Age:
High School
Reading Level: 4.4
Chapter 1
Now and then I stop and smile at where I am. I see the sun pouring through the trees and feel it warming me until I forget my trivial problems. It was always warm in Ethiopia, much warmer than California. My homeland rests in the arms of the equator. Her seasons are feverish with the everlasting sun. I still remember the short eight years in my heritage state.
My home was beside a creek that ran down the middle of the neighborhood. My bedroom walls were turquoise. Images of the Virgin Mary cradling her child hung above our one couch. There was my mother, leaning over the stove, making another batch of injera bread. Sweat would drip from under the scarf she always wore on her head.
There was my father heading off early in the morning. One day, he never returned. The news came to my mother and my father's younger sister, who lived next door: my father died of AIDS during his service in the war against Eritrea. The mourning period was long. We wore black for weeks. The TV was kept off, and school was put on hold.
Finally, my mother tired of it. I choose to believe she loved my father, but it was an arranged marriage. He was more than ten years older than her. One day, during the mourning period, she wanted to watch TV, so she turned it on. When she was caught, she blamed it on me and my sister.
Chapter 2
There was the house next door that belonged to my aunt. My mother and I did not like her. My grandmother lived with my aunt. My grandmother was ninety-nine years old and going strong, but my aunt did not want to take care of her anymore. Every now and then she tried to starve her, so she would die. My mother always sent me over to my aunt’s, in secret, to feed my grandmother. She died on her one hundredth birthday.
There was the well in the center of town, where the women socialized. When it ran dry, we would voyage to the nearby river with pots on our backs. We'd fill them with water to take home.
There was the feeling of completion, of never wanting more. I accepted what I had, knowing my life was good and not knowing what I was missing. That is something I miss. Here, I find myself happy but greedy. I'm ashamed to admit it because the old me would have known better than to let such feelings pollute my thoughts.
There was the woman up the street who always wore pants and, therefore, was unknowingly gossiped about, shunned in the strongest sense. A woman who wore pants? Despicable. Looking back, I admire her.
There was my mother's small bakery. The kids came from down the street to buy a piece of himbasha, a special Ethiopian bread, and a cup of tea on their way to school. Every morning those kids would come in the same clothes as the day before. We all wore our clothes for a week before changing.
There was the schoolhouse at the local church, a sacred temple on top of a hill. A small place, even to an eight-year-old, with a deep red carpet that covered the room. Turquoise walls surrounded the prayer hall with endless paintings of angels.
There was the Christmas celebration, where everybody dressed in traditional clothes. All the women looked beautiful with their white, cotton, hand-sewn dresses. The embroidery on the skirt of each dress was bright and colorful, and they each had the Ethiopian cross in the center of the design.
There was also the sickness.
Chapter 3
The sickness snatched my mother away so quickly. She was sent to church therapy. I was so young, and the only thing I remember is being amazed. The priest that helped her was holy to me, not because he was a priest but because he had seduced the snake out of my mother. At least, I thought it was a snake back then. It turned out that she had parasites from the dirty water. She still lives at the church today. That is, if she's still alive.
There was the move into the big city. Addis Ababa, which means "New Flower,” was the most magnificent chaos. Unlike my village, it was big, and the buildings reached toward the sky, their glass windows reflecting fluffy white clouds.
There was the man that came on the P.A. system five times a day in Addis. When he did, the whole city would stop, turn east, and begin to pray. The man would lead them in song. All the women dressed in black, with only their eyes visible.
There was my new school in the big city. A small room in a building where the ages of the students varied from five to sixteen. The school master arrived late and left early.
There was my father’s older sister’s home in the city. We were sent there when my mother could not take care of us. The apartment was so small that the kitchen was outside. My sister and I lived with this aunt and her husband for a few months. He was paralyzed from fighting in the ongoing war against Eritrea. He lost one of his legs, up to the knee, and injured his back. During my time there, I never saw my uncle get out of bed.