterns in every color floated above doorframes and below awnings. Seated at a table that came up to my chin, I listened attentively as my father proudly presented her. I knew then that when I have children they will look at me with clear, round eyes and I will not know what to say, whether or not I will teach them of the rabbit on the moon and their great-great-uncle whose legs were broken by the Communist regime. This is not difficult. His curious-face, which is the face that he wore most of the time, was so open and searching that, in his moments of extreme inquisitiveness, he needed no magnifying glass before his eyes to make them seem goggling and huge. I remembered the stories of the long winters without rice and the bamboo shoots triangular and green in the ground; the rivers before the factories came and turned them brown. I was sixteen, old enough to realize that this was the heaviness that my mother and father had tried to shield me from and tried to keep hidden in the most remote corners of themselves. I had not seen it since I was very young, or perhaps I had never seen it at all. This was the heaviness that descended upon me nonetheless, in that instant, despite their best efforts to teach me to use a fork and knife and fold my napkin neatly over my lap.
I felt the texture of the wooden table, worn until deep scars were etched permanently into the surface, just as much as I felt the wooden floors pressing against my aching knees. Alison is going to study nursing next year. Your loving daughter, Y. We have grown close; and in all the bridges I have left after they burned in the friction of crossing the Pacific, yours has always been there, sturdy and reliable.
But I have gotten lost in Chinatown. Graceful, moving, thoughtful, left me starting to weep before I got a grip and pretended to have something in my eye. It will be shimmering forever in the summer heat, nearly ready to burst, but not quite.
I cried and cried and ran in search of my parents. I grew to treasure each meeting with her, for every morsel of information I absorbed seemed to make my father that much prouder.
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